Can you see right through me?
⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Investigative Journalist!Reader Wordcount: 9.6k
⋆˚࿔ Summary: You were sent to Bogotá to write about the war on drugs, not to fall for the man in the middle of it. Javier Peña doesn’t want to be interviewed. Doesn’t want to be written about. And he definitely doesn’t want you digging beneath the surface. But the more time you spend together, across stakeouts, interviews, silences, the more you see through the armor he wears like second skin. You’re supposed to stay objective. He’s supposed to stay detached. But somewhere between your questions and his evasions, something shifts. And one night, off the record, it all comes undone.
⋆˚࿔ Warnings: journalist/DEA slow burn • guarded Javi, determined reader • interrogation-turned-flirting • enemies to lovers energy • smut (oral f receiving, PIV with condom, praise, body worship) • “do you like me?” turned devastating • yearning so tense it hurts • emotional intimacy • soft aftercare • scars, literal and emotional • one bed (kinda) • mutual unraveling • article excerpts at the end • you will feel things
⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note: This fic started as an idea about interviews and turned into one of the softest, slowest things I’ve ever written. It’s about two people who are too tired to admit how much they want to be known. It’s banter, burn, and tenderness in equal measure. Thank you for being here. Reblogs, tags, and screams all wildly appreciated 🫶🏼 Fae🧚♀️
BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA — U.S. EMBASSY
The embassy smelled like paper and tiredness. Somewhere down the hall, a fan clattered uselessly, blowing humid air from one corner to the next. You adjusted the strap of your canvas satchel and waited, heels clicking softly against the linoleum as the secretary behind the desk leafed through a stack of files like she had all the time in the world.
“You’re the reporter?” she asked eventually, without looking up.
“I am,” you said, offering the laminated press badge she didn’t bother to examine. “Scheduled to meet with Agents Murphy and Peña. I believe they’re expecting me.”
She snorted lightly. “Yeah. About that.”
Before you could ask what that meant, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open, and the mood shifted. The man who stepped through looked like he belonged in a bar fight, not a federal office. Aviators perched in his hair. Tan dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, cigarette burn on the collar. A badge on his hip and a scowl on his face. Javier fucking Peña.
He clocked you immediately. Slowed his walk. Took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it like this whole building wasn’t federal property. You knew that look. The look men gave when they’d already made up their minds about you.
He stopped five feet away. “No.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. Turn around. Go home. Try Costa Rica. Pretty this time of year.”
You forced a smile. “You haven’t even asked my name.”
“I don’t need to.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaled toward the ceiling. “You’re the journalist the brass sent to babysit us. You’ll get someone killed.”
“And you’re the agent who thinks written down rules are a suggestion,” you shot back.
Behind him, another figure appeared, lighter hair, less bitterness. A little younger, cleaner, still a little shocked by the job. This must be Steve Murphy.
“Jesus, Peña,” Murphy muttered, tugging his tie loose as he stepped forward. “We talked about this.”
“She’s a liability.”
“She’s standing right here,” you said. “And she’s cleared by your own department. I’ve embedded with NATO in Kandahar. I’ve reported from Sarajevo during the siege. I’m not here to hold your hand.”
Peña looked at you like he was trying to see through you, trying to find the angle. “Then why are you here?”
You met his gaze head-on. “To find the truth. Not your version of it. Not theirs. Just the truth.”
A beat of silence stretched between the three of you.
Murphy cleared his throat. “She’s not going anywhere, man. Orders came down this morning. We’re stuck with each other.”
Peña muttered something in Spanish under his breath. You caught the word problema. Then he turned, smoke trailing behind him like a threat.
“You better keep up,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for the stairs.
You followed.
—
The stakeout location was a narrow side street in the outskirts of Bogotá, all rusted roofs and low voices behind barred windows. The sun had dipped below the smog line by the time you parked. Peña killed the engine but left the radio on, soft static humming like a warning no one could decipher.
They didn’t talk for a while. Neither did you. The silence settled, heavy as the vest pressing into your ribs. You adjusted it for the third time, then gave up. It didn’t fit. None of this did.
Out the window, nothing moved. Just laundry swaying on a wire, and a kid on a bike that was two sizes too big. Peña lit a cigarette. You inhaled through your mouth and stared ahead.
Nothing happened. Which was good. And somehow worse.
You didn’t like quiet operations. They gave your mind too much room to move. It drifted back to Kabul, to a blown checkpoint and the sound of your fixer’s body hitting the pavement. To Sarajevo. To the desert. Places that stayed under your skin like shrapnel, no matter how many airports or hotel rooms you put between yourself and the last assignment.
You hated that about yourself. The way the job followed you everywhere. Into phone calls. Into sleep. Into people you tried to love.
You glanced at Peña. His eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror. He wasn’t watching you. He was watching everything else.
He looked like someone who carried his job too.
You wondered how long it had been since either of you had put it down.
The silence broke when Murphy spoke.
“My wife thinks I’m going to die in this car,” he said, not looking back.
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He grinned, soft. “Connie. She’s a nurse. Said if the cartel doesn’t kill me, Peña’s driving will.”
“I’ve kept him alive so far,” Peña muttered, smoke curling past his lips.
“Barely,” Murphy shot back. “One more pothole and I’m gonna need a neck brace.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Does she hate that you’re here?” you asked.
Murphy shifted in his seat. “She gets it. She knew who I was when she married me. But yeah. It’s hard.”
You looked at Peña. “Anyone back home for you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and turned the radio off. The car felt smaller with the silence.
“No.”
A single syllable. Sharp and final. You let it sit for a beat.
“Did there use to be?”
His jaw ticked. “You writing a profile, or just bored?”
