Heavy.
“Mateo Vargas.”
Of course.
“He doesn’t move unless something’s about to happen,” Christian continues. “Word is he’s already had a few quiet meetings. Bars. Backrooms. Nothing public, but enough to stir things.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“They’re planning something.”
“They’re always planning something,” he says. “But this feels like escalation.”
Of course it does. We made the first move. Now they respond.
“We’ve got a location,” he adds. “One of their warehouses. He’s supposed to be there tonight.”
My body shifts without thought, already aligning with it, already stepping into something that feels clear in a way nothing else has.
“I’m coming.”
A beat.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
“I’ll be there once Jackson and Zach are back.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
The call ends.
And for a moment, everything settles.
Direction.
Purpose.
Something I can do. Something I can control. I turn back to her. She’s still writing. Still lost. Still chasing something I can see just out of reach.
And the pull hits again. Stronger. I know exactly what she needs. I can feel it before I even let myself think it.
The instinct to go to her, to take her face in my hand, to drag her attention to me, to anchor her there in something real and consuming.
I want to touch her the way I used to.
Without thinking.
Without holding back.
I want to wrap my hand around her throat, not to hurt her, never to hurt her, but to hold her there, to feel her pulse under my palm, to feel her alive.
To kiss her until she forgets everything else.
Until she remembers.
The image hits hard.
