He looks up from his plate, dark eyes questioning.
"On my shoulder. You mentioned it earlier." I touch the spot automatically, feeling the raised skin through my sweater. "You said I always keep it covered."
"You do."
"It's from my first year with the Bureau. Training exercise that went wrong. I was trying to prove I belonged, that I was tough enough to handle the job."
"What happened?"
"I took a risk I shouldn't have. Tried to be a hero instead of following protocol." The memory still stings, even after all these years. "Nearly got myself and two other agents killed."
"But you didn't."
"No. But I learned something important that day."
"Which was?"
"That heroes also could get innocent people killed. That following the rules keeps everyone alive." I meet his dark gaze across the table. "That there's a difference between bravery and stupidity."
"And now?"
And now I'm sitting in a criminal's house, sharing breakfast and personal stories like we're old friends instead of natural enemies.
"Now I'm not sure about anything."
Something shifts in his expression. Something that looks like understanding, or maybe approval.
"Good," he says. "Certainty is dangerous. It makes you predictable."
"Is that why you've survived so long? By being unpredictable?"
"I've survived by being useful. By eliminating problems other people can't handle." He finishes his omelet with the same efficient precision he does everything else. "But mostly, I've survived by not caring whether I lived or died."
Not caring whether you lived or died.The words make my chest tight with something I don't want to examine.
"And now?"
"Now I have something worth surviving for."
The words hang between us like a confession, loaded with implications that make my pulse skip. He's looking at me like I'm that something. Like somewhere in the past two years of watching me hunt shadows, I became important to him.
Dangerous territory, Mariana.
I stand up abruptly, needing distance before I do something stupid. Before I let myself believe that the connection I feel building between us is real instead of just circumstantial.
"I should call my mother."
"Of course."
He doesn't ask who my mother is or why I need to call her. Doesn't offer unwanted advice or try to talk me out of it. Just accepts my need to reach out to the one person in the world who loves me unconditionally.
Even when I don't deserve it.
I dial the familiar number, stomach clenching as it rings once, twice, three times.
"Mija?"
Mamá.Just hearing her voice makes my chest tight with homesickness and guilt and love so fierce it hurts.
