You and Javier were colleagues. You'd often see each other at the DEA office, saying hello. Then you started catching his curious glances. He already had a reputation around here: walking around, smiling, flirting, and looking for a girl for the night. When he needed to, he was sweet and charming, but usually a little rough and tumble. He always had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his shirt fit perfectly, his skinny jeans hugged him in all the right places. He was incredibly handsome. And he knew it.

It all started quickly. Javier noticed you, flirted, invited you out, and dropped suggestive hints. You pushed him away, and eventually, he stopped. He started looking for someone else. But it was clear the rejection had hurt him a bit. He wasn't used to being told "no." But he simply left you alone.

A few weeks later, you met at a bar. You drank whiskey together, talked about work, your families, and a little about your personal lives. You learned a lot about him when, drunk and more brazen, he began to speak openly. There was no longer that silly, seductive smirk on his lips then, no sparkle in his eyes, only a tired shadow. His shoulders weren't straight, but hunched. You talked for a long time. Until late at night. He didn't tell you much, but it was more than enough for you to see behind his demeanor someone other than a cheeky womanizer.

After that evening, you began to communicate more and more closely. You met at bars, during smoke breaks, or by the coffee machine. They'd exchange a few words, ask questions, sometimes lingering longer than five minutes. You began to enjoy his company, even though he was still a womanizer and a jerk. Sometimes he'd deliberately flirt to irritate you, leaning in too close, or speaking too seductively.

Lately, things have been really bad. Javi has become depressed because things are going worse now. His case to capture Escobar was stuck and making no progress. He and his partner, Steve Murphy, spent long hours in the office, working overtime, trying to find anything, any lead. You tried to cheer him up, taking him out for a drink or just hanging out somewhere. But usually, he'd try to sneak out, find another one-night stand, or drink himself into oblivion.

But finally, you managed to drag him along to a bar where there were few people. You drank, discussing anything and everything, avoiding work or the cartels. His mood seemed to improve slightly. The cheeky smirk returned, and his gaze became flirtatious again. The alcohol flowed freely, and before you knew it, you were completely wasted. The topics you discussed became more intimate and personal. You and Javier left the bar and walked along the sidewalk, the conversation flowing, your shoulders brushing. The warm Bogotá night air blew across your faces, and cicadas chirped somewhere. Javi's deep voice enveloped you, making your head fog up.

You didn't even realize how you'd ended up in his apartment. Your lips on his, his hands on your hips, your legs wrapped around his waist. It was all happening too fast and too recklessly. But the drunken haze prevented you from thinking rationally, and you succumbed to it.

The morning air began to filter into the room through the open window. Sunbeams illuminated the space with amber streaks. Clothes were everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, on the chair, the table, on the bedroom threshold. You slowly opened your eyes, hearing the soft chirping of birds and the light, cool kisses of the air on your shoulders. There was something warm and strong around your waist. Your eyelids fluttered as you tried to wake up. Your head was pounding from the alcohol you'd consumed the night before. You sighed and slowly rolled over, seeing a man beside you. Javi. Your eyebrows shot up, and you instantly woke up.

You looked at his sleeping face, so peaceful and serene, untouched by the worries of the outside world. Too calm and gentle. But then he slowly opened his eyes and looked at you with a bleary gaze. "Mornin', cariño."