My stories can be read as standalones or as a part of one story each character will be written with their own storyline and OC S/Os to make writing easier for me. I will do my best to keep them listed in the rough chronological order I have in my head but not necessarily posted in chronological order if that makes sense 💕
Nacho turned, raising an eyebrow. Tuco only used that tone when he wanted something. "Yeah, boss? What's up?"
Tuco strolled over, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Can I ask… for a favor?"
Nacho tensed. Favors from Tuco rarely ended well. But he masked it with a shrug. "Depends. What kind of favor?"
"I need to know where Elise lives."
Silence.
Nacho blinked. "The daycare worker? Miss Honey? That Elise?"
"Don’t say her name like that!" Tuco snapped, suddenly up in his face.
“It’s not what you think!” Tuco barked, pacing now. “It’s...uh...it’s security! Yeah! She might be in danger if our enemies find out we’re… associated.” He crossed his arms proudly. "So I must check out her place!"
Nacho narrowed his eyes but wisely chose not to point out that if anything was dangerous to Elise, it was Tuco himself. Instead, he said “You want me to stake out a daycare?”
“She works with children!” Tuco insisted loudly. “They’re vulnerable! It makes sense”
"...Right," Nacho muttered again as he grabbed his keys.
And so began the strangest surveillance job of his life tailing a cheerful woman who wore glittery pink flats and handed out apple slices while singing songs about sharing and rainbow feelings.
He watched her walk some toddlers across the street them holding her hands like she was priceless, laughing when one spilt juice on her blouse "Oh silly goose!", wave goodbye at 4:30 p.m., then the drive home listening, once again, to ABBA at full volume through rolled-down windows.
When she finally parked outside a small ground-floor apartment decorated with fairy lights and flower boxes full of bright petunias?
Nacho exhaled.
“Well, boss,” he said over the phone later that night, voice dry as bone. "She lives at 217 Mariposa Lane."
"Is it secure?" Tuco demanded immediately.
"Secure? Her front door has a lock and a deadbolt, I think" Nacho replied deadpan. "Also three wind chimes shaped like jellyfish.”
Tuco stood outside 217 Mariposa Lane, shifting from foot to foot like he’d been caught sneaking onto holy ground. The wind chimes, those dumb jellyfish things, that clinked softly in the breeze. A cat sunbathing on a windowsill stared at him like, "You don’t belong here." He glared back.
“Jellyfish?...Got it” Tuco said seriously like it was important info before hanging up.
“This ain’t a social call,” he muttered under his breath. “This is....work.”
In one hand a plastic bag from the gas station.
He rang the doorbell.
Inside One keychain with a squishy, glow-in-the-dark jellyfish that dangled sadly like it regretted its life choices and One pack of gummies shaped like sea creatures that definitely did not have enough jellyfish (just one sad little translucent purple guy on the front), but it was all they had next to the beef jerky display.
Three times.
Loudly.
“COMING!” came Elise’s voice, sweet and singsongy through the door before it swung open and then she froze mid-step in her fuzzy bunny slippers. “Oh! Tuco! Hi!”
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and looked away fast, like catching sight of her smiling face might burn him or something stupid like that.
“I-I was in the neighborhood,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Patrolling my territory.”
“You… patrol near apartment complexes?” She tilted her head, eyes wide with innocent curiosity the worst kind around Tuco, who struggled to lie straight when she looked at him like that.
“Y-Yeah! People break rules everywhere! Even… flower zones.” He gestured vaguely at her petunias for emphasis before thrusting the bag towards her without making eye contact again.
“For you.”
Elise blinked and then beamed so hard it could’ve powered Albuquerque’s grid for an hour.
“For me? Oh wow!! Thank you!” She happily took the bag, giggling as she pulled out the jellyfish goodies, twirling the keychain around a finger as she examined it. That was… kinda cute. Tuco shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
"Well?" he grunted, still trying to sound tough. "Are you gonna invite me in or what?"
