❝let it go, let it go all the way down
'til there's no where left to fall.
it's a shame, all the ways we build ourselves up, just to let each other down.❞

❘❘

I DON'T FEEL REAL when he sinks into bed behind me. I feel dazed and disoriented... almost like I'm wasting air... like I can't breathe, or maybe like I just shouldn't.

There's something sensual and secretive in his soft assault, soothing my entire body into a slow surrender—an arm draping over my waist, fingertips flirting at the hem of my shirt playfully, warm lips grazing my throat, a million little loving motions replacing the chill in my bones.

"Mmm. Neva." I shiver, my lashes fluttering. "You look like you haven't moved since I left."

Maybe I haven't. I don't know how long it's been since he left with promises to fix my car, to take care of things, to keep me safe. Days? A week?

His palm sneaks beneath my shirt and flattens against my stomach to reel me in. Nausea churns in my head as the slight shift sends the room spiraling, and I cough, my throat burning with that endless string of bile.

Creo que me voy a enfermar.

Desperately, I wriggle in his grasp, gasping for air. When he doesn't let go of me, I only scoot closer and closer and closer—until denim grazes the backs of my thighs and friction softens the sickness.

Why is Julian so warm?

"Estoy preocupado por ti, Neva."

Why is everyone so worried about me?

"No te preocupes," I grumble.

"Mmmm." Julian hums, sweeping a hand up my arm softly, slowly, intimately. A sensational shiver wracks through me, tiny sparks of cold air kissing my skin. Goosebumps chase his fiery fingertips up to the crook of my neck. "Pues, ¿cómo te sientes, mamita?"

I feel too hot, too cold, too low, too high, too tired, too depressed, too fucking dead.

"Like shit," I settle with.

"Are you okay?"

My heart lurches with the faint question, full of a familiar concern. A trace of worry. "No, no estoy bien."

Julian plucks the hair from my sweaty forehead, and as he dips to my ear, I bite back a whimper. "Neva, what's wrong? What is going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

I burrow into the pillows with stinging eyes. I don't know. There's nothing but coiled colors, whirling, twirling, curling, into knots inside of me, buried beneath layers and layers of nothingness. Everything is quebrado... or blank.

"Nada," I finally whisper. "Nothing."

Descending into a quiet comfort, I surrender to the featherlight faze that follows. A storm of butterflies flutter across my throat, soft and alluring, seducing us into a gentle mess of sleepy sighs and hazy heartbeats. I twist and sink into the sheets slowly as Julian captures my lips in a faint kiss.

"I missed you," I breathe, a wistfulness in the confession. As I rope my arms around his neck to keep him with me, the space between us diminishes. "I missed you, Jules."

Something tender tugs his lips into a smile. "I missed you too. I'm sorry I was gone so long."

Maybe I should have cared more about him taking my car for days—no texts, no calls. I nod numbly. "Está bien."

"It was a long trip without you."

"Where did you go?"

Julian hums, cups my cheek, presses another dainty kiss to my forehead. "I had to head to Miami."

That one word slices through the fog enough for me to blink in surprise. My spine straightens. No. Julian wouldn't. "Miami? ¿Por qué?"

"Just some business." A shrug. "What have you been doing all week anyways? Sleeping?"

Something in me wants to cling to that new information, that business in Miami, but I'm too tired to argue. "Yeah. Sleeping."

His brows furrow. "You look pale. Have you been eating? Drinking?"

"No."

With a huff, Julian detangles from me and stands. I watch silently as he saunters out of the bedroom. Vaguely, I hear him muttering, saying something, speaking to me, but my ears are ringing, and the world is spinning, and—

A cool glass is pressed into my palm. "Deberías beber, mami."

I sway when I sit up to sip the water cautiously. It trickles down my throat like icy fire, blooming somewhere deep inside of me. "Gracias."

Worry flashes in his dark eyes. "Do you want to go out and get some food?"

No. Quiero quedarme aquí. Forever.

I shake my head. "No."

