I Hate You, Pt. 3
Pairing: Alejandro Vargas x Fem! Reader
Summary: There’s one thing you can’t get out of your mind, and it’s him.
Warnings: post MW2 Las Almas
Word Count: 8.8k
Notes: Well, here we are a year later. I had planned to write this chapter a month after the first two came out, but I finally abandoned the idea bc life lol. This girl right here was kissed by the 6.2ft Cuban guy (and omfg do I still foam at the mouth thinking about it lmao), and started a lil something with the guy to end up discovering that he had A WHOLE GIRLFRIEND. For 10 years too. So girlies, don’t get close to a Cuban man EVER. Lesson learned.
Now that I think about it, I also cheated lmao. But anyway. He helped me dump my ex, so I guess it’s a morally ambiguous win? I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. But smut tastes better when written by someone like me.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
You thought time would solve all of your problems.
Going back home was your way to forget; drown yourself in work, throw yourself at the arms of other men in hopes to erase the traces of his touch, forget his sweet verbatim that had taken the place of any rational thought.
It worked, for a while.
A simple formula. Work, home, socializing, meeting new people, taking them to bed. Doing anything and everything to avoid being alone with your own thoughts, hearing the hard truth that your mind had prepared for you.
You filled every second of the day.
But it was taking a toll on you.
Soon enough, the stress from your job had you having panic attacks, your performance worsening slowly but surely. Your superiors started taking notice of it, and it got to a point where they told you to take a break.
Stop everything. Stop the stress, the self harm, learn to cope like an adult. That’s what you were hearing. But there was something romantic in reaching the breaking point, in overworking your soul to the point where you became a shell of who you were before.
All because you didn’t want to listen to the truth. A truth that you heard every time silence embraced you.
You needed him.
Whatever it was that you felt for him, you needed to feel it again. Even if it was lust, obsession, you needed more.
Life didn’t make sense without him.
But there was something about the situation that stopped you from acting in ways that you could regret: you felt nothing. It was obsession, infatuation, not love.
The thought of pursuing something with Alejandro felt out of place, alien. It could be your own apprehension, your detachment from everything emotional, but there was nothing.
Or that’s what you wanted to believe.
Either way, your obsession was enough for you to think about him at all times. When you expected it less, there you were, thinking about him. What would he be doing right now, if he missed you as much as you did, if he had found someone new, and you were only a distant memory of what could’ve been.
It consumed you. You were not yourself anymore, but a junkie, a lost puppy.
You couldn’t be alone anymore. Distancing from everyone as a punishment from your own actions was only going to end badly, for you and everyone around you.
That’s why you decided to take action.
It was late at night, and there was zero chance of you falling asleep. The heat of summer was creating a humid, asphyxiating ecosystem in your apartment, making your clothes cling to your body, the sweat curling the edges of your hair into uneven, ratty strands of wet hair.
The standing fan was on full blast, the distant hum of the TV stimulating your exhausted brain. As you typed into your laptop, you could feel the heat radiating off of it, making you sweat more.
Cheap flights to Las Almas.
It was obvious that there was not much thought behind your impulsive action.
You clicked on the American Airlines’ page, and picked the closest date.
A thousand fucking dollars.
Good lord.
You sighed, the air getting caught in your throat.
Maybe you didn’t miss him as much. For the small chance of him wanting you back, maybe it was not worth it to spend so much.
Maybe.
But intelligence and your name didn’t pair well.
You needed to do it, whatever the consequences were.
A click, and the flight was already booked.
Then came the hotel. Small, cozy, at least in the pictures. For what it was worth, you could care less of what it looked like.
It was done.
Now you had to do it, for the amount you had spent. Worst case scenario, you’d have a nice vacation in Mexico, and maybe you’d be able to find someone similar to him, who would call you chula and güera just like he did.
You threw your laptop to the other side of the bed, lava seeping from your chest, nerves overtaking you whole.
You were manic, absolutely out of your mind.
—————
It had been ages since you had stepped foot in an airport (not in a military scenario, of course). It was very similar to the ones in military bases, though it was evident, by the thousand different colors, textures and shapes of clothing, of hairstyles, that this was just an ordinary place. Ignoring your own clothes— comfortable, something that matched your taste, nothing that stood out too much, you felt out of place.
You were sitting, your luggage in front of you, your documents in your hand, overly sensitive to any stimulus.
You could feel the air traveling through your whole body, the vibrations of the other people readjusting in their own seats. The place smelled of disinfectant and perfume, the air filled with chatter and panicked arguments.
Some people were running to their gates, others were silently enjoying their coffee and scrolling on their phones. Kids were running around, giving their mothers a headache, while others peacefully slept in their laps.
Las Almas was still not a place for tourists, you recalled. As much as the situation was calmer, you knew that people would rather spend their time in DF, Cancún or Jalisco, rather than a town south of Texas known for its huge criminality rate.
The boarding gate to Las Almas was a live representation of it. Barely any Americans, and the few of them who were, weren’t traveling to Las Almas for a mimosa and beautiful resorts.
You were probably the only one doing this for a man. And out of all the possibilities for being there, yours was surely the most embarrassing one.
But there was no going back, you had to do it.
You sighed heavily.
You had five minutes before you had to board.
Enough to dig your grave deeper.
You took your phone, and scrolled through your contacts.
This was so, so wrong.
Breathe.
Nothing wrong with this.
Do it.
A tone.