Murphy gave you a warning glance, but you didn’t back down.
“I just like to know the people I’m trusting with my life,” you said, evenly.
Peña scoffed. “Then you’re in the wrong damn business.”
And that was the end of it.
BOGOTÁ – DEA SAFEHOUSE, LATE EVENING
The safehouse was too quiet. Dim, with a broken ceiling fan that ticked every time it turned. You sat at the wobbly kitchen table, voice recorder between your elbows, notebook open, pen resting on the edge like a dare.
Across from you, Javier Peña looked like he’d rather be shot.
He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp. One foot propped behind him like he was half a second from walking away.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, “this is a waste of time.”
“You said that before the stakeout,” you said, clicking the recorder on. “And yet here you are. Progress.”
He didn’t smile. But he didn’t leave either.
You glanced up at him. “One hour. Then you can go back to brooding in the corner like a noir film cliché.”
That got you an eye roll. . Peña sighed, shoved off the wall, and dropped into the chair across from you like gravity had finally won.
“You get thirty minutes,” he said. “After that, I’m drinking until I forget your name.”
“I’ll take it.”
You flipped to a clean page.
“Let’s start simple,” you said, clicking your pen. “Why the DEA?”
He snorted. “That’s simple?”
“For some people.”
Peña shrugged, eyes on the dark window across the room. “I grew up in Texas. Law enforcement runs deep. My dad was a sheriff. I guess I thought I could do better.”
You wrote that down, slow and deliberate.
“You think you have?”
He looked back at you, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lie.
“I think I tried.”
Silence laced the edge of that sentence. You didn’t press.
You turned the page. “What’s the hardest part of your job?”
Peña leaned back, arms folded. “The paperwork.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously. There’s a form for every goddamn thing. You shoot a tire, that’s three hours of justifying it to people who’ve never held a gun. But if I don’t shoot the tire, the guy in the car might kill ten people.”
You nodded slowly. “So the hardest part is knowing when to bend the rules?”
“No.” He looked at you again. “The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter. That some people die anyway. And that sometimes you’re the reason.”
The pen hovered mid-air. You didn’t write that one down.
“You ever think about quitting?” you asked, more gently.
“All the time.”
“Why don’t you?”
Peña didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed a hand over his mouth like the question tasted bitter.
“Because if I quit, someone worse takes my place.”
That silence returned. But it didn’t feel sharp now, just tired.
You gave it space before asking the next one.
“Do you think people misunderstand you?”
Peña’s eyes narrowed. “That a trick question?”
“No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But it’s an interesting one.”
He looked at you a moment too long. Then, unexpectedly, smiled, dry and crooked.
“Probably. But I’ve never cared enough to correct them.”
“You don’t strike me as indifferent.”
“That’s because you’re not as good at looking away as the rest of them,” he said, almost amused. “You see things. That’s the problem with you.”
You smirked. “I’m a journalist. It’s literally my job.”
He laughed, just once, but it cracked the air like lightning. You didn’t realize how tense the room had been until it eased.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna write a whole book about me, aren’t you?”
You leaned forward, chin in your hand. “Only if you keep talking.”
That last question sat on the tip of your tongue. You’d saved it, tucked it behind your teeth since earlier in the car.
“Do you regret anything?”
Peña’s jaw clenched.
You didn’t look away. You didn’t soften it, just waited. And for a moment, just one, he let you see it, the fracture beneath all that control.
“Every day,” he said quietly.
The fan creaked overhead. The room was still. Then he stood up, quick and decisive, chair scraping against the floor. The wall went back up.
“That’s enough,” he said.
You didn’t argue and clicked the recorder off.
“Thank you.”
He paused in the doorway.
“For what?” he asked, without turning.
“For not walking out.”
Peña huffed a laugh, shook his head, and disappeared down the hall.
LATER THAT NIGHT – SAFEHOUSE LIVING ROOM
You found Murphy alone in the kitchen, half-sunk into a faded armchair with a sweating glass of whiskey in one hand and a manila folder resting on his knee. The lights were low, just the amber overhead glow from the stove, casting long shadows across the cracked tile floor.
He looked up when you stepped in, and smiled in that boyish, half-apologetic way he always did when Peña said something brutal and Murphy didn’t stop it.
“Surprised you’re still here,” he said, closing the folder.
You shrugged, slipping into the chair across from him. “I had to wait until the storm passed.”
“Yeah, well. Javi’s not so much a storm as a… controlled demolition. With a lighter.”
You laughed softly, then pulled out your notebook again.
“I figured I’d do your interview while I have you. Unless you’re about to pass out.”
Murphy tipped his glass toward you. “Fire away, reporter lady.”
You asked him the same kinds of questions. Why he joined. What made him stay. What kept him up at night.
He gave thoughtful answers, all with that quiet Midwestern sincerity, occasionally pausing to check if he was saying too much. You liked him. He was honest in a way that didn’t feel performative.
But somewhere between “I always wanted to help people” and “Connie’s the reason I haven’t lost my damn mind,” you caught yourself wondering about something else..
“Was Peña always like this?”
Murphy raised an eyebrow.
“Like what?” he asked, though his smile said he knew exactly what you meant.
You exhaled. “Guarded. Hard to read. Always on edge, like every question is a loaded gun.”
Murphy leaned back, swirling the amber in his glass.
“He wasn’t always like this,” he said eventually. “But I don’t think he’s been not like this for a long time.”
You watched him, pen frozen mid-note.
“He’s seen a lot more of this war than I have,” Murphy continued. “Been in it longer. Got burned more times than he’ll ever admit. You’d be closed off too if half the people you trusted ended up either dead or on someone’s payroll.”
