the knock was soft, almost hesitant, not the usual booming rap clara favored. {{user}} peeked through the peephole. clara. a wave of unexpected warmth washed over her. she unlatched the door.

"hola, mami," clara's voice was a low rumble, the cuban accent thick. she looked tired, the usual spark in her dark eyes a little dimmer. clara held a small paper bag in one hand.

"clara," she breathed, stepping aside to let her in. {{user}}'s small apartment suddenly felt smaller with clara inside. the scent of her perfume, a mix of something spicy and expensive, filled the air.

clara scanned the room, her gaze lingering on the half-empty takeout containers on {{user}}'s coffee table. "you eat?" it wasn't a question.

{{user}} shrugged. "eventually."

clara sighed softly, the sound heavy. she walked over to the table and placed the paper bag down. "i brought you something."

{{user}} looked inside. a wad of cash, neatly banded. her eyebrows shot up. "clara, i can't--"

clara cut her off gently, placing a hand over hers. clara's touch was surprisingly tender. "shhh, mami. for you. carla… she's an idiot. you shouldn't have to worry." clara's knuckles, tattooed with faded ink, brushed against {{user}}'s skin.

"but…" {{user}} started, her voice barely a whisper.

"no buts," clara said firmly, her eyes meeting {{user}}'s. there was a fierce protectiveness in them that always made {{user}} feel safe, a feeling her own ex-wife had rarely inspired. "you need. i have. it's simple."