Two.
Then, you heard him.
“Coronel Vargas al habla. ¿Con quien tengo el gusto?”
Coronel Vargas speaking. Who am I speaking with?
Your words caught in your throat.
“Uh… Hello, Alejandro.”
Silence.
You started regretting everything.
“This is my work number, güera,” he said through the phone with confidence, taking time to pronounce each syllable with the utmost perfection. He didn’t sound angry, or bothered, but rather, he was making a statement: he needed to remain professional.
“I know,” you said plainly, rushing through the words.
“What is it? I didn’t get notified by your superiors,” he said, his tone so silky smooth, so sweet, like a tropical night, like something forbidden.
“This is not work related,” you said. You breathed in, looked at the people around you, not focusing on anyone in particular.
Alejandro’s silence was heavy, charged with confusion and anticipation. You could almost picture him in his office, stern, dark hair slicked back, thick brows furrowed, a small hint of curiosity in his lips.
“Not work-related?” he repeated, the smooth cadence in his voice transporting you back to your days in Mexico. It was not on purpose, yet his tone sounded so intimate, so confident, it was hard to believe that someone could be as intense, as comforting as he was. “Entonces, a qué debo el placer?”
So, to what do I owe the pleasure?
Your heart pounded in your chest, the air not quite reaching your lungs. The passengers were already boarding the plane.
“I’m on my way to Las Almas,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you should know.”
You heard the rustling sound as he shifted in his seat. “Why?”
You pressed your jaw shut, the tension in your body starting to hurt. You couldn’t find the right words, you couldn’t make sense of your feelings. You just needed to see him, to feel what you felt back then; those sensations that once scared you so much, now the reason for all of those sleepless nights.
“I could try to make out a reason,” you started, sincere, terrified. “But there’s none. I just— I needed to see you.”
You knew his heart was beating as fast as yours, the silence electric, unstable.
That would never change between you, even across countries.
“When will you arrive?” he spoke softly, his tone lower, smoother.
Your eyes flickered to the boarding gate, the last of passengers trickling through. “In a few hours. I’ll be there by tonight.”
Alejandro remained silent for a moment longer, you wondered if he was trying to find a way to respond. That only further turned you into a nerve ball, shaking and awaiting his voice, desperate.
“I’ll be waiting for you, güerita,” he said. “We’ll talk when you get there.”
“Okay,” you whispered. “I have to board now. See you, Alejandro.”
“Travel safe, güerita. Nos vemos.”
You said a last goodbye to him, ending the call. Reality hit you like a ton of bricks, leaving you breathless, confused. You put your phone away, heading to the boarding gate barely able to hold it together.
You had to be quite a view, at that moment. You were sure that everyone knew what was going on with you, some looking at you with apprehension, some with endearment, making out their own personal telenovela: the güerita leaving everything behind for the ranch owner, sacrificing her comfortable life in the city for a man who promised her the world and beyond.
This was no such case, of course. It was messy, bittersweet, more drama than romance, the kind of situation that would drive anyone crazy. It was the last bite of something nice, the realization that your favorite shirt was torn, that your parents were starting to get old and there was no way of stopping it.
It was not telenovela material, it was indecision, avoidance, pain; a storm. Of course, the storm was you, the thunder that looked for the first thing to land on; to destroy.
You were an example of nothing, the wrong object of envy. It was incredibly wrong, ever since it started, you already knew the outcome of it.
So, then, why knowing the future with such clarity can’t stop you?
Why were you so willing to go through with it, knowing what will happen?
You knew why. It was the adrenaline, the anticipation and surge of intense emotions you felt when you were close to him. Of course, that didn’t mean that it was right. That it felt right, didn’t mean it really was.
It was right in front of you, and you were putting a veil in front of your eyes.
But you were addicted.
You’d do anything to experience it again, even if it meant leaving everything behind.
So that’s what you were doing.
At least for some time.
A blur in the timeline of your life.
You’d cope.
—————
The plane touched down with a gentle thud, taking your focus away from the hypnotizing night skyline of Las Almas. As the plane taxied towards the terminal, you started to hear the murmurs of relief, others of joy. Some even clapped a couple times, and the children, long asleep, started to get woken up by their parents.
You picked up your luggage with caution, not to throw anyone else’s belongings to the floor.
The first thing that you noticed was the change of temperature and humidity. Even if it was nighttime, the lingering heat of the day still was present, the mix of it with the humidity giving you a sensation of claustrophobia.
Apart from the discomfort you were feeling at the moment, the half empty airport gave you a sense of tranquility. It was the last flight of the day, and it was evident in the worker’s faces, who guided you with precision through the airport, rushing to get home themselves.
The modest aura of the place changed something in your brain chemistry. To any other American, this place would’ve been rough, old, too in the middle of nowhere to be worth a visit. But to you, it felt comforting.
You walked through the old terminal until you reached the outside of the airport. At first, you only saw taxis and old vehicles, the feeling of uncertainty taking away from the beating of your heart. You almost felt lost, sad.
But then, you saw him.
Alejandro.
He was dressed in his usual military attire, his presence ever so commanding, so intense. He stood tall, his hair slicked back, his uniform immaculate.
There were three jeeps behind him, his subordinates guarding the vehicles with utmost sobriety.
It took your breath away.
You made your way up to him, your expression a mix of apprehension, fear and eagerness. Not that you could see yourself, but that was what you were feeling.