He hesitated, then added: “Truth is, Javi’s one of the only people here who still gives a shit. He just can’t afford to look like it.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“You sound like you’ve had to defend him before.”
Murphy smiled into his drink. “Yeah. Usually to Connie. She calls him a ‘lost cause in tight jeans’.’”
You huffed a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
He glanced at you, sharp but amused.
“You ask a lot of questions, but it’s funny, you circle back to him a lot.”
You opened your mouth to deny it, then closed it again.
“I’m just trying to understand the dynamics,” you said finally.
“Mhm.”
There was a pause. Murphy drained the rest of his glass and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Look,” he said. “Peña’s not an easy guy. He’s reckless. He drinks too much. He carries guilt like it’s stitched into his jacket. And yeah, he’s a dick most days.”
He met your eyes.
“But under all that? He’s loyal. He’s brave. And when he decides to give a damn about someone, he’ll walk through fire for them. He just—”
Murphy rubbed a hand over his face.
“He just doesn’t know how to be seen anymore. Not without feeling like it’ll cost him something.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“And he’d absolutely punch me for saying that,” Murphy added. “But I’d risk it.”
You smiled. Soft and tired.
“Thanks, Steve.”
He shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t write him into something he’s not.”
“I’m not trying to write a hero,” you said. “I’m just trying to write the truth.”
Murphy tilted his head. “Then you’re probably gonna write something closer to a tragedy than you think.”
And with that, he stood, nodded once, and left you there with your notebook and a heart you didn’t quite trust anymore.
BOGOTÁ – YOUR APARTMENT, MIDNIGHT
The wine was cheap and warm, poured into a mismatched mug because all your glasses were still in boxes. You sat on the floor of your apartment, back against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, the fan buzzing softly above like a lazy mosquito. Outside, the city murmured, low music, a dog barking, a motorcycle tearing down the street like it was being chased by something.
You’d tried to call your mother earlier.
Twice. No answer. Not unusual. But still. The voice message had been short, impersonal. Hey. I’m okay. Working late. It’s fine.
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.
You stared at the phone for a long time after that, then hung up the receiver and poured more wine.
The recorder sat on the floor beside you. You hadn’t listened back to the interview with Peña yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to. The man drove you insane. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Difficult on purpose.
And yet.
There was something magnetic about the way he held himself, like he was constantly trying not to break. Like everything he did, every smirk, every refusal to answer, was a defense mechanism wrapped in pain and nicotine.
You should’ve been focusing on bigger things. The politics. The corruption. The civilians caught in the crossfire. The invisible network that kept Escobar in power.
Instead, your notes were full of him.
Peña said no again today.Didn’t look at me when he said it.Why does it feel like he sees everything but won’t let himself be seen?
You hated it.
Hated how he’d carved out space in your head without trying. Without wanting to.
He wasn’t the story. You told yourself that over and over.
But when he spoke, actually spoke, it felt like the air changed.
You couldn’t shake that last answer. “Every day.”
He hadn’t even looked at you when he said it. Like the truth didn’t belong in your direction.
You pressed your head back against the wall, eyes closed. What were you doing here?
You came to Colombia to write something real. To chase the rot at the core of American intervention. To tell the stories no one else could. And instead, you were sitting on the floor in a city that didn’t love you, thinking about a man who didn’t want to be known.
It was pathetic.
You laughed once, dry and mean, just for yourself.
Somewhere out there, Peña was probably still up, drinking too, maybe smoking on a balcony somewhere, watching the night like it might blink first. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about you at all.
Good. It was better that way.
You finished the wine. Reached for the recorder. And hit play. His voice crackled to life, quiet and worn.
“The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter.”
And you closed your eyes. Because you knew exactly what he meant.
DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #4
He was already there when you arrived. Same chair. Same shirt rolled at the sleeves. Same guarded eyes that tracked you across the room like you were a threat and not a woman holding a notebook and a half-dead ballpoint pen.
You set the recorder down between you.
“You don’t have to keep coming,” you said as you sat.
Javier Peña leaned back in his chair, the picture of indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You never answer anything,” you said, tapping the pen against your thigh. “Half the recordings are silence and smoke breaks.”
“Maybe I just like wasting your time.”
You rolled your eyes and hit record anyway.
Ten minutes passed. Questions. Shrugs. A couple of monosyllables. A quiet no comment delivered with the kind of deadpan that made you want to throw something at him. You closed your notebook slowly.
“Why are you still doing this?” you asked. The words came out more honest than intended.
He didn’t look at you.
“I told you,” he said. “They make me.”
You felt the sting in your chest before you could reason your way out of it. It wasn’t that you thought he cared. Not really. But hearing it said, cold, clipped, like this whole thing was a chore, cut deeper than it should.
You nodded once. “Right ” and moved to turn off the recorder, but then he spoke again.
“Why did you start this?”
You looked up. “What?”
“The job,” he said. “Journalism. Writing. Asking questions that piss people off.”
You blinked at him. “No one’s asked me that in a long time.”
“I’m asking now.”
You hesitated.
“I wanted to know how things worked. How people worked. Why they do what they do. And I thought… maybe if I could understand it, I could explain it better than the people who just shrug and say, ‘that’s life.’”
Peña nodded slowly, almost like he respected that.
“You think it’s working?”
You smiled, tired. “Sometimes. Sometimes I think I’m just documenting the collapse.”
He huffed a dry laugh at that.
“You always this intense?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. If that man didn't die from a bullet, lung cancer was gonna get him sooner or later.
“You always this emotionally constipated?”
He grinned, and you felt it in your stomach.
“Do you ever sleep?” he asked next.
“Not well.”
“Drink?”
“Too much.”
“Family?”
“Complicated.”
