The evening light had shifted to something softer, amber through the sheer curtains, casting long shadows across the hotel bed. Sofia lay against his chest, her head rising and falling with his breath, the warmth of her skin pressed to his. Marcus's hand traced lazy circles on her back, the friction of his palm against her bare skin a quiet comfort.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He couldn't tell anymore. Time in this room had its own rhythm, measured in heartbeats and the weight of her body against his.
She stirred first. Her fingers found his hand, laced through them, and squeezed once before she pushed herself up. The sheet pooled at her waist as she sat cross-legged beside him, the evening light catching the curve of her shoulders, the stray strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail.
Her phone was on the nightstand. Face down. Silent.
She stared at it. Her hand didn't move.
Marcus watched her jaw tighten, watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed. He didn't say anything. He just slid his hand across the sheet and laid it on her bare thigh, palm flat, the heat of his skin meeting hers.
She looked at his hand. Then at him.
"I should call her." Her voice was quiet, almost a question. "Confirm tomorrow."
"You don't have to do it now."
"If I don't do it now, I'll talk myself out of it." She let out a breath, shaky at the edges. "That's what I do. I get close, and then I find a reason not to follow through."
His thumb traced a slow arc on her thigh. "You called her before."
"From the café. With you sitting right there, holding my hand." She shook her head. "I don't know if I could have done it alone."
"You'd have found a way."
She looked at him, something soft and raw in her blue eyes. "Maybe. But I didn't have to."
She reached for the phone. Picked it up. Turned it over in her hands like it weighed more than it should. The screen lit up when she pressed the button, showing a wallpaper photo of a sunset over ocean—some beach, some time, some version of her life he hadn't been part of.
Her thumb hovered over the contacts icon.
"What if it's weird?" she asked, her voice smaller than he'd heard it since the first night. "What if the conversation is different now because she knows about you? What if she—"
"Sofia."
She stopped. Looked at him.
"She already said yes. She wants to meet me." He kept his voice low, steady. "Whatever happens on that call, it's just logistics. You already did the hard part."
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then her mouth twitched at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. "You're good at that."
"Good at what?"
"Saying the thing that makes it feel possible."
He didn't have an answer for that. He just let his hand stay on her thigh, solid and warm, and waited.
She opened the contacts. Scrolled. Her thumb stopped on a name he couldn't read from the angle—but he knew. Her whole body had gone still.
"Mami," she said, almost to herself. "Still saved as 'Mami.' I never changed it."
"Good."
She looked at him.
"It means you never really let go."
Her breath caught. She pressed her lips together, hard, and looked back at the screen. Her thumb moved to the call button. Paused there.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
She pressed it.
The dial tone filled the room. Once. Twice. Marcus's hand tightened on her thigh, a quiet anchor, and she reached down without looking, threading her fingers through his.
Third ring.
Fourth.
Then a click. A voice, warm and slightly breathless, speaking Spanish before the hello was even finished. "¿Sofia? ¿Mija?"
Sofia's eyes closed. Her grip on his hand went white-knuckle tight.
"Mami." Her voice came out steadier than he expected—stronger than the trembling in her hand suggested. "We're coming tomorrow. Seven at the diner on Colfax."
There was a pause on the other end. A sharp inhale. Then a flood of Spanish, too fast for him to follow—but he caught the shape of it. Relief. Worry. Love packed into syllables that tumbled over each other.
Sofia's throat moved. "Yes, I'm sure. Yes, he's still here. No, Mami, he didn't leave—he's been here the whole time." A pause. "I know. I know I should have called sooner. I'm sorry."
Marina said something soft. The word "corazón" floated through—heart. His heart. Something about having a heart again.
Sofia's breath hitched. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, her eyes bright, wet.
Marcus didn't think. He just shifted, sitting up beside her, his shoulder pressing against hers, solid and warm. His hand stayed laced with hers, his thumb moving over her knuckles in slow, steady strokes.
She leaned into him, her weight finding his. "He's here," she said, her voice rough. "He's right here. And Mami—" She stopped, swallowed. "He's the reason I called. He made me brave enough."