Elise looked up, wide-eyed, almost like she’d forgotten he was there, and quickly moved aside to let him past.
Tuco stood awkwardly near the doorway, surveying her messy little place. It was… smaller than he expected. Quaint was probably the word he was looking for.
“Sorry! Sorry! Come in, come in,” she said, shutting the door behind them.
He stepped in, boots clicking on the worn hardwood while she skipped past him and set the bag on her kitchenette counter.
Every available surface was littered with colorful knickknacks: painted ceramic plates, fairy lights, stuffed animals, little wooden boxes, and other useless trinkets.
Damn.
He grunted, pointing at a framed picture on a shelf. “Who’s that guy?”
Elise glanced back, still smiling softly, as she followed his gaze to the photo of a young man with bright green eyes standing next to her at some kind of festival.
Of course she was seeing someone.
Tuco looked away, trying to act disinterested, but he could feel that anger, that twisted, ugly jealousy, swirling up inside him. She was too smart and sweet and… damn it all. She was just too good for someone like him.
Elise hesitated, a hint of sadness in her eyes as she looked at the photo.
"Oh, that's… that's my brother, Matthew," she said quietly. "We used to go to music festivals together all the time. It was our thing."
Tuco felt a pang of guilt for assuming something different but quickly pushed it aside.
There it was. That raw, painful truth. And he'd had the gall to be jealous.
"'Used to'?" he echoed, tone guarded.
"Yeah." Elise's voice was soft as she ran a finger along the frame's edge. "He, um… he died a couple years ago. Car accident. Hit by a drunk driver."
"No, it's okay. It still hurts, but… it's nice to remember the good times," she said, carefully replacing the frame on the shelf.
Tuco stood in awkward silence for a few moments before gruffly muttering an apology. "Sorry for your loss."
Elise shook her head, offering a small smile.
An awkward pause hung in the air between them.
Eventually, she gestured to the couch. "You can sit, if you want. I'm just gonna grab a glass of water."
He nodded, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets again as he watched her pad off toward the kitchenette. His gaze lingered on the photo one more time before he sat heavily on the couch. It creaked and sighed under his weight.
Tuco picked up a small wooden frog, turning it over in his fingers. Its little painted eyes seemed to taunt him.
He could hear Elise rummaging around in cabinets behind a small dividing wall, her bunny slippers shuffling softly against the hardwood.
There was only a small old TV, which made sense she was only a daycare worker, not exactly swimming in cash. Instead, a few open shelves displayed more little trinkets: seashells, feathers, hand-painted rocks, all arranged neatly like they were at the centre of a museum exhibit...an exhibit of useless junk.
She plopped down in a squishy armchair, curling her legs under her looking so damn comfortable and cozy and… and perfect.
"What the hell is with all this stuff?" he called out, just to break the silence.
"What do you mean?" Elise reappeared with a glass of water and an innocent smile that somehow managed to be both charming and infuriating.
Ugh. She was driving him crazy without even trying.
He gestured at the shelves like it was obvious.
Tuco blinked.
"This. All of .....this. It's just… junk." His eyes swept over the collection, settling on a cluster of glittery sea glass near her elbow. "It has no purpose. It's just… useless."
Elise’s smile softened, and she wrapped her hands gently around her glass of water. “Oh,” she said quietly. “These? These are from the kids.”
“The… kids?”
Tuco stared.
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, tilting her head toward a shelf where a lopsided clay bird sat proudly beside a crayon drawing of three stick figures holding hands "Miss Honey!" was written in wobbly letters across the top.
“They give me little things all the time. Rocks they think are magic, drawings they made during free art time, shells from vacations with their parents…” Her voice warmed like sunshine spilling through clouds. “It’s how they show love.”
He’d spent his life learning that love looked like loyalty under silence, that it came with guns in glove compartments and never backing down from a fight.