Alejandro showed a small smirk, stepping closer to you with caution, as if to not scare you away. You looked him up and down, taking in every feature of his.
“Welcome back to Las Almas, güera,” he said, using that same tone when you first met him: rough, upbeat, yet distant. You weren’t sure what you expected, but it was not this, at least not fully.
But you knew deep down that receiving you with a bouquet and a kiss wasn’t exactly how you left things. If anything, a ‘welcome back’ was the nicest thing he could’ve said.
Somehow, your heart was fluttering with an unknown feeling. The best way you could describe it was apprehension, need, happiness, exhaustion; a dry heat that complimented the dim moonlight, a sad summer night.
He was everything.
“How was your flight?” he asked, carefully taking your luggage and passing it onto the other soldiers, who placed it in the trunk of the first jeep.
“It was fine,” you replied, glancing around at the other men. Some you knew, others were new; new Vaqueros. “Long, but fine.”
He nodded, his hands behind his back, just like the first time you met, though this time, neither John nor Simon were with you. It brought out a layer of intimacy, one that creeped you out, like it always happened.
“We should get you settled, then,” he said. “I could have arranged things differently if I knew you were coming, but you’re here now.”
Then, Alejandro guided you to his Jeep, opening the door for you with a swift move. You stepped into the back seat, the familiar smell flooding you instantly.
Jasmine, sandalwood.
The same as that night with him.
Your breath got caught in your throat.
Alejandro got in the driver’s seat, nodding to the Vaquero on his side. “Where are we going, güera?”
You whispered the location, hypnotized by how the light highlighted his strong features, making him look like a divine being.
Then, he nodded, and the Jeep started moving.
You heard them speak in Spanish, though it was obvious you could understand nothing.
Wey, ¿qué pongo? Esta emisora está bien aburrida.
Llamando ‘wey’ a tu coronel. Te pasas, carnal.
Bueno, pero, ¿qué pongo, señor coronel?
You heard Alejandro laugh.
Ponle unos corridos, así aprende de buena música.
A huevo, coronel.
The Vaquero changed the song, the melancholic tune of the song hitting you instantly. Somehow, it was incredibly sad, yet romantic. It made you feel some sort of way.
You weren’t exactly sure how.
The only thing you knew was that you loved it.
Creo que le gusta, mirale los ojitos.
Alejandro looked at you through the rearview mirror. You crossed glances with him, your insides turning into mush for a second. In the same way that his eyes softened when he saw you, your heart jumped in place, the anticipation playing games in your head.
Ya lo creo, carnal.
¿Esa es la morrita que estuvo con la 141?
Si, ella misma.
Wey, la neta que cualquier cosa menos soldado, lo digo. ¿Esa carita? No wey, no la dejaría salir de casa. Como un trofeo la tendría, te digo.
Alejandro laughed, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
No va a querer nada contigo, carnal.
¿Cómo lo sabes, eh?
Lo sé, carnal. Solo lo sé.
You heard the Vaquero scoff, and look out of the window, ignoring Alejandro. The tension between them both was palpable, but not intense. Somehow, you knew they were talking about you: the tone, the quick glances.
It was obvious.
The drive went by quickly, with more chatter between Alejandro and the other man, and Mexican music.
Soon enough you recognized the big sign of the hotel from Google Maps, and peace finally set inside you. Alejandro parked in front of the small building, and ordered the Vaquero to stay in the car.
Then, he helped you out of the car, and you two walked up to the reception.
There, an old man was waiting at the front desk. He had rounded glasses, a bushy white mustache, and had his hair neatly slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt and dress pants, like he never rested, and there was no need for comfortable clothes around here.
The man looked at you two with a polite smile, the obvious wearing of life giving him the expression of a man who knew it all. Somehow, it was endearing, safe; on the other, it was as if he simply knew about you, like he knew what was going on inside your head.
Alejandro spoke for you, arranging the check-in and avoiding your own embarrassment. It went smoothly, and soon enough, you were walking through a path covered in tropical plants, in search of cabin number sixteen.
The apartments had their own little touches, not one was the same. Each of them had their own distinct color, imperfect from the wear of time, each repair visible on the walls. Flowers and plants decorated the small porsche, the dim lights giving a sense of intimacy to the cabins.
“You went all out with your choice,” Alejandro remarked, impressed by the beauty of the apartments.
“It was not expensive,” you said. “Besides, a real hotel felt impersonal.”
“This is not expensive for someone like you, güerita. But not to the average Mexican,” he said, sighing, slouching his shoulders forward.
He looked tired.
“You’re not the average Mexican, either,” you whispered, reaching cabin number sixteen.
“I know,” he said, a bare acknowledgement that you knew held much more meaning.
Alejandro knew his place, his privileges for being who he was, but that did not mean that he didn’t know the power that he held.
Such a responsibility required all of his energy, and Alejandro was aware of it.
The rusted key was heavy on your hand. You couldn’t bring yourself to open the door, a divine force pulling you away from it.
It was a humid night, the temperature close to uncomfortable. You could smell Alejandro’s cologne, the sweet aroma of the vegetation around you, too. It was overwhelming. Like the entirety of Mexico was Alejandro’s, and by that logic, you were also his.
That’s how intense it felt.
You couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Thank you, Alejandro,” you said, turning to your side to face him, the air between you thick, asphyxiating. “For picking me up. Many wouldn’t have done it.”