"What?" Julian settles onto the edge of the bed and reaches over, rubbing a thumb against my cheek patiently. "¿Por qué?"

"Because I feel like shit, Jules." I wince at the slight whine in my voice. Fuck. As I slip out of his hold to set the glass on the windowsill, I sigh in frustration. "I'm sorry. I'm just—"

"You're sick." His lips tilt into an adorable frown. "I can make you some soup... or I can get you tea. I—"

I cut him off with a kiss.

A surprised moan escapes, but Julian falls into the motion, both palms cupping my cheeks to still me. Frantically, I clutch at his shoulders, tug his bottom lip between my teeth, indulge in everything about him.

"Mmmm. Neva."

There's something addictive about kissing Julian Rivera, about the little sounds he makes, the grunts and the groans, the wistful humming and the sensual sighing.

When he pulls away, I pout up at him. "Can you just stay here with me?"

"Por supuesto, princesita." With a sated smile, he rolls and tugs me onto his chest. A dizzy spell crashes over me. "I'll stay with you."

Lightheaded, I burrow into his neck to steady myself, or my thoughts, or my actions. "You're so warm. I love it."

"You shouldn't have the window open," he chides lightly. "It's cold. I think it's supposed to snow this week."

My heart stirs. "Really?"

As I pry away to give him a timid smile, Julian chuckles. Mischief dances through his eyes, a million flirty fucking fantasies. "I can't wait. We can walk through Central Park together."

Fuck. A sliver of excitement taints his words, and it nearly blinds me. My breath hitches. "You remember that?"

"I remember that you love walks through Central Park in the dead of winter," he snickers, pecking my forehead. "Such a cold woman."

That almost stings. I wince. "Cold and beautiful."

An apology flickers across his expression. "You know I didn't mean that, Neva."

"I know."

And then Julian graces me with this smile, almost boyish, almost happy, almost sweet. So fucking sweet. There's this heartbreakingly beautiful innocence to it that strikes me silent.

Did I ruin him?

Maybe Julian Rivera isn't cold. Maybe beneath the threats of ice and the promises of snow, Jules is young and vulnerable and loving and warm.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I've always been cold.

I choke on a laugh, a sob, a small cry, and as I start to tremble with unshed tears, Julian shushes me with long, loving strokes, fingers swimming through hair, palms caressing skin, faint words sinking into my bloodstream.

Everything about his presence is loving, and there's something beautiful, something so fucking tragically beautiful, about his one-sided affection.

Why can't I love him?

A hazy slumber claims the question. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I simply cling to him—everything about him, everything I can take from him, everything he can give me. Lost somewhere in a sleepy surrender, holding onto the... murmurs... and the warmth... and Juli—

My phone chimes from the pillows.

"Neva, it's yours."

I know. I just don't care.

"It's from Big Papi?" A sharp breath, jagged, edged with jealousy, shatters everything about our fragile facade. Julian and I will never be gentle. Some people are meant to be wild and harsh and cold. We are. "Who the fuck is that?"

"Emmy." My eyes pop open. I swipe the phone from him with shaking fingers. "It's Emmy. She... she was mad at me."

Julian softens. "Oh."

For a second, the thought occurs to me that Julian has no idea who she is, or what she means, or that I love her, but then the text is blurring in front of me, and my heart is plummeting, and I'm choking on dread and horror and fucking air.

There are only three words: this is her

"Neva, hey, hey..." Worry clouds his voice, a watery slur of wonder. "Are you..."

Dim light skews around me, a frantic smear of white walls and an orange glow, twisting and spiraling into a suffocating swell of anxiety.

A hand presses to my hip; a weight presses on my windpipe.

I hear him, I hear him, I hear him, but it doesn't matter.

When I swipe at the text frantically, it expands to show the first text, containing nothing but a little bubble, boxing tiny print and a big, bold headline:

MISSING WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN RED HOOK

"No, no, no!" I cry, panic clutching at my heart with those icy fingers. My pulse races wildly, and everything in my veins starts to freeze over. "No, no puede estar muerta. No puede estar muerta. No, no, no."