The silence on the other end stretched just long enough for him to feel his own chest tighten.
Then Marina said something slow, deliberate. Her voice cracked on the last word.
Sofia's face crumpled. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn't wipe it away. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, Mami."
She listened for another moment, nodding even though her mother couldn't see it. Then, "I love you too. I'll see you tomorrow."
She pulled the phone from her ear. Stared at it. Then set it down on the bed beside her like it might burn her if she held it too long.
She didn't say anything. Just sat there, her hand still in his, her shoulders shaking with silent breaths she was trying too hard to control.
Marcus waited. He didn't fill the silence. He just held her hand and let her have the space to break if she needed to.
Then she laughed—a wet, broken sound that was half cry, half relief. "She said you're already family."
His heart stopped. Just for a beat.
"She said that?"
Sofia nodded, still not looking at him. "She said if I called because of you, then you're already family. I don't need to bring you for approval. Just to meet her."
He didn't know what to say. The words felt too big for his throat, too heavy for the air between them. So he just lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, slow, deliberate.
She turned to him then, her eyes red-rimmed, her face open in a way he hadn't seen before. Not the confident woman who'd taken his cock in her hand on a plane. Not the teasing stranger who'd made him hers. This was the woman underneath all of it—raw, scared, hopeful in a way that made his chest ache.
"I'm really doing this," she said. "I'm taking you home."
"I know."
"It's not a fling anymore. It's not a weekend. After tomorrow, you're in my life. For real."
"I know."
She stared at him, searching for something. "Are you scared?"
He considered the question. Let it sit. Then, "Yes. But not of meeting your mother. Or going to LA. Or any of it." He lifted his free hand and cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing the tear track on her cheek. "I'm scared of losing this. Of waking up a month from now and realizing I dreamed you."
She let out a shaky breath. "I'm right here."
"I know." He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers. "That's what scares me. Because I've never had something I was afraid to lose."
She kissed him. Soft. Slow. Her lips tasted like salt and something sweeter underneath, and her hand came up to grip his wrist like she was anchoring herself to him.
When she pulled back, her eyes were dry. Steady. "Then don't lose me."
"I don't plan to."
She smiled. A real one, this time. Wobbly at the edges, but real. Then she looked down at their joined hands and let out a long breath. "I should text her the address. So she knows where to go."
"You want me to look it up?"
"There's a diner on Colfax—the one with the neon sign, the cracked leather booths. I used to go there with her when I was a kid, back when she still lived in Denver." She paused. "Before she moved to El Paso. Before everything got complicated."
He didn't ask what complicated meant. He just said, "Then that's where we'll meet her."
She nodded, picked up her phone, and typed out a message. Her thumb hovered over send for a second, then pressed down.
"Done." She set the phone down, face-up this time. "No backing out now."
The room felt different after that. Lighter, somehow, even as the evening dark crept deeper through the window. The call had happened. The words had been spoken. Tomorrow was real.
Marcus shifted, pulling her closer until she was tucked against his side, her head on his chest, her hand resting over his heart.
"What time do we need to wake up?" he asked.
"Six-ish. The diner's twenty minutes from here."
"That gives us..." He did the math. "About twelve hours."
She looked up at him, a glint in her eyes. "Twelve hours before I introduce you to my mother. What should we do with the time?"
He pretended to consider it. "We could order room service."
"Mm."
"Watch a movie."
"Sure."
He let the pause stretch, then slid his hand down her spine, slow, deliberate, until his palm settled on the curve of her ass. "Or we could stay right here and figure out how many times I can make you come before sunrise."
She laughed—a real laugh, low and warm, her breath ghosting across his collarbone. "That's a lot of pressure on a twelve-hour window."
"I'm an overachiever."
"I know." She shifted, swinging a leg over his hips until she was straddling him, the sheet falling away, her body bare and golden in the fading light. "But I'm the one who found you on a plane and made you mine. If anyone's keeping score, I'm ahead."