“You know I couldn’t say no to you, güera,” he said, this tone deep, barely above a whisper.
You picked up courage, and raised your eyes to look at him. Somehow, he was more handsome than before. Those sweet, dark eyes, that presence of his.
He was all you needed.
And you could guess, by the way that he was looking at you, that he felt something similar.
Silence.
The wind.
You got closer to him.
Placed your hand on his nape, pulled him towards you.
A kiss.
Your heartbeat quickened, the thuds in your chest audible from a distance. You were acting on instinct, terrified.
And for a second, it felt like time stopped.
He was scalding hot against your body, his lips so familiar, so comforting… your mind went blank. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer to him like you were water, and he was a dying man.
You grabbed onto his shoulders, deepening the kiss, corresponding that intensity of his, and doubling it. You were feral, out of your mind.
It felt wrong.
But you enjoyed it so much.
You needed him.
Space was nothing but a lost thought, your body welded into his, fighting to get every inch of contact. The world faded around you, Alejandro’s hands gripping your waist tighter, his lips moving against yours with urgency, with hunger.
Jasmine.
Sandalwood.
Distant rain.
There was no air, no space.
You were desperate, reduced to a feverish need for him.
Nothing mattered.
Only him.
Then, he broke away from you. His breath was hitched, grappling with himself to not give in.
You saw the tension in him— his restraint. How his hands, though strong and possessive, hesitated.
“Stop. Stop,” he gasped, his forehead pressed against yours, leaving hanging.
You blinked, confused, his expression leaving you frozen on the spot.
“What are you doing?”
“This is not right,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough. There was no anger, only a sadness that settled deep in his words. “You can’t keep doing this.”
You looked at him, feeling like you had been punched in the gut.
Still, you didn’t want to accept defeat, to show that you were weak.
“Doing what?”
“Y/N, no. Don’t start.”
Your first instinct was to fight back, to prove yourself. But deep down, you knew he was right.
And you hated it. you hated that he could see right through you, that he was holding a mirror up to your broken pieces.
“But I need this,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.
He pulled his forehead away from yours, sliding a hand up to your cheek. “I know,” he said softly, his thumb caressing your skin. “But you need to figure out what it is that you want. To be honest with yourself.”
You shook your head, wanting to argue, but you had nothing to say.
He was right.
You were a mess.
Finally, he stepped back, his hands falling away from you. You stood there, keys in hand, looking at him like a lost puppy.
“Rest, güerita,” he said. “There’s enough time.”
And with that, Alejandro disappeared, leaving you alone, confused.
It was the first bucket of cold water.
—————
The sun woke you up.
You stirred in bed, still groggy, the thoughts of the previous night not yet present in your head. The air smelled of fresh laundry and the light that managed to hit you warmed up your smooth skin, inviting you to stay in bed for the rest of the day.
You breathed in, stretching, covering up the whole bed. Then, you blinked, looking up at the ceiling; it had some cracks, but it comforted you, reminding you of your childhood room.
Nothing was able to bother you at that moment.
Finally resting, away from your job, with no responsibilities. It was okay. Not great, not horrible. Just fine. Like your life was meant to be. You were unsure if you had ever felt that at peace, but you knew what it was supposed to feel. And you were feeling it now, even with Alejandro’s rejection still scorched in your retinas.
But that didn’t mean that it didn’t make you feel some sort of way.
Right after entering the apartment, you felt shame. You had been deeply stupid to think that Alejandro would trip on the same stone three times. Especially after he expressed so clearly what he needed, and you still dismissed it.
To you, it had been nothing but an encounter, something that didn’t carry much meaning. Not the first time that happened, surely not the last.
The first time was temptation. The second, manipulation.
If the third was ever to happen, it would be desperation.
Nothing new.
Whatever.
You didn’t let your brain take over your emotions, make you think. If that were to happen, you would gain some self awareness, and honestly, you were not up for the challenge yet.
So you began moving. You dressed up, made yourself presentable, and abandoned the apartment as fast as you could. Now, your brain was focused on walking the streets of Las Almas in search of a spot to eat.
Some time back, you walking around unsupervised would be a death wish. It still kind of was, but with Valeria behind bars the streets would be safer, at least for some time.
Las Almas was as you remembered. Kind of filthy, still very poor; but there was an inherent beauty to the place. The buildings, the local stands, the people out and about. There was no fear anymore, there was actual life outside. So much so, that there were children, and that was the biggest indicator that the job that Los Vaqueros did was more than successful.
To say that Las Almas was a happy place was optimistic, delusional, even, but truth was, that this new reality had given a new meaning to life in Las Almas.
And you were glad to be part of it, even if it had been a small contribution.
The plaza unfolded slowly as you wandered in, the scent of last night’s rain still clinging to the concrete. Morning sun pushed through thick clouds, casting everything in a gauzy, golden haze. You hadn’t eaten. That was the only thing you were sure of: the gnawing emptiness in your stomach, the sharp edge of caffeine withdrawal creeping up your spine.
Then came the smell.
Tortillas, meat, chiles, oil sizzling. The kind of scent that hit your bloodstream before your brain. You followed it, barely thinking, weaving through the quiet crowd until you found a stall tucked behind a cluster of trees and cracked benches.
Small, makeshift. Plastic stools, one long folding table, a tarp held up by rope and rusted poles. It was perfect.
You stepped up, gesturing toward the woman working the stove. She smiled, kind, lined face, eyes that knew life. But she didn’t understand you. A few words were exchanged, none of which landed. Then she called someone over.
