Page 22 of Faron
23
Blue
Iwoke before the sun had a chance to be cruel.
The city was still soft outside my window, caught in that rare pause between nightmares and headlines. Dew hung on the jasmine vines. Bear snored at the foot of the bed like he’d earned his peace.
And Faron — oh, Faron.
His arm was slung over my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach like it had always belonged there. He was breathing slow and steady, lips parted, lashes brushing my skin every time he twitched.
He looked so young in sleep. Not the war-weathered man who walked through hell for everyone else. Just the boy who used to steal my pancakes and make me laugh through mortar fire.
I leaned in and kissed his temple. He didn’t stir.
Good.
He needed the rest more than he’d ever admit.
I slipped out from under him, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and let Bear out the back door. He lifted his leg like it was an inconvenience, gave me a side-eye like,You woke me for this?, and wandered off.
I started coffee. Opened my phone.
Three missed calls.
Blocked number.
One voicemail.
No words — just ragged breathing, the scrape of metal on metal, and a man’s voice in Spanish, too low to catch but laced with malice. A threat. A warning wrapped in a joke only death laughs at.
My gut clenched.
I hit replay. Lowered the volume. Eyes on the bedroom door.
I should delete it. Should handle it alone.
But I couldn’t. Not anymore.
The floor creaked.
His arms came around my waist, slow and certain. His lips brushed my temple. “Something’s wrong.”
I didn’t answer. Just hit play again.
He listened. Growled.
“Who?” he rasped.
I swallowed. “Rico’s crew. Or someone worse. I don’t know. I’ve noticed cars driving past the clinic going really slow.”
His grip tightened, but not in anger — in control. Anchoring himself.
“I’m not leaving you alone today.”
“You can’t—”
He turned me around. Held my face like he was memorizing it.