He tilted his head. “That a journalist word for ‘won’t talk about it?’”
You shrugged. “Only when I’m off duty.”
“You’re always on duty.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you reached forward and, without ceremony, turned off the recorder.
Then you closed the notebook, slid the pen into the spiral binding, and set it aside. Peña watched you do it. Said nothing.
“So,” you said softly. “Now what?”
He took a drag, exhaled slowly.
“Now you stop pretending you’re here just for the story.”
You swallowed.
You met his eyes. Neither of you flinched.
The air between you went still. Not tense, not warm. Still, like something had clicked into place and neither of you wanted to name it yet.
“You don’t scare me, Peña.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then what do you want?”
He looked down. Then back at you.
“Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m burning alive every time I give a shit.”
That silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t empty.
BOGOTÁ – SOMEONE ELSE’S BED, 1:42 AM
The ceiling was cracked. Thin lines running from one corner to the next, jagged and faint like scars. Javi stared at them in the dark, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across the curve of a woman’s bare back.
She was warm. Soft. Smelled like something synthetic and expensive. She curled closer to him, her palm smoothing over his chest, slow and mindless. Comfort without context.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured against his skin.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either.
She was a familiar face in an unfamiliar city. He didn’t know her real name. That was fine. That was easier.
“Is it your job?” she asked after a beat. “You look like it’s your job.”
He huffed, humorless. “You don’t even know what I really do.”
“I don’t need to,” she said, brushing her fingers along his ribs. “You’re tense like a man who can’t tell the truth even to himself.”
Javi sighed, rolled to his side and lit a cigarette just for something to do with his hands. She didn’t ask for one. Just watched him through heavy lashes, waiting.
“I’ve got this woman shadowing me,” he said eventually. Voice low and detached. “Reporter.”
“That why you’re here?” she asked. “To get her out of your system?”
He didn’t respond.
She smiled faintly. “Didn’t work, huh?”
He stared at the red glow of the cigarette for a moment, then exhaled.
“She’s annoying,” he said. “Pushy. Thinks every silence is a mystery to solve.”
“And what…she’s wrong?”
Javi dragged the cigarette again, slower this time.
“She keeps asking why I come to the interviews. Why I waste her time.”
The woman sat up a little, pulling the sheet with her. “Why do you?”
He didn’t answer.
He thought of the conversation he’d had with the embassy attaché days ago. The guy had looked at him, bored, and said, “If you’re not going to be helpful, you don’t have to go. Murphy can handle it.”
Javi had nodded like he understood. Then showed up the next day anyway.
He told her it was because they made him. That was the lie. The truth was stranger: he wanted to catch her off guard. Wanted to see her flinch. She never did.
“She’s smart,” he said now, quietly. “Smarter than most people in that damn building. Sharp and observant.”
The woman beside him raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you like her.”
He frowned. “I don’t.”
“She make you feel seen?”
He snorted. “She makes me feel like a fucking lab rat.”
“Mm.” She leaned against the headboard. “Men always confuse affection for fascination.”
He looked at her for the first time all night.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smiled. Not cruelly but knowingly.
“It means you’re not mad because she’s in your space, Javier. You’re mad because she looks at you and sees past the parts you work so hard to keep up.”
He let the silence fill the room. She reached for his cigarette. Took a drag without asking.
“You’re gonna ruin her,” she said eventually, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Or she’s gonna ruin you.”
“Maybe both,” he muttered.
The woman nodded, passing the cigarette back. “Well. At least you’ll be even.”
DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #5
He was already there when you walked in. You were only seven minutes late, but he was sitting like he’d been waiting for hours, hands folded, jaw tight, leg bouncing just enough to suggest impatience.
You dropped your bag by the chair, your recorder clacking softly as you set it on the table. You didn’t press play yet. You were still watching him, and he was watching you back.
His eyes scanned you once, slowly. Not in a way that made your skin crawl. In a way that made your skin aware.
He didn’t hide it. You didn’t look away.
“Didn’t think you’d show up today,” he said eventually, voice low and just a little too casual.
You raised a brow. “I’m not the one who keeps dodging questions.”
“I don’t dodge,” he said. “I redirect.”
“Mm. Into a wall.”
He let out a soft huff of laughter and leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He was wearing a different shirt today. Navy, sleeves rolled, collar open. It looked like he’d gotten halfway to dressing for work and then stopped caring. You hated that you noticed.
“Something funny?” you asked.
“You,” he said, without missing a beat. “You sit there like you’ve got all the answers. But I don’t think you know what the hell to do with me.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you?” His voice dipped, just enough to change the temperature of the room and send shivers down your spine.
You held his gaze. Didn’t blink.
“I know you light a cigarette every time you’re uncomfortable,” you said, calm. “You deflect when the question gets too close. And you keep pretending I’m just a reporter when we both know you’d have stopped showing up by now if that were true.”
His smile was sharp.
“You think you’ve got me figured out?”
“I think you want me to.”
He laughed again, quieter now. But this time, it landed lower in your stomach.
You reached for your notepad, but your hand paused mid-air.
“Do you like me?” he asked.
You blinked. The question hit before you were ready for it, and for the first time in days, you felt yourself lose footing.
“…What?”
He was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, gaze fixed like he was waiting to watch you flinch.
“You heard me.”
You glanced at the recorder. Still off.
“That’s not how this works,” you said, voice quieter than intended.
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
You hesitated.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I haven’t decided.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes.”
He leaned back again, the smile gone now. But something in his face had softened.
“You usually like the people you write about?”
You swallowed. “You usually flirt with people you don’t trust?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second. Then back up.
The thing you’d both been dancing around for days finally broke the surface like breath after water.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “But I like watching you try to get me to trust you.”