He emerged from behind the counter, tall and lean, early twenties maybe. Split brow. Tattoos down his arms, not the aesthetic kind. Gang ink. Cartel work. You recognized the iconography before your body did, but when it caught up, your spine went rigid. The way you used to react in the field. Fingers twitching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
He didn’t flinch. Just stared.
Eventually, you ordered the only thing you recognized. He asked questions. Too fast. You answered in broken Spanish, embarrassed, cheeks warm. He didn’t laugh, but the look he gave you made you feel like he wanted to.
You sat under the tarp, elbows resting on the plastic table, trying to breathe past your racing pulse. This was safe. This wasn’t a threat. You weren’t a soldier anymore. This was just food.
The plate arrived without a word. Chilaquiles rojos, eggs, cheese, crema. The first bite made you pause. Salt, heat, crunch, softness. A mix of sensations that slowed everything down. You hadn’t even realized how fast your mind had been spinning until that moment.
You didn’t look at anyone. You just ate.
The boy hovered a little longer than necessary before walking off. Not hostile. Just watching. There was something in his glance that saw you too clearly. Not the dress or the accent. You. You didn’t know what to make of that.
The stall buzzed around you. Locals came and went. Old men with newspapers. Kids on bikes. A woman selling paletas from a cooler on wheels. Life, unfiltered.
You sat there longer than necessary, watching steam rise from your plate, your breath finally slowing to match the rhythm of the street. For the first time in days, your brain wasn’t full of static.
Maybe this was why you came.
Not for him. Not entirely. But to let the noise stop. To feel the world again without thinking about what it meant.
When you finished, you left a tip on the table, nodded to the señora, and stepped back into the sun. It had risen higher, burning off the last of the night’s rain. Your skin was already starting to stick. You didn’t care.
You made it a few steps across the plaza before your phone buzzed.
A single message.
You weren’t expecting it, not so direct, not so early.
[Alejandro: Are you free tonight?]
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
[Y/N: Yes]
God, why were you being so dry? For what?
You were terrified, you had to be.
Why was he messaging you so early after that show you put on last night? After he rejected you like that?
The dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
You clenched your jaw.
[Alejandro: Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at 8.]
You stared at the message like it was a unicorn.
It was direct, easy, but you weren’t capable of believing it. After all you did to him, after coming to Las Almas in the most impulsive way you could think of, and he was treating you right? What the hell was that?
You wouldn’t have stood so much foolery being in his shoes. If you were him, you wouldn’t have answered the phone in the first place; you would’ve tried forgetting you both.
Whatever the fuck had been that.
But he wasn’t. He was there. And somehow, you felt like running away. But you couldn’t.
You had brought a stunning dress before coming, and you had to wear it. You promised your past self.
—————
You knew 8 was too early for dinner in Mexico. You knew that the man had tried accommodating you and your American tendencies as best as he could. Alejandro was that type of man. You’d tested it before.
Those little gestures that could be so easily overlooked, and yet, you somehow didn’t. You noticed everything Alejandro did. That was the problem, you just pretended not to.
At 7:55, like a lost little girl, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, your palms clammy against the cheap linen. The room smelled faintly of jasmine. At first it had startled you, but soon you realized that he was not there, that you were alone.
Like any woman trying to impress a man, you had overthought your outfit to the point of not wanting to go anymore. You’d changed three times. First, that bodycon black dress. Then jeans and an ultramarine top, then something softer, silky, more daytime.
But you went back to the dress, of course. The first time you tried it on, you gasped at yourself at the bluntness of what such a dress meant: fuck me. You were horrified at that, like you were your own mother after Sunday mass. The second time, you really saw yourself. Were you trying to seduce him, or impress him? What did you want out of him?
By that point, you weren’t sure anymore. You had come here with a purpose, and thought that it would be as easy as being you. But no. He had seen right through you, deciphered it with the speed of a man who had fallen bewitched by the same woman twice.
You two were a show, you had to admit. Him, so lost in the idea of such a girl, surely ignoring all the red flags in the world to be with someone like you: cruel, emotionless, lost in herself, and unknowingly hurting everyone that tried getting to the rose.
So finally, the bodycon dress stayed on. Whatever you were feeling in that moment, you had to enhance to the max. Black heels, light jewellery, perfect hair, a dark perfume with coffee notes, bitter yet enchanting, sweet if you got close enough. The makeup, of course, was another enhancement of that feeling of lost, yet powerful seduction.
You weren’t trying to be, not in the strict meaning of the word.
At first, you didn’t understand yourself. It took you a while of staring at yourself in the mirror, sitting in the bed. Who was that woman in there? What was she doing? Did she really want to be there?
And then, it clicked.
I wasn’t trying to seduce. You were angry; You felt betrayed. You couldn’t get the idea of Alejandro rejecting you, so your mind had come with the idea of battling him with the full arsenal.
If the man was not going to come to his senses, you would make him.
But you couldn’t be so bold (though you were), so in your behavior had to come the mantra of not needing anything from him.
If he didn’t want you, you didn’t either. But you would make him need you.
That was the game tonight.
At 8:03, you heard the low rumble of an engine, not the Jeep this time. Something different.
You stepped out onto the little patio, your heart a tight knot of heat and nerves.