"I mean, who cares if it's useless?" Her eyes twinkled. "They thought about me when they picked it out, and then they gave it to me because they wanted me to have it."
But here was this tiny treasures no one else would want… kept like treasure anyway… because someone loved them.
Elise took a sip of her water before continuing.
She looked over at him knowingly, smile a tad playful.
Then it hit him like a shotgun blast to the chest.
"That's what makes it a gift. It's not about the thing. It's about the feeling behind it."
Tuco froze, the wooden frog still gripped between his fingers.
The keychain.
The dumb jellyfish he'd tossed in as an afterthought bought from a grimy gas station shelf because he’d needed an excuse, needed something to cover up the fact that he just wanted to see her again and now she was sitting there with that same soft expression she gave those stupid little rocks and glittery seashells, looking at him like…
Like maybe this meant something too.
He swallowed hard.
“Yeah well…” His voice came out gruffer than usual. “Don’t go gettin’ all mushy about it.” He jerked his chin toward where her plastic bag sat on the counter, the glow-in-the-dark jellyfish dangling over its edge like it was laughing at him.
Elise giggled into her water glass, swinging one socked foot playfully as she hummed:
“Too late.”
And Tuco? Tuco suddenly found himself hoping, wildly, unreasonably, that no one would ever find out how fast his pulse jumped when she smiled at him like that.
Here's a sneak peek at the next part of my Tuco Salamanca x OC story I've been working on i hope you guys will enjoy what's to come ♥︎
Tuco stood outside 217 Mariposa Lane, shifting from foot to foot like he’d been caught sneaking onto holy ground. The wind chimes, those dumb jellyfish things, that clinked softly in the breeze. A cat sunbathing on a windowsill stared at him like, "You don’t belong here". He glared back.
Tuco’s hands trembled as he knelt beside Elise, pressing a wad of gauze too hard against the cut on her arm. She winced, and instantly his wild eyes snapped up to hers wide, panicked.
“S-Sorry!” he stammered, voice cracking like it forgot how to form soft words. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Elise smiled, warm and forgiving the kind that made sunlight jealous. “It’s okay, Tuco,” she said gently. “You’re doing great.”
He wasn’t doing great.
His fingers were calloused and unsteady from years of holding guns and breaking bones, not patching up sweet blondes who wore baby pink scrunchies like battle armor. But here he was, muttering curses under his breath at the first aid kit like it had personally offended him.
“Why’d you even run into that mess?” he growled lowly as he peeled open another alcohol wipe with his teeth, like a rabid dog.
“You looked scared,” she said simply.
“I wasn't SCARED!” His voice jumped three octaves before collapsing into a wheeze. He looked around wildly, as if someone might have heard him, and then lowered to a whisper “I was angry. Very angry.”
She patted his knee with her good hand. “Of course you were.”
Because that’s what Elise did, she let him be loud when inside voices would’ve been easier, let him roar when really all he wanted was for someone not to flinch away from the storm behind his eyes.
She’d found him bleeding once behind the laundromat off Gibson after some idiot tried moving weight in his territory without permission, or kneecaps removed, he wouldn't say which came first (probably both). He'd been spitting blood and cackling about hornets nests when she rolled up in her little pink car blasting ABBA's "Dancing Queen."
And instead of screaming or calling 911?
Miss Honey, the woman whose daycare toddlers lined up every morning just to hug her legs, simply calmly said "Oh my stars!" while dragging a trash bag full of clean towels out of her trunk.
"You look like garbage! Let's fix you."
That day started everything, from grudging gratitude... into something softer neither could name but both clung to anyway.
Now here they were again in some backroom above an abandoned auto shop, him bandaging her arm because she ran toward gunfire.
"Only YOU," Tuco muttered darkly as finally tying off the bandage way too tight (he couldn't help himself), "would see me get grazed by stray bullet and think your job is HUG ME?"
