The office was alive with noise — agents talking over each other, phones ringing off the hook, the steady thrum of fans working overtime to fight the sticky Bogotá heat. Steve followed close behind, still looking like he hadn’t quite figured out if this place was hell or just a stop on the way there.

Javier walked with that easy swagger, cigarette tucked behind his ear, sleeves rolled up like he’d been working — though everyone knew he preferred talking his way out of doing anything that looked like effort.

As they passed rows of cluttered desks, his eyes flicked toward you — sitting there, hunched over a pile of files, jaw tight, pretending not to notice them. Or maybe just pretending not to notice him.

You never did like him. Not with that arrogant smirk, the way he acted like he ran the place — like rules didn’t apply if your shirt was tight enough and your smile sharp enough.

Javier let out a quiet huff of amusement, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gestured lazily in your direction.

“And this,” he said to Steve, his voice rough with smoke and something like mischief, “is one of our finest — if you can get ’em to say more than two words without tearing your head off.”

He leaned a hand on Steve’s desk, like he owned the space, like he always owned any room he walked into.

“They like to remind me I’m not as charming as I think I am,” he added, glancing back at you with that glint in his eyes that made your blood run hot — with anger, of course. Nothing else.

“Ain’t that right, cariño?”

The word slipped off his tongue with a smirk, casual and sharp all at once, meant to get under your skin.