And there it was. A convertible 70’s Chevelle, midnight black. The chrome shone faintly under the amber streetlights, and for a second, you thought you were in a dream. That image right there was something that didn’t belong to that dusty little corner of Las Almas.
And then, there was him.
He wasn’t in uniform. Of course he wasn’t. He wore a charcoal button down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, as neat as that stupid car. His leather watch stood out on his wrist, and as you got closer, you got the hint of jasmine and sandalwood amidst the smell of old-car combusted gasoline.
When he saw you, he got out of the car. He straightened slowly, eyes scanning you from head to toe. Not in hunger, but in something you caught as delight.
“Buenas noches, güera.”
You walked toward him, slow, cautious. Those heels weren’t made for walking.
“You said nice,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder and greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.
How foreign that felt.
He placed his own hand on your waist, his grip confident, strong, like you were about to melt in front of him. Then, Alejandro took another look at you, this time more playful, more genuine.
“You did more than nice.”
He opened the door for you. Once, that would’ve gotten you out of the mood. But now it felt right.
So you got in. The leather was warm, just as the air around you.
You crossed your legs as gracefully as the tight dress allowed, settling into the Chevelle’s leather seat with the ease of someone pretending to belong there.
Alejandro got in beside you, started the engine. The low growl of it echoed in your chest. He didn’t look at you as he drove off, didn’t say much, either.
The streets were dimly lit, the palm shadows dancing over the car as the sun began to hide. You were driving uphill now, out of the older parts of Las Almas, past the patchy buildings and into an area you hadn’t seen before. The air changed: less dust, more breeze.
You glanced at Alejandro. He had one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the shifter, his profile strong, beautiful, unreadable. The way he drove was steady, practiced, like everything he did, really. You found yourself gripping your thighs, trying to ground yourself. You’d come here armored, but there was something about that damn man that made you feel naked even in that damned dress.
“You look nervous,” he said without looking at you.
“I’m not,” you lied.
A pause.
“I wasn’t going to bring you to a cantina,” he added. “I know what you think of me.”
You turned to him, trying to decipher his tone. “What do I think of you?”
He smirked, the corner of his lip twitching upward. “That I’m simple.”
You didn’t answer. Maybe you thought that once upon a time. When you saw him for the first time at the Vaqueros’ hangar. You thought he was egocentric, grandiose. But soon you got to know him. And you discovered the inherent vulnerability in him, the lack of fear. What you thought was narcissism, ended up becoming deep, pure love for a country that was rotten to the core. He was a man of strong emotions, strong decisions. A true leader.
So no, you did not think he was simple.
That you showed him you believed that was different.
After twenty minutes or so, the car slowed. You recognized none of it, this wasn’t the downtown you remembered. It was higher ground, residential maybe, more elegant. Then you saw it: a modern penthouse bar perched at the edge of the hills, glass and metal and amber light. It overlooked the whole city, stars stretching into forever.
He parked. Turned to you, watching your reaction.
“Come on,” he said, voice low, smooth.
The rooftop restaurant wasn’t loud, no music, no crowds. Just dim lighting, sleek furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the whole of Las Almas. There were candles on the tables, low conversation in the corners, and a wide-open sky above the glass terrace.
Refined. Quiet. Undeniably him.
The host greeted Alejandro by name. That alone made your stomach flip.
He pulled out a chair for you at a table near the edge, the city lights glittering far below.
You didn’t speak until the waiter brought drinks. Wine, neat whiskey, whatever. You didn’t even remember what you ordered.
“To... clarity,” he said, voice even, drink raised in the air. “May we both get some.”
You raised yours. “I’ll drink to that.”
The first sip almost got you in tears. Whatever it was that you ordered burnt. It was good, no doubt, but it seemed like your subconscious was trying to drown your fears in the strongest cocktail you could think of.
The silence between you grew as time went by. You were unsure of what you were doing there, of how you had ended up in such a situation. But the fact was that you were in front of Alejandro Vargas, the man who made you want to run and kiss him in equal parts.
“Why this place?” you managed to ask, suddenly too exposed. You crossed your legs.
He sipped on his mezcal, taking his time. You felt like a caged animal, and he looked like it was a Monday morning. It was unfair. Made you want to strangle him. Or worse.
“It reminded me of you.”
That caught you off-guard. Alejandro looked at you with the calmness of a dormant titan, like he owned every inch of you.
“And what do you think of it?”
Alejandro peeked at the restaurant, like he hadn’t seen it a thousand times. “It’s calm, nice. Elegant.”
“And what do you like the most about it?”
Alejandro didn’t miss a beat to answer.
“The drinks, for sure.”
“You drink only mezcal?” you said, eyeing the golden liquid.
“Normally,” he said, sipping on it.
You looked at your own hands. Nails painted dark, rings on your fingers, nursing a martini glass filled with a reddish mahogany liquid that tasted suspiciously like bourbon, but you were unsure.
“Manhattans,” he said, the corners of his lips curving ever so slightly upwards. Somehow, he was entertained. “You drink them often?”
You eyed the cocktail again, gaining consciousness at that moment, like everything before was background noise.
“Not really,” you said, turning the glass with the tips of your fingers. “Depends on the moment.”
Alejandro nodded to that, as calm as ever. “So you don’t have a drink of choice, güerita?”
“I used to drink Jäger Bombs when I was younger, then I started drinking Long Island Iced Teas,” you started, remembering every phase of your life that accompanied your alcohol choice. “I got into piña coladas for a while. But I’ve always liked tequila.”