She shrugged sweetly. "Well yeah! You needed comforting!"
His gaze locked on her, lips parting, jaw tightening like he wanted to yell that he didn't want or need comfort, that he was a grown man not some goddamn kid but the words died in his throat.
It was her big blue eyes, he was sure. So Big and round. Like Bambi. How could you be mad at that?
"Goddammit," he muttered, glaring at the floor. “You’re… you’re lucky I like you,” he mumbled, still not looking up.
Elise beamed. “I’m your favorite!”
“Don’t push it.” He tried to sound tough but his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
She giggled and leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his shoulder. Tuco froze like she’d set off a silent alarm inside him.
Then, slowly… so slowly… he lifted one arm and wrapped it around her, pulling her close in a lopsided hug, one hand still cradling the gauze like he might need it again any second.
“You’re soft,” he grumbled into her hair. “Too soft for this world.”
“And you’re loud,” she whispered back, snuggling closer. “But I like loud.”
He snorted but didn’t let go.
Outside, sirens wailed in the distance.
Tuco’s grip tightened slightly, just enough for Elise to feel it, but she didn’t pull away.
Because she knew something no one else did beneath all the rage and chaos and screaming about territory… Tuco Salamanca hated being alone more than bullets or betrayal or even Lalo showing up unannounced with that creepy grin of his.
And Miss Honey?
She wasn’t afraid of loud men with trembling hands.
No, she saved them cookies from snack time at daycare instead and brought extra wipes because seriously? Boys are gross.
And that night, sitting side by side on an old couch draped in a faded blanket, they ate chocolate chip cookies from a Ziploc bag.
Elise hummed ABBA. Tuco stared at the ceiling like it owed him money.
But his hand stayed wrapped around hers warm… and finally, just… still.
The walk had been quiet, soft steps on cracked pavement, shoulders nearly touching, the warmth of their joined hands lingering even after they let go. Arabelle’s motel came into view too soon a squat L-shaped building with peeling stucco and flickering neon where half the "O" in "MOTEL" never lit.
They stopped just outside room 7 the door slightly dented, tape holding the window screen in place.
His stomach dropped.
Not because it was dirty. Not because broken bottles glittered near the dumpster or distant shouting echoed from another room. No, it was because he knew. Knew men like him didn’t belong here… not as visitors. They belonged as threats.
And yet she lived here. Survived here. With her pale cheeks and quiet heart and hands that served coffee like grace wasn’t in short supply.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight for only a second before smoothing his face into something lighter, playful, even as guilt scraped behind his ribs
“Well,” he said softly shoving hands in pockets “this is you?”
She nodded quickly suddenly self-conscious already turning toward her door fumbling with keys “Yeah... um… thanks for walking me! I really appreciate it.”
“Appreciate?” He scoffed gently stepping closer one boot toe nudging cracked sidewalk edge “I’m starting to think you don’t know how to take a compliment without trying to pay me back.”
“I-I do!”
“No.” He smirked eyes glinting under dim bulb above her door “You apologize when someone holds your hand too long or buys you coffee or walks two miles out of their way just to see your face at midnight."
Her lips parted slightly but no words came
So he leaned against the wall beside her door arms crossed watching her watch him like she still couldn't believe he hadn't vanished
“This place,” he finally said voice lower careful not harsh
"...ain't safe."
"I know," she whispered head down "But rent's cheap and I-I work late anyway so..."
"So what?" He cut in softer now almost tender
“So you trade safety for pennies? For scraps?”
"It’s all I can afford right now," she admitted fragile but honest "But one day... maybe something better..."
Her voice trailed off, but hope flickered there anyway stubborn little flame refusing to be blown out
And Lalo?
He wanted to burn every lowlife within five blocks.
Wanted to move her tonight, to somewhere walled soundproof guarded by men who feared him
But instead he reached out slowly thumb brushing stray hair from cheek knuckles grazing soft skin below eye
“You’re strong,” he murmured voice rough with something close to awe
“Stronger than most people ever need to be.”