I sit up, but my stomach recoils. Bile surges up my throat immediately, and then I'm flinging the blankets away, swatting at Julian, stumbling from the bed and retching. "No..."

"Neva, what... what is..."

A jumble of emotions spring forward. I tap the article, and suddenly, a million dark, deadly words flood onto a white background.

My heart stutters.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN — A pregnant woman was found dead with her throat slashed in the water near a Red Hook port on Tuesday morning, according to the NYPD.

Police were sent to Erie Basin around 6:30 a. m. on November 11th, after receiving a 911 phone call that there was an unconscious woman in the water near Van Brunt St. NYPD's Harbor Unit recovered her body and brought her to shore. Emergency responders pronounced the woman dead on the scene.

Police have identified the body as Marina Forero, a 26-year-old Ridgewood resident, who was reported missing in September.

No arrests had been made in the case as of Monday afternoon, but the NYPD had declared Forero's death to be a homicide. According to sources, it is possible that Forero had ties to a drug trafficking organization in Queens.

Fuck.

"Julian, they... they..."

"Neva, Neva, Neva, hey, calm down, you're hyperventilating. What is going on? ¿Qué pasa?"

Julian spins me, tipping my chin up gently, and as I meet those hazy eyes, I know we're going to die.

"Julian, she was pregnant, and they killed her. Half killed her for stealing, and... and he's... he's going to kill us. He's going to kill me. I can't...I—"

What were we thinking? Starting some fucking drug war? 

"What?" Julian blinks. "Who are you talking about?"

"Marina Forero!" I shove him weakly, a cry bubbling up to my lips. Julian stumbles back, but snatches my phone and tosses it to the bed. "Half killed her." My palms meet his chest. "Half fucking killed her, and we... we need to get out of here. We need to leave before he kills us."

Confusion flits across his expression, flushed cheeks and parted lips. "Neva, d—"

"We stole from him, Julian!"

It comes in this violent ripple, a flash of pain, a lightning strike—shards of light and dark seizing visions of blood and salt, a slashed throat, limp and pale, left in icy water off the coast of Red Hook.

Voy a morir.

Me.

Anger cuts through the haunting images, a dangerous streak of red swallowing the paranoia. I hear Julian grunt, I feel my palms sting, I taste something metallic. "I didn't know what we were dealing with. I didn't know who we were fucking with! You... you knew! You pulled me into this drug war, and now... he's going to kill us!"

My back hits the bed.

All the air leaves my lungs. I cough, my throat raw and tight, and when my vision clears, I'm staring up into those dark, dark, dark eyes.

"Neva," he grinds out, catching my wrists, pinning them to the bed. "Calm down."

I can't. I can't just calm down. Because we're at the edge of something dangerous, something deadly, where men are cornering me in the street with threats, where throats are being slashed, where bodies are being found, and it's... it's all because of him.

"It's your fault," I sob, thrashing in his grip. "Half is going to kill me!"

"No one is killing anyone, Neva!"

I flinch, taken aback by the harsh hiss.

Julian inhales deeply, closing his eyes. His grip loosens. "I need you to calm the fuck down. Okay?"

It's this all-encompassing buzz, a fear lashing, striking, hitting me. Trembling silently, I blink and blink and blink, desperate, dizzy, drowning in a million nightmares of death.

I'm going to die.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," I rush out, the words bleeding together into a fierce, frantic slur. "I can't."

"Okay, hold on, Neva."

When Julian stands, everything in the room threatens to come crumbling down. My breathing quickens. No, no, no. Julian can't leave me. "¿Adónde vas?"

I stumble up on wobbling legs, ready to follow him, or stop him, or run, but Julian is too quick, moving swiftly through the haze of panic. Only beats make sense—tugging something loose, plastic crinkling, snow fluttering, a credit card, a bill, my palm open for the invitation.

