Chapter 9 - Nico #2
"Yes. I wanted. I want. That's the problem." My breathing is ragged, irregular, like I've run miles. "But not like this. Not when you're drunk. Not when it's just another way to hurt yourself."
"Nico…"
"We're almost at the marina."
She sits. Stares at me like she's never seen me before.
The rest of the ride is silence.
At the car, I half-carry her. She's fading, alcohol and adrenaline crash hitting hard. In the back seat, she curls against the door.
Her head lolls against the window. "I hate you," she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed then open.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. "I know."
"You tracked my phone." She traces a finger down the condensation on the glass.
"Yes." The car hits a pothole and I wince, glancing to check on her.
She curls her knees up to her chest. "Tha's creepy."
"Yes." I adjust the temperature, turning the heat up a notch.
Her eyes drift to my lap, then back to my face. "Can't believe you're hard right now."
I shift in my seat, jaw clenching. "I'm not anymore."
"Liar." Her lips curve into a drowsy half-smile.
She's not entirely wrong.
At the penthouse, I carry her to the elevator. To her apartment. To her bedroom. The familiar scent of her space, vanilla, coconut, that underlying warmth, makes my chest tight.
She's mostly unconscious now. I set her on the bed. My hands shake as I remove her heels. Pull the covers over her.
She grabs my hand.
"Stay."
"Marisol…"
"Not like… not sex. Jus' stay. Please. I don't want to be alone."
I should go. Should maintain distance. That's what today was about. Discipline, control.
But she's looking at me with those honey eyes, mascara streaked, and she said please.
I sit on the bed's edge. Don't lie down. Don't touch her beyond the hand she's holding.
She's almost asleep. Words slurred, barely audible.
"You said you want me."
I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Go to sleep."
Her fingers tighten around mine. "Said you wanted to pin me against…"
"Sleep." My thumb traces circles on the back of her hand.
She turns her face into the pillow, voice muffled. "No one wants me. Not really. Not when they see."
I swallow hard, watching the rise and fall of her chest. "I see. And I still want you."
Her eyes flutter open briefly, struggling to focus. "…promise?"
"Yes." The word feels heavy in my mouth.
She shifts, her dress catching moonlight. "You're prob'ly lying."
My jaw tightens. "I'm not."
"Everyone lies." Her words slur as she fights to stay conscious.
I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Not about this."
Quiet. Her breathing deepens, evens out. I think she's asleep.
Then, her lips barely moving, a whisper so soft I almost miss it:
"I think I could love you. If you let me."
My heart stops. My breath catches. Something in my chest cracks open.
But she's gone. Unconscious, breathing deep, hand still wrapped around mine.
I stay until dawn breaks through her windows, pink and gold painting her face in colors that make her look like something holy.
Pink light cuts through the windows. Makes her look like something I'll destroy if I touch.
I carefully extract my hand from hers. Pull the blanket higher. Retreat to her doorway.
Not the hallway this time. Her doorway. Standing guard where I can see her breathe, watch her exist, make sure she's still here.
The walls I've built over fifteen years are starting to crumble. I can feel them falling, brick by brick, with every breath she takes.
"I think I could love you. If you let me."
The words echo in the morning quiet. She was drunk. Probably won't remember. But drunk words are sober thoughts, and the truth of it sits heavy in my chest like shrapnel.
I don't know how to let anyone love me.
Sofia tried. Built that sacred bond between us through training, through trust, through shared understanding of what we'd both lost. And I drove her away by making her too hard, turning her into a weapon instead of letting her be human.
Marisol is the opposite. All feeling, all chaos, refusing to be contained or controlled.
Maybe that's why she terrifies me. I can't make her into something else.
Can only watch her be exactly what she is.
Beautiful, broken, brave enough to say things like "I could love you" to someone who doesn't deserve it.
She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something I can't make out. The sequined dress catches the dawn light, throwing tiny rainbows on the ceiling.
I should file a report. Should shower. Should do four hundred pull-ups until my hands bleed and I stop thinking about how she grabbed my dick and almost made me come in my pants, how she knows now, how there's no hiding what I want.
Instead, I stand in her doorway watching pink light turn to gold, watching her breathe, feeling my walls crumble with each passing minute.
All I'm counting now is breaths. Hers. Making sure each one comes. Making sure she's still here, still real, still offering something I don't know how to take.
"If you let me."
Three words that assume I have that power. That I know how to let instead of push, accept instead of control, love instead of train.
I don't.