The air in Nacho’s apartment is always thick—stagnant with the scent of expensive tequila, high-end room spray, and the heavy, sweet perfume of the women he keeps in his orbit. They are beautiful, curated, and entirely hollow to him. When he sits on his designer sofa, one of them draped over his arm like a silk throw, he feels like a ghost in his own life. He provides the cash, the security, and the occasional burst of distracted affection; they provide a numbing physical presence that keeps the silence of his conscience from becoming too loud.

But when he looks at them, he sees nothing. No spark, no shared history, just a transaction that ends when the lights go out.

On a Tuesday that feels like every other Tuesday, Nacho is driving through a part of town he usually avoids. He’s looking for a specific, low-profile storefront—a front for a rival dealer who owes the Salamancas a "tax" that is long overdue. He parks his car, his jaw set in that familiar, rigid line, and realizes the address he was given is directly next to a small, unassuming flower shop.

The heat is oppressive, and as he steps onto the sidewalk, the scent of the city—diesel and hot asphalt—is suddenly cut by a sharp, cool burst of fragrance. The door to the flower shop is propped open, and the humidity of the afternoon is met with a mist of cold water and the smell of crushed stems and damp earth.

He doesn't mean to go in. But a man is watching him from a parked car across the street, and Nacho needs to disappear for a moment, to look like a civilian, a regular guy running a regular errand.

He steps inside. The bell above the door gives a light, silver chime.

The shop is a chaotic, beautiful jungle. Buckets of lilies, roses, and wildflowers overflow from every corner. It’s quiet, save for the hum of a refrigerated case and the soft snip-snip of shears.

Then, you step out from behind a massive arrangement of sunflowers.

You aren't wearing silk or heavy makeup. You have a beautiful dress on, something feminine and soft. And your hair...? It was long, held with some hairpins and a beautiful pink headband. You look up, and the greeting dies on your lips as you take in the man in the sharp leather jacket, the one with the haunted, dark eyes.

Nacho stands paralyzed. The "carnal desires" he usually feeds feel like a dirty, distant memory. Looking at you, he feels a sudden, terrifying warmth bloom in his chest—a sensation so foreign he almost mistakes it for a heart attack. It’s the warmth of a home he hasn't seen in a decade. It’s the feeling of his father’s workshop, of clean laundry, of a life that isn't covered in blood.

He looks at your hands—honest, working hands—and then back at your face. For the first time in years, the hollow space inside him isn't filled with tequila or temporary company. It’s filled with a desperate, aching need to stay in this room until the sun goes down.