"Just to take the edge off, mami," Julian slurs, roping me into his body, kissing my forehead, urging me down to the sloppy line of snow on the top of his hand. "It will help you feel a little less anxious, a little less paranoid."

I dip and snort the line quickly, quickly, quickly, sniff, blink, sigh, and then spiral.

It's everything I remember from an eternity ago, from the infinite nights of freedom and invincibility, a chaste kiss of rapture, soaring, almost fucking skyrocketing.

And then it's nothing.

I can't remember anything but the feeling of this, and him, and us, warm palms caressing my cheeks, dark eyes undressing me, soft lips stripping away a stream of consciousness.

"No one is going to kill us, Neva. We're on top of our shit."

I think I smile. "Yeah."

"You and me," he drawls softly. "¿Te acuerdas?"

"Sí, sí, sí, you and me."

Breathlessly, I kiss him, and we start to fall down, fall away, fall apart—into a captivating haze, drifting into the security of instability, the surrealism of stolen snow and a single moment of sensational safety. Maybe these are the moments I can feel love, ensnared in fleeting moments of fucked up perfection, feeling fierce, feeling right, feeling real.

When we get high, there is no separation. No borders, no walls, no families, no policies, nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing wrong. It feels like there never was... and there never will be.

It's just us. Skin.

We touch, we talk, we breathe, we ramble and spill secrets, we just let ourselves exist in the most beautifully vulnerable way.

Fearlessly.

Julian speaks intrinsically, tripping over his words, exposing a raw future for us; I start to fumble and fall, sinking into a past I can't escape. We both have dreams, so many dreams, but his dreams are fantasies, light on the horizon, rising, shimmering, like a glimmer of hope, and mine are tragedies, moments and memories already twisted into nightmares.

We come from two separate lives, two separate stories, and I can't help but love how we collide into one euphoric experience of survival.

"I'll take care of Half," he whispers, lulling a lost promise into the hot, heavy air. "I'll take care of him."

I blink sleepily. "Take care of him."

"Yeah." It's soft and sensual, this breathlessly devoted vow to protection, to love, to safety. "I'll kill him."

I think my heart skips, but there's a delay in my reaction, in the words that flutter through the fading high, in our actions, in our lives.

We're delayed.

Maybe if we had met in a different way, as different people, less destructive, less damaged, less desperate, we could be something. Anything.

Instead of nothing.

"You always say you'll take care of me," I drawl, wisps of smoke rolling off my tongue. "Is that what you really mean?"

Glassy, bloodshot eyes meet mine. "What?"

"You'll kill me."

And then Julian Rivera graces me with that dizzy fucking grin. It's heartbreaking, or heartless, how much I love that intoxicated look, that sleepy stare, that dazed smile.

High as fuck.

Easy.

"You're a cold-hearted bitch, Neva," Julian breathes, his fingers tangling into my hair. "You'd kill me first."

I laugh. I fucking laugh.

And then I brand that threat into my bloodstream, seal it with a kiss, and bite back some irrational desire to cry. Because the only person left in my life doesn't know me at all.

So I swallow the disappointment and listen to his heartbeat beneath my cheek, a steady pulse that tears the world away and leaves me feeling more alone than ever.

It isn't until I'm at this sated cusp of sleep that my phone chimes again. When I pick it up quietly, Julian reels me closer, murmuring something soft and Spanglish. I snicker, sparing a single glance at the screen.

There's one new text from Big Papi: party is this friday... are you still coming??

Through a bleary lens, I type a quick response: do you want me there?

Three dots appear beneath the text, and with each second that passes, my heart hammers harder and harder, and it's harder and harder to fucking breathe, an—

My phone chimes again.

need you there

And the last thing I remember before drifting into a dreamless slumber is the horde of butterflies in my chest.

A fluttering.

❘❘

**OKAAAAAAY. Marina is dead. Here's to hoping Neva doesn't die. 😅 Also... new cover? Do we like this one or the old one better? 🙈🙈 

BESOS PARA TODOS. Next chapter is coming soon! ❤️