She blinked fast like tears weren't allowed but smile returned anyway small shy beautiful
Then silence fell, not empty but full heavy with unspoken words both wanted more time more courage more nerve
Neither moved
Neither turned away
Both standing inches apart breathing same air night humming low around them crickets singing broken ice machine buzzing nearby
Finally Arabelle pulled the key toward the lock, her throat tight
“I should… go in…”
"Yeah..." Lalo didn’t step back didn’t reach for distance yet just watched held space between goodbye & staying longer than needed
"...you should."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Full of things neither dared name aloud:
I want you to come inside.
I wish I could take you away.
Please don't leave.
Eventually, without thinking, she reached up gently touched the sleeve of his jacket fingers barely brushing the fabric.
“Will... will I see you again?”
A beat passed.
One breath held between them.
Then Lalo smiled, not cocky or teasing, but real tender and deep the kind only someone truly enchanted could wear
And though they both knew this wasn’t goodbye, not really, it felt like beginning wrapped in endings where two lonely souls stood at edge of something new
closer than before
not ready let go
and desperately hoping, for once, that tomorrow would come faster
The night air was sharp with desert chill when Lalo finally stepped into the diner three hours later than usual.
His jacket was dusted with road grit, one sleeve slightly torn, and though his smile still came easy, crooked, teasing but it didn’t reach his eyes just yet. Not until he scanned the diner.
Empty booth near the back.
Coffee ring on the counter… but no her.
Arabelle wasn’t there.
He slid onto his stool anyway, because routine was armor. “Coffe black,” he said before the new girl even reached him, a blonde with too much gloss and not enough sense of danger in her gaze.
“I know, I see you here most nights” she said sweetly bending slightly as she poured letting her hair fall forward like it meant something “Long night?”
Lalo gave her a half-lidded look, amused but unimpressed “You have no idea.”
She lingered. Flirted lightly while wiping the counter near him asking about music, the weather, where he went at this hour.
He answered in murmurs, short charming lies that made her laugh a little too loud.
But his eyes kept drifting to the clock, then to the door, then to that space where she always stood folding napkins humming off-key songs like nobody could hear.
When another customer called from booth four she left reluctantly giving Lalo one last bat of her lashes.
He barely noticed.
Instead, he paid fast left more than needed slipped out without finishing his coffee, for the first time, and stepped into silence beneath fractured moonlight above cracked asphalt parking lots and distant sirens echoing through sleeping streets .
And then…
There. At the broken-down bus stop just twenty yards away under a flickering streetlight.
Arabelle sat curled into herself knees pulled close arms wrapped around them like trying to stay warm against world that never bothered being kind to her.
She hadn't seen him yet
Lalo paused for only half a second before changing direction crossing the pavement slow boots crunching softly until shadows stretched long between them both.
“You take the bus?” he asked voice low rough from lack of sleep but softer now somehow.
She startled looked up heart jumping recognition flashing across tired face followed by surprise delight maybe even worry?
“L-Lalo? I thought you weren't coming…”
“Got held up.” He shrugged like it meant nothing “Work.”
“Oh…” She nodded once fingers twisting around strap of old bag on lap “Well... I'm off now so…”
“So?” He tilted head studying her watching how wind tugged stray brown waves free from her messy bun watching how her pale skin flushed pink when nervous.
"You're just gonna sit here till some rickety box drags you halfway across town?"
"It's… it's all right," she whispered "It’s only ten stops."
“And what happens at stop eight if someone decides they wanna ruin their life by bothering you?”
“I-I’d be fine...”
“No.” The word came quick hard final then softened instantly as he reached down hand open palm up not demanding but offering:
"Come on."
Her breath caught “I don't want to be a trouble.”
“You’re never trouble.” His dark eyes held hers steady, calm, certain “You are someone worth walking home."