Alejandro smiled, raising his brows. “Tequila?”
You nodded. “Tequila, yes. I love it, but I hate it. If I try it, I can’t stop. Then I get the worst hangover ever.”
He chuckled softly, that low, warm sound that always felt too intimate. “A weakness.”
You couldn’t muster the strength to look him in the eyes, so you focused your gaze on the manhattan. “One of many.”
The conversation was cut short. The waiter returned with a subtle nod, menus in hand. There were no prices, only dishes written in elegant cursive on thick, off-white cardstock. It was a statement in itself.
A statement that you weren’t used to.
You glanced through the menu, reading ingredients you didn’t quite recognize. They weren’t foreign, just unfamiliar in the way comfort can be when dressed in silk. Meats you couldn’t pronounce, sauces made of things like hibiscus ash and guajillo glaze. Everything seemed curated. Thoughtful. Quietly opulent.
“There’s a new owner,” he said, casually, like he was mentioning the weather. “A friend.”
You looked up.
He didn’t elaborate. Just took another sip of mezcal, eyes half-lidded under the glow of the terrace candles.
“He brought in a new chef,” he added after a pause. “The menu is new, apparently.”
You didn’t say anything, but you tilted your head just a fraction.
Alejandro smiled, not at you, but at his own thoughts. He raised his eyes to meet yours again. You felt the warmth, the sudden tension in your body. Jasmine, sandalwood. Coffee, orange blossom, vanilla.
His presence had me forgetting to breathe. I was small compared to him, a lost puppy next to a mount of confidence and determination.
When the waiter came back, Alejandro ordered something warm and earthy-sounding in Spanish, your mind catching only “pato,” “almendra,” and “ceniza.” Duck, almonds, ash. You pointed at something with fish and coconut. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it reminded you of a place you’d never been.
The waiter took the menus with a polite smile, and vanished into the shadows.
You swirled what was left of your drink, watching the light cling to the edges of the glass like amber silk. Then, quiet:
“Your friend,” you said, tone smooth, casual, but pointed. “The owner. Where do you know him from?”
Alejandro didn’t answer immediately.
He tilted his glass back, took a slow sip of mezcal, and set it down with care.
“Grew up here,” he finally said. “Same schools, same street fights. We used to race up in the hills with whatever junk we could get our hands on.”
You raised an eyebrow, unsure if you were surprised.
“Then he left,” Alejandro continued. “Made money in construction. Good contracts. Good timing.”
You blinked slowly. “Good contracts?”
Alejandro gave you a measured glance. The barest curve of a smirk followed. “You think I only know soldiers, güera?”
You said nothing. He took it as a yes.
“I move in more rooms than you think.” His voice wasn’t proud. Just factual.
“Didn’t take you for that kind of man.”
“I’m not,” he said. “But in Las almas it’s hard not to surround yourself with the wrong kind of company.”
“So you are not as clean as you made it out to be,” you said, matter-of-factly. You looked at him, he responded with those intense eyes of his, but with an expression of ease in his face.
“In Las Almas no one is clean, güera,” he said. “But some are more than others.”
“And your friend?”
“As far as I’m concerned, his money comes from construction. Nothing else.”
You glanced down, heart thudding with a strange rhythm. The air shifted, colder, drier.
The food took too long.
The restaurant didn’t move fast, no rush, no push to turn tables. You didn’t know if it was a deliberate move, or if there was an issue with the kitchen. Somehow, you suspected it was the latter. A nice place, good menu, luxury drinks. But something was missing. Something imperceptible, that the rich took as a sign of status. If it took time, it had to be of quality, right?
When the plates finally arrived, you realized you’d forgotten you were even waiting.
It was that kind of place. That kind of night.
Detached.
But there was something about it. Something that made you want to stay, to not let go.
The plates were mostly untouched at first. Not out of disinterest, but reverence, the kind of quiet that comes when people are finally forced to sit with themselves.
You cut through the fish delicately, the scent of coconut rising with the steam. You ate slowly. The food was delicate, balanced, almost too soft for the storm living in your chest.
Alejandro, across the table, didn’t rush.
The duck was dark, rich, fragrant with something burnt but earthy. He seemed to enjoy it, even if he barely looked down at his plate.
The food was good. You were too distracted to properly taste it, but every few bites grounded you, reminded you where you were. In Las Almas. At a rooftop restaurant. Sitting across from the man who had been everything and nothing all at the same time.
You pushed at what remained of the fish with the edge of your fork, dragging a bit of coconut cream into a smear, not quite ready to stop eating, but too aware of how slowly you were chewing.
Alejandro, on the other side, had finished long ago. His hand rested loosely on his glass. Not watching you exactly, but watching something. Maybe the way your lipstick was starting to fade.
“You like it?” you asked, looking him in the eyes.
Alejandro leaned back slightly, his forearm draped over the arm of the chair, thumb grazing the base of his mezcal glass.
“It was good,” he said. There was amusement in his voice, almost a half-smirk painted in his lips. “The chef knows what they’re doing.”
There was something sly in his tone. Barely there. Like he knew exactly what you’d meant, and decided to let it hang in the air.
You shifted in your seat, tapping the edge of your plate with your fork. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No?” His brow rose slightly. His voice stayed soft, but there was a bite in the corner of his mouth. A near-smile. “Sounded like it.”
You stared at him, lips parted just enough to suggest a comeback. But nothing came.
