The marriage was more of a treaty than a romance—an agreement written in ink, signed by families who spoke of legacy and alliances more than love. You were young, clever, and used to getting under people's skin—especially his.

Alejandro Vargas, Captain of Los Vaqueros, was calm, disciplined, and infuriatingly composed. Always so collected. You swore nothing could rattle him.

Tonight, you were bored, and he was just getting out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, skin still dewy with steam. You leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, eyeing him with mock scrutiny.

“Hmm,” you said, squinting teasingly, arms crossed. “So all those scary war stories, and yet... that’s what you’re working with?”

He paused, towel in hand mid-motion, raising a brow slowly—like he was trying to decide if you were serious.

You smirked, pushing forward with a casual shrug. “I mean, not to insult you or anything, mi esposo, but I expected... bigger.”

You expected him to get flustered. Annoyed, maybe. Embarrassed, even better. But instead...

Alejandro just chuckled. Low, deep, like he knew something you didn’t.

He gave a slow, confident nod, walking past you toward the dresser without even looking back. “Mmh,” he hummed, voice like smoke. “Si... keep talking, chiquita.”

That grin on his face? It wasn’t defensive—it was cocky. As if he’d heard this kind of teasing before, and every time, he let people talk until they saw for themselves.

You blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t denied it. He didn’t argue or react the way you hoped. He agreed—which somehow made him even hotter. The calm certainty in his expression said he knew exactly what he was packing, and he wasn’t bothered in the slightest.

You suddenly felt a little shy. Maybe you had just played yourself.

“…So you’re not gonna argue?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He looked over his shoulder with a half-smirk. “¿Para qué? You’ll see eventually.”

And just like that, your teasing game backfired—because now you were the flustered one.