You smiled, slow.
“I’m not trying anymore.”
You reached forward, grabbed the recorder you never started, and set your notebook aside.
Peña watched you. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away either.
And for the first time, you felt it. Not just the tension, but the want beneath it. Not just attraction. Not just interest. But that terrible, beautiful sense of oh no.
BOGOTÁ – A STREET AT NIGHT
He couldn’t sit still.
He’d tried. Started with a drink, then a second. Lit a cigarette. Let it burn all the way down in the ashtray without touching it again. He turned on the radio in the safehouse, turned it off again a minute later. Too loud. Too empty.
The interview had been… nothing, really. Just a question. Just a moment. Just the first time she hadn’t looked at him like a puzzle to solve.
No recorder. No notebook. Just her. Raw and steady.
He hated it.
He hated how much he liked it.
Now he was out in the street with his jacket slung over one shoulder and his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. The city buzzed around him, vendors closing up, headlights cutting through smog, dogs barking in distant alleys.
He walked like it would help. It didn’t.
All it did was stir her up again. Her voice, her goddamn smirk, the way she said “I’m not trying anymore” like it wasn’t a threat, but a confession. Like she’d been fighting something and finally gave up.
He wanted to touch her.
Yeah, he wanted to fuck her, sure, but that wasn’t what kept him up. Not really. It was the want behind it. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to ask about the things she never wrote down. About her family. Her regrets. Her voice when she wasn’t on the record. What scared her. What she dreamed about before the world taught her to be sharp.
He wanted to see her, and it pissed him off.
—
He didn’t remember deciding to walk to her apartment. He just looked up, and there it was.
A plain building. Quiet street. One dim light behind a window on the third floor.
He stood on the sidewalk like an idiot, jacket over his shoulder, cigarette tucked behind his ear, trying to think of a reason not to knock. There were plenty.
He’d fuck it up. He always did. He’d push too hard or say too little. He’d be cruel when she needed soft or too soft when she needed space. She’d look at him and see exactly what he was. Lonely, bitter, half-broken, and she’d leave. Maybe not tonight. But eventually.
And yet, he climbed the steps anyway. Each one heavier than the last. He reached her door and knocked.
Twice. Quietly. Like maybe he hoped she wouldn’t hear. But she would. She always heard more than she was supposed to.
YOUR APARTMENT – LATE NIGHT
Your mother didn’t pick up. Again.
You stared at the telephone like it owed you something, an explanation, maybe. A reason. Anything. But it just sat there, lifeless on the coffee table, still and silent, as if you hadn’t just whispered “Please pick up, just once.”
You wiped your face with the sleeve of your shirt, tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. That she was busy. That you weren’t twelve years old anymore hoping for someone to show up for you.
You poured another inch of wine into the same chipped mug, the bottle barely sloshing. You didn’t even sit back down. You just stood there in the middle of the room, tired and buzzed and stretched thin.
That’s when you heard it. A knock.
Two of them. Sharp. Hesitant.
You froze. Then moved.
Your hand found the gun in the drawer near the door, and you wrapped your fingers around it like you knew what you were doing.
You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask who is it like some girl in a horror movie.
You cracked the door open just an inch and peeked through.
And froze again.
It was him. Javier Peña.
Standing in your hallway, half-shadow, half-smirk, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and that leather jacket slung over his shoulder like he didn’t know where else to put it.
His eyes flicked down.
“Jesus,” he said, one brow lifting. “Is that how you always answer the door?”
You blinked. “Is that how you always show up at women’s apartments unannounced?”
“You first.”
You exhaled, heart thudding in your ears, and opened the door wider, gun still in hand, though lower now. You weren’t sure what was more confusing: the weapon in your grip or the fact that he was actually here.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Peña?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just pointed at the gun.
“You’re holding that wrong.”
You frowned. “I’m holding it like someone who didn’t expect company.”
“You’re holding it like someone who’s gonna shoot her own foot.”
You looked down. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Your grip was tense, off-balance. You clicked the safety on and set it on the console table like it had betrayed you.
For a long second, neither of you spoke. He didn’t come in. You didn’t invite him. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t about sleep. You felt raw in a way that wasn’t about wine.
“What,” you said again, quieter this time, “are you doing here?”
He looked past you, into the room behind. Then back at you.
“I don’t know.”
And god, that answer hit harder than it should have.
You didn’t remember deciding to let him in.
There was a part of you that knew it was a bad idea, that nothing good ever followed this kind of silence between two people who understood each other’s darkness a little too well. But when he stood there, framed in your doorway like a man who didn’t know where he belonged, you stepped back. Just far enough for him to walk through. And he did.
The door closed softly behind him. The air changed.
You poured him a drink without asking. Something familiar. He accepted it with a nod and didn’t sit, just lingered near the window like he wasn’t sure if he should stay. You took your usual spot on the couch and waited, your heart pacing inside your chest like it already knew something was coming.
When he spoke, it was low. Unassuming. Like he was trying not to scare whatever this was into running.
“Had you decided whether you liked me or not yet?”
The question landed quiet, but it didn’t feel small. It spread. It hummed in your ribs.
You looked up. There was a flicker of something on his face, nervous, almost. Like he’d asked it before he could stop himself.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that would keep the tension light, that would put the walls back where they belonged. But when you opened your mouth, all that came out was truth.
“…Yes.”
It was soft. Honest. It sat between you with all the weight of a confession neither of you asked for, but both of you needed.
He didn’t move right away. Just watched you in a way that made you feel seen, deeply and without warning. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you. And another. He stretched out his hand, helping you stand back up from the sofa
He stopped just in front of you, eyes never leaving yours, like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he was afraid this wasn’t real, that it might vanish if he breathed too hard. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.
