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I didn't want to get my hopes up for a future, but there was no denying that the desire for it was there, just waiting for me to acknowledge it.
"What?" she asked, looking up, brows drawing together.
"I, ah, I figured you would be a wreck when I came back."
"Is that what took you so long?" she teased. "I was. For a while. But I decided to settle on hope. I'm not going to imagine Celenia being hurt and scared and alone until I know for sure she is not in that next container. I just needed a couple minutes to figure that out myself. I did that."
Some of my words came back to me as I watched her. Ones about how I needed a woman who could handle this lifestyle, who would be strong enough for it.
No one could look at this woman and see anything other than strength. To be able to keep her head in an impossible situation. To do her own legwork. To chase down her own leads. To be willing to take on the mafia in the process. To be able to take bad news on the chin and keep fighting.
That was a strong fucking woman.
The kind who would be able to handle my life, this lifestyle.
Possibly the only woman I had ever come across who could.
How the fuck was I ever going to let her go?
Unless, possibly, I could convince her to stay. After all this was done. Once her sister was safe. Maybe she would need to take her back to Venezuela for a while. Or, maybe, Celenia could stay with us while she recovered. Maybe she could go to the local women's shelter for the outpatient therapy they offered.
Maybe she could stay.
Maybe she could be mine.
In a permanent kind of way.
"Is everything okay over there? Is everyone okay?" she asked, mixing all her ingredients together in a bowl.
"Yes. I mean, I'm sure the women and girls are traumatized, but they are in the hands of people who will hopefully get them the care they need."
"Girls?" she asked, face sinking. "How young?"
"The youngest looked about thirteen maybe."
To that, she let out a string of sounds in what seemed like both Spanish and Mandarin that sounded a hell of a lot like curses.
"Yeah," I agreed when she was done. "That about covers it," I agreed. "Only the worst scum of the earth traffick people in general. Let alone children. There is no punishment in our system harsh enough for those bastards."
"If you catch them before the police do—" she said, trailing off, knowing I didn't like to talk specifics anywhere that wasn't an open space. Things got bugged way too easily these days. Even a good sweeper could miss a few. It was just safer to not do details when you talked in places that were often wired by the feds.
"Justice will be served," I told her, shrugging. "Does that bother you?"
"I think it should be televised. And then maybe the other sick assholes of the world would think twice about acting on their disgusting fantasies. Sorry. That was a little harsh."
"Just the right kind of harsh, I think," I countered. "Wine?" I asked, going over to the rack.
That's a rhetorical question, right?" she asked, piling the filling onto the pitas.
"What goes well with arepa?" I asked, looking over the choices.
"Alcohol," she said, rolling her eyes.
So then we ate arepas on the couch while steadily avoiding the news, not wanting to subject ourselves to more of that, knowing it was going to be a part of our lives for several days to come yet. Sometimes, you just needed a little distance to keep your sanity.
After dinner, we washed and dried side-by-side, talking about what we wanted to put on the menu for the next day, how long a work day I would have, who Lorenzo was and why he was coming—with some details spared, of course—and then both got ready for bed and fell into each other's arms, each other's bodies.
And all of it, every banal detail, every moment with her felt right.
