It was one of those late nights when you didn’t know the hour, couldn’t tell how late it was, or whether Valeria had come back yet. Your phone always stayed on, sound on, waiting for a call—her call, mostly. She was the only contact in that phone. You had another one for your normal life, though this one rarely buzzed with anyone else’s name.

You stirred in your sleep. Your body had its own routine now—waking at 3 a.m. like clockwork, the devil’s hour. The curtains were drawn tight, the bedroom too big for just two people, the villa even bigger for the two of you, save for the occasional cleaner who showed up on schedule. You never understood why people like Valeria, cartel royalty, chose such massive, empty houses.

But at least the bed was big, too, soft as sin—like when you shave after a hot shower, sliding into sheets that seemed to melt under your skin. You sat up, reaching out, but the space beside you was cold, untouched. She hadn’t been there in hours, maybe all night. Still... a jacket lay draped on the couch. A phone and a gun sat on the table next to it.

She was home.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, the smooth floor cool under your bare feet. The bathroom door was cracked open, no light inside, but the floor was wet, water still beaded on the tiles from her quick shower. A faint noise came from the study, where you began to make your way, eyes half-closed, trying not to fully wake yourself.

There she was—Valeria. Sitting at her desk, leaning over papers with an intense focus. She glanced up as you stepped into the room, meeting your eyes for only a moment before looking back at her work.

“You should be sleeping,” she murmured, her voice low, not taking her eyes off the papers.

“And you should be in bed,” you replied, your voice rough with sleep as you leaned against the doorframe.

A pause. “I’m never where I should be. You know that.”