He lifted one hand, tentative, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. That was all. No grand gesture. No kiss. Just the softest touch, tucked behind your ear, and it shattered something in you.
You closed your eyes, not because you were afraid, but because the ache was too much to look at.
It wasn’t the touch itself. It was what it meant. The care. The stillness. The kind of tenderness you’d only ever imagined being allowed to need.
And then, without even thinking, you leaned into his hand. Just a little. Just enough. Like your body had been waiting its whole life for someone who didn’t want to take, but to understand.
You felt his breath shift. Heard the faint hitch in his chest. Neither of you spoke. Because in that moment, words would have only gotten in the way.
His thumb lingered at your jaw, gentle as his voice when it finally broke the silence between you.
“Can I kiss you?” It was whispered like a secret. Like a promise he was afraid to make out loud. The words tickled against your skin, too close and not close enough.
You nodded before you could speak, then forced the word past the knot in your throat.
“Yes.”
And just like that, he was there.
He didn’t kiss you yet. Not immediately. Just leaned in, so close his breath grazed your lips, his forehead resting softly against yours, like he needed to feel your stillness before he could let go of his own. You were breathing the same air, caught in the same heat, and his hands trailed down the length of your arms like he was memorizing what it was like to touch someone without urgency.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was human.
He hadn’t touched anyone like that in what felt like forever, like he’d forgotten how to reach for someone and not brace for pain.
Then his fingers slid up, one hand resting at your jaw, the other gripping the side of your neck with just enough pressure to make you tremble. And then, finally, he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Barely there. A question in the shape of a mouth.
You answered with your lips. With your breath. With the way your hands curled into his shirt like you were scared he might disappear if you let go.
His lips moved slowly at first, testing. Tasting. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. And when he pulled back a fraction, just to look at you, God, the look, you felt the world tilt under your feet.
The second kiss crashed into you like hunger. Like gravity finally snapping the tether. His mouth found yours again, hotter now, deeper, messier. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if he were trying to crawl inside you just to get warm.
You moaned into his mouth and it undid him. He lifted you in one smooth motion, groaning softly against your throat as you wrapped your legs around him. Your back hit the nearest wall and you both gasped like you’d been holding your breath for weeks.
It wasn’t delicate anymore.
Your fingers slipped under his shirt, greedy for skin, and he growled low in his throat when you raked your nails along the line of muscle just above his jeans. He was hard already, pressing into you, and it made your head spin, the sheer want radiating off of him like heat.
“Fuck—” he breathed, kissing along your jaw, your throat. “You don’t—know what you do to me.”
“Then show me,” you whispered.
His hands were large, warm, steady. So steady it made your heart stutter. They spanned your waist like they’d belonged there for years, fingers splayed over your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you. You were already bare from the waist up, flushed and breathless, his name like static just beneath your tongue.
You could feel the hunger in him, not rushed or frantic. But deep. Sharpened. Like he’d been waiting longer than he’d ever admit. And now that he had you, he wanted to make it last.
He kissed down your body with a kind of reverence that made you ache, his mouth brushing over the swell of your breasts, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch kissed, bitten, soothed again with his tongue. You gasped when his teeth grazed just below your navel, and he smiled against your skin.
Then his hands trailed down. Fingers curled under the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for your eyes to meet.
You nodded. He didn’t speak. Just slid them down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, down your thighs, until you were bare before him.
And he looked at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen in years.
When he bent down, his mouth pressed one final kiss to your inner thigh, then another. Then higher. And higher. Until your hips shifted under him, breath catching, fingers already fisting into the sheets.
He settled between your legs with a sigh that sounded like home, hands gripping your thighs, firm but tender, thumbs stroking soft circles just below your hips.
He started with his mouth. One long, languid stroke of his tongue that made your whole body shudder. You cried out, soft and startled, and he groaned like the sound was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
He kept going.
His tongue moved in careful patterns, circling, flattening, teasing, then pressing just right, until you were gasping, your hips rolling into him on instinct.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. He just tightened his grip, moaned into you like you were something he couldn’t stop tasting.
And then his voice, low, rasped, wrecked, floated up between your thighs.
“Look at you,” he murmured between strokes. “Falling apart for me.”
You whimpered, his name half-shaped in your mouth.
“Javi—”
He groaned. His hand shifted, fingers brushing over your thigh, then slipping lower, lower, until he was there, two fingers pressing in slowly, carefully, in perfect rhythm with his tongue.
Your head fell back.
He cursed softly. “That’s it… you’re so fucking tight, baby—fuck.”
Your body clenched around him, overwhelmed. His tongue flicked faster, fingers curling just right, finding that devastating angle that made your legs start to tremble.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “You gonna come for me?”
You nodded, tried to say something, but your voice broke. And he loved it.
“Say it,” he whispered, tongue relentless now. “Say my name when you do.”
“Javi—” it spilled out, raw and pleading.
“Again.”
“Javier—fuck, please—don’t stop—”
“Never,” he rasped. “You hear me? I’m not stopping until I feel you lose it for me.”
You did. You came undone on his mouth, on his fingers, on the sound of his voice praising you like worship. Your thighs tightened around his shoulders, your back arched off the mattress as a wave of heat rolled through your entire body.
And still, he didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, his tongue coaxing you through the aftershocks, his hand gentling where he still held you open for him.
When you finally came down, shaking, breathless, half-dazed, he kissed your thigh, then again, just above your hip.
He lifted his head. And the look in his eyes made your chest crack open. Like he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you falling apart for him.
The room was quiet now, except for the sound of your breathing and the low hum of the city outside your window. His hands were still on your thighs, loose now, open, like he didn’t know how to let go of you yet.