He looked up at her—her hair loose and tangled, her skin flushed, her eyes soft and fierce at the same time—and felt something crack open in his chest. "You are." His voice came out rough. "You're so far ahead I can't even see the starting line."
She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, her tongue sliding against his, her hips pressing down against his cock, which had started to harden the moment she'd climbed on top of him.
"Good," she murmured against his mouth. "Then let me show you what that means."
Her hand slid down his stomach, found him already half-hard, and wrapped around him. Her grip was firm, familiar, her thumb tracing the vein on the underside like she was memorizing the shape of him.
"I love the way you feel in my hand," she said, her voice dropping to something huskier. "Thick. Heavy. Like you were made for me."
He couldn't breathe. Could barely think. All he could do was lie there and let her take what she wanted.
She stroked him slowly, watching his face, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You're so responsive. Every time I touch you, you get harder. Your breath catches. Your hips twitch." She squeezed, just slightly, and he gasped. "I could do this all night. Just watch you come apart under my hand."
"Sofia—"
"Shh." She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "We have twelve hours. I'm going to use every single one."
And she did.
She slid down his body, her mouth trailing a path of wet heat across his chest, his stomach, her tongue dipping into his navel before she settled between his thighs. Her breath ghosted over the head of his cock, and he felt himself twitch, already aching for her.
"Look at me," she said, her voice low, commanding. He lifted his head, met her eyes—those deep water-blue eyes that had undone him on a plane, that had seen him naked and scared and chosen him anyway. She held his gaze as she opened her mouth and took him in, her tongue curling around the head, her lips sliding down his shaft until she had taken him as deep as she could.
The sound he made was not human. It was raw, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips bucking before he could stop them. Her hand pressed down on his stomach, a warning, a reminder—stay still. Let me work.
She bobbed her head, slow and deliberate, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, her lips tight and wet. The slurping sound filled the room, obscene and perfect, and he felt the heat building low in his gut, spreading through his thighs.
"Fuck," he gasped, his hand finding her hair, gripping the loose strands. "Sofia—I'm not going to last—"
She pulled off just long enough to say, "Good. I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you." Then she took him again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing around the head, and he felt the edge approaching like a wave he couldn't outrun.
He came with a strangled cry, his hips lifting off the bed, his release pulsing into her mouth. She swallowed around him, her throat working, her eyes still locked on his, and the sight of her—the woman who had claimed him on a plane, who had called her mother for him, who was taking him home—pushed him over into something deeper, something that felt less like an orgasm and more like surrender.
She stayed there until he stopped twitching, then pulled off slowly, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled, a wicked, satisfied smile that made his heart stutter.
"That's one," she said, crawling up his body, settling beside him with her head on his shoulder. "Eleven hours, fifty-something minutes to go."
He laughed, breathless, his arm wrapping around her, pulling her close. "You're going to kill me."
"Not tonight." She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Tonight I'm going to wreck you. And then I'm going to hold you while you put yourself back together. And then I'm going to wreck you again."
He turned his head, caught her mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and him, and felt something settle in his chest. Not fear. Not anxiety. Just the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"I love you," he said. The words came out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded, hanging in the air between them.
She went still. Her breath caught. For a long, terrifying moment, she didn't say anything, and he felt his heart start to crack.
Then she lifted her head, her eyes bright, her smile soft and trembling at the edges. "Say it again."
"I love you." His voice was steadier now, surer. "I know it's fast. I know we've only had two days. But I've never felt anything like this, and I don't want to pretend I don't."
She kissed him, hard and desperate, her tears wet against his cheek. "I love you too." The words came out muffled against his mouth, but he heard them. Felt them. "I didn't think I was capable of this. Of wanting someone to stay. But with you—" She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands. "With you, I want everything."
He pulled her close, buried his face in her hair, and let himself feel it. The weight of her body. The warmth of her skin. The promise of tomorrow, and the day after, and all the days after that.
They lay there in the dark, tangled together, the city humming below them, and the hours slipped away like water through fingers.