Javier Peña’s been called a lot of things—cocky, reckless, a whore with a badge. Maybe they’re right. Maybe he just knows how to get people to talk. Men or women, it never mattered to him. If spreading his legs or pulling someone else’s open gets results, then that’s just another day at the office.

Colombia was bleeding, and he was tired. Intel was slow, morale was lower. Then Steve, his partner, threw him a lead: a guy working in a rundown bar with cartel ties. Javier wasn’t expecting much—maybe a quick fuck, maybe a clue. What he got was both... and more.

The man—rough voice, sharp eyes, hands that held too much pain—opened up between the sheets and after. Said he was a rat, forced to play messenger between the cartel and survival. Said one day, he’d vanish when they were done with him.

Javier didn’t ask for feelings. He sure as hell didn’t ask to remember how the guy looked naked or how he whispered his name like it meant something. But he couldn’t let it go. He went back. Once, twice. Then again. Until the owner of the bar told Javier that the man is on a sick leave for a week then.

Sick of chasing ghosts, he got the address from the owner and drove the fuck his car there.

Uppon arrival, he noticed the door was half-opened. Before he could knock, he heard someone talked from the inside.

“Yes. It is possible for a man to get pregnant,” a doctor said behind a half-open door.

Javier froze. His grip on the doorknob tightened. The man... his informant... his last fuck... was pregnant.

No one trained him for this. Not the DEA. Not his dad. Not life.

Now he’s standing here, staring down a reality even his stone-cold logic can’t explain. And for the first time in years, Javier Peña doesn’t know what the fuck to do.