You were still on your back, chest rising and falling as you blinked up at the ceiling. Your skin glowed, limbs trembled, your mouth parted like you’d forgotten how to close it.
And he just looked at you.
Javier’s head rested beside your hip, his hand smoothing slow circles over your knee like he was calming himself down more than you.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough and quiet.
You nodded.
You glanced down at him, your fingers drifting to his hair. You brushed it back, and he sighed into your touch like he hadn’t meant to.
“Didn’t think I’d ever be good at this again,” he said after a moment.
Your brow furrowed gently. “At what?”
He met your eyes. Shrugged.
“Touching someone like it matters.”
Your throat tightened. He hadn’t said it for pity. Didn’t need you to fix it. He just said it like it was a fact of who he’d been.
You sat up slowly, hand still in his hair, then trailed your fingers down the side of his face. You felt the stubble rough against your skin, the tension still coiled in his jaw.
“Let me touch you now,” you said.
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t about taking turns. It was about him being seen, cared for..
He nodded once.
You reached for the hem of his shirt, eyes flicking to his. He lifted his arms without a word, let you pull it up over his head and toss it to the floor. And for a moment, you didn’t move. You just looked.
His chest was lean, muscles tense even in stillness, but your eyes were drawn to the lines that broke the surface. Scars. A few old. One newer. Pale against tan skin, carved into him like warnings from the past.
You lifted a hand and ran your fingers gently over one just beneath his ribs. He flinched, not from pain, but from the intimacy of being seen there.
“What happened?” you asked, your voice barely more than breath.
“Colombia,” he said simply. But then he added, “Shot. Not bad. Just looks like it.”
You kept your hand there, palm resting over it, like you could take something from him by holding it.And maybe you did.
You leaned forward and pressed a kiss right beside the scar. His eyes fluttered closed like you’d touched something no one else ever had.
“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” he whispered, like he didn’t know how to receive it. But you shook your head. “No,” you said, kissing another scar, this one just below his shoulder. “I want to be.” He exhaled like he was letting something go.
As you moved lower, your hands found the button of his jeans. He watched you, breath held, but he didn’t stop you. He just rested one hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was trying to memorize every second of it. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured. You looked up. “Why?” “Because I’d let you ruin me.” You smiled, slow. “We already ruined each other.” He leaned forward and kissed your temple, so soft it barely landed. You kissed him again, deeper this time, tasting the way he groaned into your mouth, the way his hands tightened on your hips like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising between you. Then, slowly, you started to move down. He stilled.
Your mouth brushed his jaw, his throat. You kissed the scar near his collarbone, then traced it with your tongue. He swore under his breath, voice catching in his chest as you slid off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. “Wait—fuck—what are you…” But he knew. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and deliberate, and smiled. “Just relax, Javi.”
His breath stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like he didn’t know where to touch you. When you reached for his jeans, he lifted his hips without question, eyes never leaving yours. You freed him slowly, deliberately, your hands stroking over his hips, his thighs, brushing lightly over the hard length of him. He twitched at the contact, groaning low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me…” You laughed softly, your breath warm against his skin. “That’s the idea.”
You started slow. Your lips wrapped around him at the tip, just enough to make him shudder. Your tongue swirled gently, teasing, testing, and the sound he made, it wasn’t loud, but it was wrecked. Half a gasp, half a moan, like he hadn’t been ready for this. For you. His hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there. Anchoring. You took him deeper, slowly, letting him feel the heat of your mouth, the soft pressure of your tongue, the way you hummed low in your throat just to watch his stomach clench.
He looked down at you like he was about to fall apart. “Shit, baby—you’re so good. So fucking good…” You moaned in response, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth. His thighs tensed beneath your hands as you bobbed your head, slow and steady, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, breathless. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” You pulled off for a second, your hand stroking him as you grinned up at him, breathless. “I think I do by now.”
He laughed, broken and grateful, and then you took him back in, deeper this time, your jaw loosening as you found your rhythm. His moans grew rougher, needier, and his hand tightened gently in your hair.
But even as you drove him closer to the edge, he was still watching you. Still whispering: “Fuck—yes, just like that.” “Taking me so good…” “Prettiest mouth I’ve ever—God, please…”
He was close. You could feel it, everywhere. In the way his hips twitched, in the heat of his voice, in the way his other hand clenched the sheets like he was trying not to lose control.
You pulled back just enough to let him breathe, lips trailing up his stomach as you rose again into his lap, straddling him slowly, body pressed flush to his now-bare chest.
His mouth found yours again, desperate, and he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. “Come here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Come here, baby…”
You reached for the condom again, breath hitching, and this time, finally, you slid it over him with aching slowness, guided by his hands on your hips. “God,” he muttered, biting your lip between kisses. You were straddling him again now, one hand braced on his chest, the other guiding him between your legs, his body hot and heavy beneath you. His hands rested on your hips like he was holding something precious. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real. The condom was in place. You were both breathless. Your mouth hovered over his, close enough to feel him exhale.
Then you moved. You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, until he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, and you swore the whole world held its breath.
You felt everything. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you, grounding you.
Javi groaned, low and guttural, his head falling back as his fingers dug into your skin, not to control you, but to keep himself from falling apart. “Fuck—baby…”
You sat there for a moment, not moving. Just feeling. Letting your body adjust, letting his warmth flood through you, letting the weight of what this was, who he was, settle into your bones.
Then you started to move. Slow at first. Hips rocking gently, your hands finding his shoulders, his chest, your fingers brushing over his scars like you were learning a map of someone who had only ever shown people the edges.