A beat passed, long quiet full of things unsaid, the kind two people feel when they know they're standing at the edge of something new, fragile, beautiful.
Then slowly... carefully...she placed her small cold hand in his warm calloused one.
And Lalo Salamanca, who feared nothing except losing what he couldn’t quite name, wrapped those fingers tight around hers and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding…and walked beside her down the empty midnight road neither speaking nor needing to say a word because sometimes love begins not with promises or confessions or grand moments but simply
The fluorescent sign above the diner flickered like a tired heartbeat, casting uneven light across the cracked parking lot. Inside, Arabelle wiped down the same stretch of counter for the third time, her reflection ghostly in the rain-streaked window. It was 2:17 a.m. Her feet ached. Her sweater was too thin.
Then the bell rang.
And he walked in.
Lalo didn’t so much enter as arrive like he’d been watching from somewhere dark before finally deciding to step into view. Boots quiet on linoleum, eyes sharp and awake when most of humanity was dreaming. He wore a light jacket despite the chill, hands tucked casually in his pockets as if danger weren’t wired into his bones.
Arabelle froze mid-wipe.
She’d seen him before the same man who came in every few nights at this hour like clockwork but always alone, always scanning corners like someone might be waiting… and always leaving without saying much more than "Coffee black."
“Hey,” he said now, sliding onto a stool at the far end of the counter, the same seat every time, as if claiming it were reserved by unspoken law.
She nodded quickly “H-hey… uh... what can I get you?”
He grinned, a slow, crooked thing that made her stomach flip “You know what I want.”
Her face burned “I-I do?”
“You bring it every time,” he teased voice low and warm with amusement “Drip coffee black no sugar… two creams on side just in case I change my mind.” His dark eyes flicked to hers “…and you forget to take back those creams.”
“I don’t...I mean...I leave them just incase…”
“In case you change your mind?” Lalo tilted his head feigning shock “Ay dios mío..you got feelings about creamer now? Should we talk about it?”
Arabelle covered her mouth trying not to laugh
but failed completely
He chuckled softly then leaned forward slightly elbows on counter gaze playful yet intense all at once
“You’re cute when flustered.”
Her heart stopped beating for approximately three seconds
Then silence fell, not awkward but thick with something soft and new between them neither could name
Finally she poured his coffee hands steadier now whispered
“Two creams... on the side” while carefully placing them down avoiding eye contact but smiling anyway
He watched her long after she turned away
To refill another customer’s cup wipe another table breathe anywhere else but here where suddenly breathing felt different
When she finally looked back, he hadn’t moved
Still watching still present still there beneath buzzing lights and broken neon dreams
And when he stood slowly slipped exact change onto bar including tip that was way too generous, he paused near door shoulders squared against night beyond glass
just one second longer than necessary
Not turning around yet not stepping out either...
Waiting?
Maybe hoping?
For one word.
One invitation.
One reason not to leave yet
But Arabelle only managed whisper through trembling lips:
"See you... next time?"
Lalo glanced over shoulder half smile playing at corner of mouth
“Oh yeah…” He said voice smooth dark sweet as molasses
“I’ll be back”
Always is
And somehow both knew, this wasn't goodbye It wasn't even close
Howard straightened his tie in the reflection of his office window. The Albuquerque sky stretched wide and pale behind him, the afternoon light washing over the city like warm tea. It was 3:45 PM. He’d just wrapped up a tedious client call, one of those marathon negotiations where both sides talked in circles just to feel important and now all he wanted was air that didn’t smell like stress and printer toner.
He shut down his computer with a quiet click, slipped on his Hamlindigo-blue blazer (dry-cleaned weekly, naturally), and stepped out into the hallway of Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill. The name still felt heavy sometimes, like it carried ghosts he wasn’t supposed to acknowledge.