Because the truth was, you were asking about the food. But also not. You were asking if he liked this. Liked being here. Liked you, even just like this: dolled up, wound tight, dressed like temptation but trying so hard not to let it show.
Instead, you sat back. Lifted your glass. Let him look.
Alejandro sipped his mezcal, slow, patient. “I know what you’re doing, chula.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“Didn’t seem like it,” you teased. “I don’t think you were paying attention.”
“I haven’t stopped paying attention, güera.”
Your stomach did something traitorous. You swallowed hard. It took you a while to recompose yourself, but you ended up doing it.
“So, you like the dress?”
Alejandro’s gaze moved slowly, from your face down. The dress was black, cut sharp, tight in all the right places. Delicate around the straps. Expensive. Obvious.
His answer was slow. Thoughtful. “It’s beautiful.”
You raised a brow. “Just the dress?”
He let that linger. His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes? They dropped, just for a slow, deep, affected breath, to your neck, your collarbone. Then back up.
“No,” he said. “Not just the dress.”
Your heart was beating far too loud. You had the high ground. You were winning, maybe. But it felt like you were being slowly undressed in public without him even touching you.
You leaned in a little, the flicker of a smile creeping onto your lips. Not coy, never that.
“And what else do you like, Alejandro?” you asked, voice like silk pulled tight across the edge of a blade.
His mezcal glass paused halfway to his lips.
“Tonight?” he asked, soft. Then sipped. Set the glass down.
You thought you were in control. You wanted to be. But something in the way he looked at you made your throat tighten.
“I like that you came here,” he said finally, his fingers tracing the rim of his mezcal glass. “Knowing what you wanted. Wearing that dress. Trying not to beg.”
You blinked.
The words weren’t sharp. They were quiet, intimate. He wasn’t being cruel, he was telling the truth. And it landed like fire against the inside of your ribs.
You tilted your chin. A little defiant. “And what if I was begging?”
“Then I’d say…” His voice dropped, thick and almost cruel in its patience. “You’re used to getting what you want.”
You could barely breathe now. He hadn’t touched you. Not once. But you felt him in every corner of your body. Your legs crossed again under the table. Tighter this time.
“You think that’s a bad thing?”
“I think you confuse being wanted with being needed.”
Your stomach flipped. That one hit somewhere you didn’t expect. And he knew it. You could tell from the way he didn’t smile this time. Didn’t gloat. He just let the weight of it settle.
You set your glass down too hard. “That’s rich coming from a man who hasn’t said no to a single thing I’ve done tonight.”
His brow arched, only barely. “Haven’t said yes, either.”
That made you flinch. You hated that it did. Because it was true.
“I wore this dress for you.”
“I know.”
“I came to Las Almas for you.”
He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “I know.”
“And you’re not going to do anything about it?”
A long beat of silence.
Then, at last, his voice: “Who said I’m not doing something?”
You stared at him, heart pounding in your throat. For once, you didn’t have a line to throw back. Not a clever one, anyway.
You didn’t understand. The way he acted, how he looked at you; it was the act of a man who could only be dreaming of kneeling in front of you, and yet, he wasn’t. You weren’t used to that. It made you panic, broke down your whole persona in an instant.
The waiter appeared then, too perfectly timed, again. Like some divine interruption.
“¿Postre?”
Dessert?
You didn’t look at him. Your eyes were still locked on Alejandro.
“I don’t do dessert,” you said smoothly, barely holding the smirk at the corner of your mouth. “Not that kind, anyway.”
Alejandro didn’t laugh.
He didn’t smirk.
He just held your gaze long, steady, deliberate, until it made your skin burn.
The pause said everything.
The waiter cleared his throat, clearly uncertain.
Alejandro answered him without breaking eye contact. “Nada, gracias.”
We’re fine. Thank you.
The waiter left. You were still staring at each other.
“You think that would solve something between us?”
“I don’t.”
Then, you smiled. Fake, of course.
The check came before Alejandro could speak another word.
You reached for it. So did he. Your fingers brushed. You felt it. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
“Let’s split it,” you said.
“No,” he replied firmly.
“Alejandro—”
“No.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the finality of it. “No?”
His eyes were steady, patient. “You’re not splitting the bill with me, güera.”
Your fingers curled slightly under the leather fold of the check. “I’m not letting you pay for the entire thing.”
“You already did.”
You stared at him. He looked at your dress. You felt exposed, bare.
“You invited me.”
He tilted his head, just slightly. “That’s exactly why I’m paying.”
You gritted your teeth. “This isn’t—”
“A transaction?” he interrupted, low. “Then don’t act like it is.”
That shut you up.
Because that’s exactly what it had become in your head, hadn’t it? The dress, the perfume, the heels. The whole night you’d been building a case for why you deserved to be taken home, as if seduction were a currency and you were running out of time to spend it. If you just said the right things, made the right moves, he’d forget everything and fall at your feet again.
But you were paying in dollars, and he was in pesos. Different languages, intentions.
It was hard to believe. To accept.
That Alejandro Vargas was not at your feet anymore.
Author's note: Sooo... I guess we're at the point where I should make this at least a short story? I reread the whole thing and loved it, and felt like I couldn't leave it like that (thanks to the people who commented on part 2, you were the ones who made me vomit 5k words in like 3 hours lol)
So dear Alejando Vargas simps, I guess I'm back. Just to bring justice to this cruel, cold, Carlos-less world lmao.
