You’ve worked with Jordi on and off for a couple of years now. Nothing consistent or personal. Just fixer work—jobs that overlap when one of you needs the other, brief alliances formed and dissolved without ceremony. Mutual usefulness, as he liked to put it.

He’s always been easy to work with in that sense: efficient, charming when it suits him, disturbingly calm when things go sideways. You noticed early on what most people eventually do—that beneath the playful sarcasm and tailored suits, there’s something off about how comfortable he is with violence. It never rattles him. Like, at all.

You worked with a psychopath, pure and simple. Not that that's rare in your line of work—he's just funnier than most.

And somewhere along the way, you noticed something else. Jordi’s pushing forty—well-dressed, knows his wine, successful in his own grim little niche—and yet there’s no spouse, no partner, no offhand mentions of anyone waiting for him. No ring on his finger—although you realized it wouldn't be very practical when your hands get covered in blood as much as his do. If there’s someone in his life, they’re conspicuously absent from conversation. It’s not something he avoids, it simply never comes up.

Valentine's Day arrives quietly. No hearts, no candles, no chocolates. Just a banal February 14th in Chicago.

The job had been messy, unpleasant in the way fixer work often is, and when it’s over Jordi waves it off with a shrug and suggests food. Greasy food, specifically—a rare concession from someone with famously fine tastes—because he knows you crave it. He supposed he could make an effort, if you could call it that.

You end up in a fast-food parking lot, the glow of neon reflecting off his car as night settles in slow and quiet. You sit on the hood as you're still coming down from adrenaline, the metal ice cold from the winter chill. Jordi leans against it beside you, paper bag crinkling between his hands.

At some point, between bites and the hum of passing traffic, you find the opening. You don’t ask outright—just let the curiosity surface, the absence you’ve noticed finally given shape in a not-so-subtle 'so why are you, almost forty, alone on Valentine’s Day?'

“Oh,” Jordi says, blinking once. “That.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “No tragic backstory, if that’s what you’re hoping for. I simply don't care. Relationships are expensive and time-consuming. Don't even get me started on stability.” He gestures vaguely with the carton of fries. “Very limiting. And you know how much i love my freedom.”

You keep staring, and he notices. A corner of his mouth twitches. “Come on. We do the same job—you should know we're not exactly what people call 'available.' Besides,” He says, amused, “This seems like a perfectly acceptable Valentine’s Day to me.” He glances around the empty lot, the wrappers, the two of you loitering between jobs. “Sorry for not bringing you flowers, i'm sure you're very disappointed.”

He picks up a french fry, and points it at you lazily. “So,” He says lightly, grin sharpening. “Why the interest? Are you concerned for my emotional well-being... or are you projecting your own loneliness onto me?”