"Diego made coffee," he said finally.
“How do you know?”
His mouth curved slightly. "Because I can smell the burnt beans from here."
I attempted the impossible task of putting on jeans. Standing on one leg while navigating denim over bruised thighs turned out to be significantly harder than expected. Rafael moved to help, steadying me with a hand on my hip, and I let him.
We made it to the kitchen, where Diego and Jasper had apparently been up for hours. The table was covered with food: eggs, toast, fruit, and what looked like an attempt at pancakes that had gone somewhat sideways.
Diego took one look at me and stopped mid-pour with the coffee pot. "Holy shit. How many times did he bite you?"
"I didn't count."
Rafael's face went scarlet. "Can we not—"
"Madre de Dios, padre! What are you, a piranha?"
My face burned. "I'm fine."
"You're literally limping."
I finally managed to sit, though I immediately regretted the decision. Sitting was going to be impossible for the foreseeable future. Standing hurt. Lying down was the only comfortable position, and we didn't have time for that luxury.
"Can you walk?" Jasper asked.
"Of course I can walk." I demonstrated by standing and taking three steps that looked less like walking and more like an arthritic shuffle. "See? Perfectly functional."
Jasper took a long drag of his cigarette. "We need to move. Luka sent coordinates. He'll meet us tonight, but we have to get to New York first."
"How long is the flight?" Rafael asked.
"Six hours." Jasper's pale eyes tracked to me. "Can you sit for six hours?"
I lowered myself back into the chair, trying not to wince. "I can manage."
"That's not what your body language is saying," Diego said.
Rafael’s hand settled on my shoulder.
"I'll be fine," I said again, but the words came out less certain. Six hours sitting in a plane seat while every muscle below my waist was staging a revolution sounded like a special circle of hell Dante had forgotten to mention.
Getting ready took longer than it should have. Rafael helped me move through the house, his hands gentle on damaged skin, and I let him. That was new. The letting him.
The drive to the airport was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Rafael's hand found mine in the space between our seats, fingers tangling, and I held on tighter than I probably should have.
Six hours later, the plane touched down in New York.
The terminal was small, barely more than a glorified waiting room. Glass walls, uncomfortable chairs, a bored security guard who barely looked up when we entered. The whole place had the depressing ambiance of every regional airport in America.
But something was wrong.
I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but the air tasted off. Too quiet. The security guard's disinterest felt performative rather thangenuine. Two men in business suits sat near the far exit, not reading their newspapers so much as holding them like props.
Rafael stayed close, hand on my lower back. The touch was becoming necessary, expected. I'd spent my whole life avoiding exactly this kind of dependence, and now walking through an airport without him anchoring me felt impossible to imagine.
"Do you feel that?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." His voice was barely audible. "Something's not right."