Downstairs, he passed by reception without looking left or right. No one stopped him with questions or paperwork just polite nods from associates who knew better than to interrupt Howard Hamlin when he had that particular pace in his step half yoga calm, half suppressed irritation.
He hadn’t meditated this morning.
Too much coffee instead.
And truth be told? He hadn’t really slept last night either not because of work, but because Cheryl’s side of the bed had been empty again. Not unusual lately. Theirs wasn't an unkind marriage, it was tidy, but it hadn't been loving in years. They were both too good at pretending everything was fine for anyone else to notice something wasn’t there anymore.
Still… as Howard walked through downtown toward the park he liked sitting on a bench near sunset sometimes when he couldn’t shake how lonely “fine” actually felt.
Then again that wasn't something you said aloud when you wore suits tailored by Savile Row craftsmen flown out for fittings only three people knew about.
So no one heard it from him except maybe Dr. Lina Perez during therapy every Tuesday and Thursday at 6 PM sharp.
And she charged enough per hour not to share anything back.
The park bench sat under an old cottonwood tree whose leaves rustled gently above him as he exhaled slowly through pursed lips, the way they taught you to do before speaking calmly under pressure or winning courtroom arguments.
He pulled off his jacket after five minutes and laid it neatly across adjacent seat so no one would sit there unless invited which most people took as “stay away” body language but today.
Today someone ignored it completely
A woman approached with a paper cup from a nearby kiosk, she smiled widely when she saw Howard adjust himself slightly on her arrival.
“Oh!” She held up one cup apologetically. "I didn't mean...I can sit somewhere else if this is taken?"
"No," Howard said quickly and realised immediately that sounded ruder than intended. "I mean it’s not taken. Please."
She sat down with soft grace almost dancer like. She shrugged sheepishly. "..so..you pass by often?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, then softened.
"I walk here most days," he admitted, smiling now despite himself "but I haven't seen you before."
Her name tag read 'Katie', pinned crookedly onto her modest cardigan, a little worn around edges but clearly loved anyway.
"First time volunteering at Mercy Food Pantry,” Katie replied brightly. "Long shift but I treat myself once a week even if budget says absolutely not.”
Something about how honestly happy she seemed struck deeper than any compliment ever had recently, from clients who faked gratitude or employees afraid they’d get fired otherwise.
Howard caught himself staring longer than appropriate at nothing specific her laugh lines?, maybe, or simply how real they looked?
"So..." Katie sipped carefully, then turned fully toward him. "What do you do?”
“Accounting,” Howard answered without hesitation, as smooth lies go.
“Oh!” She brightened further, which surprised more joy into him than he cared to acknowledge.
"That’s kinda brave,” Katie mused thoughtfully. “Being so detail-oriented all day while wearing such fancy clothes?"
"Fancy?”
“These are nice!”
She gestured playfully between lapel buttons.
"And clean! Everything looks pressed, even your shoelaces look organized!
A quiet laugh escaped Howard, one genuine enough made its way past mental filters meant keep defenses high.
“I'm… meticulous,” He offered simply, truth hiding beneath partial admission.
“You seem kind…”
“I try."
She tucked hair behind ear suddenly shy which did an impossible thing, made his heart beat in a uneven rhythm.
They talked fifteen more minutes about music slow jazz new indie bands birds chirping nearby weather patterns moving oddly southward due climate changes.
The conversation flowed effortlessly between them, the sun dipping lower and lower in the sky as they spoke.
Howard found himself opening up more than he had in years, sharing little details about himself despite the lingering guilt inside him.
For once, he didn’t feel like the successful, always-composed lawyer. He felt like a regular person talking to someone genuinely interested in what he had to say.
Not because he was afraid no, never that. But because his mind never stopped turning: names, routes, lies to untangle, enemies to bury before they even knew they were dead.
Yet tonight… it wasn’t Fring’s face in his thoughts.
It was hers.
