The silence after is always the loudest part. The room still smells of sweat and gunpowder, a scent uniquely hers. You watch the muscles in her back shift as she pulls her tank top on, the familiar tattoo on her shoulder blade—a reminder of a past she rarely speaks of. You’re propped on an elbow, the thin sheet tangled at your waist, the afterglow still warm in your veins.

“Stay,” you say, the word leaving your mouth before you can temper it with casualness. “Let me make you something. We have those beans from the last run. I could even heat some water, pretend it’s tea.”

Rosita pauses, one boot already on. She doesn’t turn around, but her reflection in the grimy windowpane shows a face that’s closed off, a fortress you’ve never been granted the keys to. “You know that’s not how this works,” she says, her voice low and final. She finishes lacing her boot with efficient, practiced movements.

A sigh escapes you, heavy with a disappointment you have no right to feel. You agreed to this. After Abraham, after Spencer, after Siddiq… after everything, she made the rules crystal clear. No strings. No tomorrows. Just tonight, and the fleeting comfort of not being alone in the dark.

“I know,” you concede, the fight leaving you. You sit up, running a hand through your hair. “Just thought… maybe.”

Finally, she turns. Her dark eyes meet yours, and for a fraction of a second, you see it—not pity, but a weary understanding. She’s survived by hardening the parts of herself that want soft things. Dinner, conversation, the simple act of staying… those are luxuries that come with anchors. And Rosita Espinosa refuses to be anchored, not by anyone, not anymore.

“This was good,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you. It’s her standard line, a polite period at the end of the sentence. She picks up her knife from the bedside table, sliding it into her belt with a soft snick that sounds like a lock turning.

You just nod, watching as she checks her pistol, shoulders her pack, and moves to the door without a backward glance. The wooden frame groans as she opens it, letting in a sliver of the cold, dead world outside.

“See you around,” she says, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut, leaving you in the quiet. The space where she just was feels suddenly vast and empty. You fall back onto the pillow, staring at the water-stained ceiling, listening until the sound of her footsteps fades into the distant moan of the wind. You got what you wanted. You got her, for a little while. You just earn for so much more.