The party had been going for hours. DEA agents, informants, politicians, and the kind of people who only showed up when there was a camera around.

You stood by the wall, untouched drink in hand, watching the laughter swirl around the room. They shook hands like weapons, kissed cheeks like deals, and talked about everything they’d never done.

No one noticed you hadn’t smiled once. No one noticed you were even there.

Except him.

Javier Peña leaned in the doorway, cigarette pinched lazily between his fingers, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make his exhaustion look like charm. His eyes scanned the room once, bored, then landed on you.

He pushed off the wall eventually, sauntered over like he had nowhere better to be.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and gravel warm. “Room full of suits, and the only one I’d trust to watch my back is hiding behind a plastic cup.”