It was still dark out, that hour right before dawn when the world feels half-asleep. Bogotá was quiet for once, a soft fog hanging outside the window, the kind that made everything feel slower, heavier.

Javier stood at the edge of the bed, shirt halfway buttoned, the faint glow from his cigarette cutting through the dark. The call had come a minute ago — the DEA wanted him back on site. Another operation. Another mess.

He looked down at you, still asleep, tangled in the sheets that smelled faintly of smoke and his cologne. You always curled toward the side he’d been lying on.

He reached for his badge on the nightstand, but froze when he heard your voice — quiet, rough with sleep.

“Javi…”

His head turned instantly, cigarette burning low between his fingers. You shifted, eyes still closed. “Don’t… go yet.”

A humorless breath left him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, voice low, soft in a way it never was with anyone else.

You didn’t answer, not really awake, not really asleep either. Just breathed slow, still caught in that dream-world where he hadn’t already packed his gun and his guilt.

Javier reached out, brushed his thumb over your arm. “I Gotta go, cariño,” he whispered, more to convince himself than you.

He bent down, pressed a kiss against your shoulder, lingering for a second longer than he should’ve.