He looked up at you like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Like this, you, was more than he ever thought he’d be allowed to touch. “You feel so good,” he whispered. “So fucking good…”
You kissed him then. Deep. Sweet. Tongue sliding into his mouth as you rolled your hips harder, chasing the heat already curling low in your stomach. His hands roamed up your back, one slipping into your hair, the other tracing the line of your spine. He met your rhythm, pushing up into you, and you both moaned at the same time, needy, breathless, wrecked. “Don’t stop,” he murmured against your mouth. “Please don’t stop.” “I won’t,” you whispered. “I can’t.”
You kept moving, grinding, rising, sinking down again, deeper each time, and the friction, the pressure, the emotion between you built like a tidal wave. He watched you the whole time. Not your body. You.
Your eyes, your mouth, the little sounds you made when his name slipped out like a prayer “Javi—oh God—don’t stop—” “Say my name again,” he gasped, gripping your hips tighter. “Javier,” you breathed, riding him harder now, sweat slicking your skin. “Fuck—Javi—”
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You kept moving in his lap, arms around his neck, his mouth on your throat, your shoulder, your jaw. “I’ve got you,” he groaned. “You’re doing so good—so fucking good—” “I’m close—” you gasped. “I know. I feel it. Come on, baby, give it to me—let go for me—”
And you did. You broke apart in his arms, mouth open against his neck, trembling, gasping, your body pulsing around him.
He followed. With a broken moan, he buried his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering beneath you, holding you so tight it was like he was afraid he’d lose you if he let go. His voice was wrecked when he spilled into the condom, your name tumbling from his lips like it meant something different now.
Like you did.
The night had softened around the two of you like cotton. The air was warm, your limbs sore in the most delicious way, your body humming with the echo of his hands and mouth and voice. But it wasn’t the sex that lingered, it was the way he held you after. Still was holding you, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
You were still on top of him, legs tangled in his, your cheek resting over his heart. He ran his hand up and down your spine slowly, rhythmically, like he needed to keep touching you just to believe this wasn’t some dream he’d wake up from.
You didn’t speak. You just breathed. And stayed.
After a while, you shifted slightly, dragging your fingertips along the line of his collarbone, mapping every dip like a language. He watched you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, still a little dazed but completely there with you. His hand brushed over your hip, curling gently like he was reminding himself you weren’t going anywhere. “You okay?” he asked softly, like the answer mattered more than anything else. You smiled. “Better than okay.”
He leaned in and kissed your hair, then your temple, lips lingering longer than they needed to. “You’re so beautiful when you’re soft,” you whispered. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’re beautiful always.” “Guess that makes two of us.”
His hand stilled at your back, fingers splayed wide. “Don’t go,” he murmured, so quietly it almost didn’t reach your ears. You lifted your head, and your eyes met.
You kissed him once, slow and sure. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said. And you meant it.
You settled your chin on his chest and smiled up at him. “You gonna fall asleep like this?” you teased. He shrugged, brushing hair from your cheek. “If I do, it’s because you wore me out.” “You seemed fine ten minutes ago.” “Yeah, well. I was.”
He smirked, then let his eyes drift down to your mouth, then back up. “Should I be worried you’re gonna write about this in your article?” You blinked. Then laughed, bright and unexpected, your whole body shaking slightly as your forehead dropped against his chest. “Oh my God,” you gasped. “You’re such an ass.” He grinned, proud. “I’m just saying, if you quote anything I said tonight, I expect editorial approval.” “You mean like ‘don’t stop, baby, fuck’ and ‘you’re gonna ruin me’?” “Those were off the record.”
You laughed again, breathless, and his arms tightened around you. God, it felt so easy. So earned.
Eventually, you rolled onto your side, and he followed, pulling you into his chest like gravity. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath steady against your hair. You tangled your fingers with his, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “I like this,” you said quietly. He hummed. “Me too.”
You were both silent for a long stretch, your heart finally beating slow and safe inside your chest.
Then he added, softer: “I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this again. Not with someone like you.”
You lifted your head, and your eyes met.
You kissed him again, just once. And in the safety of that soft, quiet room, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, He believed you.
EXCERPT FROM: “CARTEL COUNTRY: REPORTING FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WAR”
Published in The Atlantic, Print Edition
There’s a certain kind of silence in Bogotá that doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like waiting. Like breath held. Like something heavier just stepped out of frame. The war on drugs here is not clean. It is not winnable. It is a slow, choking thing that moves through alleyways and embassy halls, leaving both governments and ghosts in its wake.
The men on the front lines don’t speak like heroes. They don’t move like them either. They drink too much. Smoke too often. They come home bloodied from raids, short on patience, full of stories they’ll never tell. The badge on their chest is just that—a badge. Not a shield. Not salvation.
I shadowed two agents during my time here. One of them spoke often about his wife, about home, about the smell of his daughter’s shampoo. The other didn’t say much at all.
And still, somehow, I heard everything.
He had a way of keeping his hands in his pockets even when the room caught fire. A mouth set in quiet refusal. A laugh he kept buried like a secret. He told me once that trust was dangerous. That love was for people who had something left to lose.
I don’t know if he realized he’d already lost something. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just given it.
In this line of work, we measure impact in kilos seized and names on lists. But there are quieter consequences, too. Ones no wiretap catches. The kind that show up in the way someone holds their coffee after a bad day, or in the bruise beneath someone’s eye that nobody mentions. The kind that settle into the back of your throat when someone touches you like they didn’t know they could anymore.
I came to Colombia looking for truth. I found it. In back alleys. In government lies. In files they let me read and names they told me to forget.
But I also found something else.
A softness where I didn’t expect it. A kind of knowing that felt like gravity. A hand on my back that stayed.
Maybe that’s not what I came here to write about.
But it’s what stayed with me.