From the roof of a rusted-out laundromat across the street hidden behind satellite dishes and sagging wires he watched through binoculars as Arabelle wiped down tables at the 24-hour diner where she worked. Her shift ended an hour ago. She should’ve gone back to her motel room by now.
But no. There she was still moving slow under dim lights, humming some quiet song only she could hear while tying her brown hair into a messy bun that kept falling loose like everything about her refused to stay perfectly in place
He didn’t tell her he was watching.
Wouldn’t ever say why he came here most nights when he couldn't sleep not just watch but wait.
Just… make sure nothing touched what was his.
A trucker with too many teeth smiled at her.
Lalo’s grip tightened on the binoculars he was surprised they didn't break.
But then he saw it again.
That look on her face when she handed him coffee like kindness cost nothing instead of everything in this world.
And how even after twelve hours on her feet.
She still managed a small smile.
And suddenly… Lalo felt something strange behind his ribs not rage.
Not suspicion.
But something warm and unfamiliar.
Like someone had reached into his chest and turned a light on inside a room no one had entered in years.
He didn't understand it.
Didn't want to name it .
Because names made things real and if this were real then maybe losing her would kill him not with bullets or betrayal but just silence.
So instead of going inside,
instead of pulling her close like every nerve begged him to do...
he stayed there in shadows in cold night air long after dawn began creeping over rooftops painting sky soft pink above broken signs and dusty pavement.
Watching.
Always watching.
Because maybe love wasn't words or grand promises for men like him.
Maybe for Lalo Salamanca... love looked exactly like this staying far enough away so no danger followed but close enough that if anything moved toward her, they'd meet hell first.
Lalo Salamanca was not a man known for tenderness. To the cartel, he was a storm in stillness, quiet then deadly. But at 3 a.m., when the desert wind howled through the cracks of their run-down motel room, he wasn’t Eladio’s enforcer or Gus Fring’s shadowed rival.
He was just hers.
Arabelle was unlike anyone he’d ever known. Small and soft-spoken, with long brown waves spilling over threadbare sheets and cheeks that bloomed pink even in sleep. She never asked where he’d been. Never flinched at the gun on the nightstand or the fresh scrape across his knuckles.
Tonight, she stirred awake to find him standing by the window, eyes sharp on the darkened street below, mind racing with plans of betrayal and blood.
She didn’t say anything.
Instead, she slipped out of bed barefoot, padded to the tiny fridge they shared, one Coke can left and pre mixed horchata from instant powder like it was magic dust meant just for him.
When she handed him the glass, her fingers brushing his scarred palm like it mattered who he really was underneath… something cracked open behind his ribs.
Lalo studied her, the way her lashes fluttered down when nervous, how her sweater swallowed her arms whole. He pulled her into his chest without warning. One arm locked around her waist his face buried in warm brown curls smelling faintly of coconut shampoo from dollar-store bottles sold two for five bucks downtown.
"You're gonna be my ruin," he murmured but he smiled as if being ruined were sweet instead of fatal.
And Arabelle? She clung tighter because for once in this violent world neither chose... they'd found peace inside each other's arms
The late afternoon sun gilded the rooftops of town as Tig Trager rumbled into the square on his bike, leather jacket creaking and dark hair catching the breeze. He wasn’t looking for anything just coffee and a quiet corneruntil he saw her, fumbling with an armful of books outside the little bookstore, one titled 'How to Grow Anything' flapping open in the wind like a wounded bird. Without thinking, he caught it mid-tumble.
She startled, wide-eyed, wild hair, paint-splattered jeans, and a smile that lit something slow and warm in his chest. "Oh! I-I owe you one," she said breathlessly.
"Or five," Tig grinned, handing back the book. "That one looked important."
"It is," she laughed. "I’m trying to keep my basil alive this time."
He bought her coffee just so he could hear that laugh again and stayed because when she talked about growing things, her hands danced like flowers blooming in springlight. And maybe just maybe that was something worth planting roots for.
