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She lets herself back into the bar, one last long look over her shoulder. The ache in her chest is a cold lead weight. Lack of sleep and the adrenaline crash make every joint in her body complain.
For a moment, she considers going back to Miami. But Michael is still fixated on Carla and has no time to deal with her little
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Ramon had been remembering. He'd woken up in an empty bed, immediately recalling what she - they - were doing. The fight, the shootout, the shower, dinner, the car ride...all of it. Bits of it are clearer than others, naturally. Initially, he's focused on the car, with predictable results. But when that's taken care of, the scene shifts to his room and Maria and everything that followed.
So he'd got up and got clean and left a note in case she came straight back here. But he didn't think she would. He thought she'd go to the bar and regroup and that's why he headed through first, made a stop and gone up to her apartment.
He knows what she gets like when she's left alone to stress over things. So he's waiting for her with a bottle of whiskey and a red rose on the table. She'll see him when she comes in. He's just sitting there, waiting.
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"Hi."
She sees the rose, and her eyes brim with tears.
"Baby you didn't have to..."
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'Are you alright?'
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"Sorry, I just thought I'd come back here and get a shower before I headed back."
The hand entwined with the chain reaches for the rose, brings it to her nose. Her eyes watch his face, trying to gauge his mood.
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He watches her back steadily. He's not going to push her into a Thing, if she really came up here to avoid it. Maybe she doesn't want to talk about it?
He waves a hand at the shower.
'I'll make coffee. Unless you want...' he gestures to the whiskey but knows that it's, for her, technically the morning so coffee seems more likely.
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She puts the rose down and catches his hand, bringing it to her cheek. She presses her lips to his palm for a long moment.
"You remember?"
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'Go get cleaned up. You'll feel better. We can talk after.'
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And then she's moving away, kicking off her shoes as she goes. She drops the chain on her bookshelf and strips off her clothes, clearly exhausted. She turns on the hot water, hanging her head as the steam fills the shower.
You can't hurt my son.
She slips into the hot water and turns her face up to the stream, letting it wash over her. She turns slowly, letting it pound her neck and back. After a moment, she speaks, knowing he can hear her.
"What was his name?"
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His mind runs over what he remembers and he's worried, because he can't remember any random male there that she might need to know the name of. Unless he's forgotten.
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He looks at her, standing and holding two mugs of coffee. Then he turns away, putting them down carefully on the table.
'Emanuel.'
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"Emanuel. That's a good name."
She wipes the water from her eyes and turns to give him a long look. She can see the vague tension in his shoulders.
"What happened to him?"
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'After my father,' he mutters, sitting down and lighting a cigarette.
For a moment, he just looks at the floor while he smokes. He doesn't seem to know how to answer that.
'Does it matter?' is what eventually comes out. He doesn't know whether she wants to hear it.
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She doesn't answer until she's dried off and slipped on her robe. She joins him at the table, nudging him so she can sit in his lap.
"Your answer makes me think it does."
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The air goes out of her. If she thought her heart ached before, it's nothing compared to now. Just the simple horror conveyed in his cool recounting of the story makes her eyes brim again.
What do you say to something like that? She can't not touch him. One hand slips under the lapel of his coat, resting on his sternum.
"I'm so sorry."
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