I shifted carefully around Carla's arms, untangling myself from the warm weight of her as consciousness crept back in slow, reluctant waves. 

The morning light was already pressing through the curtains, indifferent to how little sleep either of us had actually gotten.

"Holy fuck," I breathed, the words barely making it past my lips before my hand found my pelvis — instinct more than intention. 

The ache was deep and settled, the kind that lived in your bones rather than on your skin, the kind that didn't so much hurt as announce itself with every small movement.

After Carla had proposed last night, she had done an absolute number on me.

I lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and taking stock of myself the way you do after something that leaves a mark—cataloguing the soreness, the pleasant wreckage of it. My body felt like a story she'd written in a language I was still learning to read.

"That's gonna sting for a while," I said quietly, mostly to myself, though Carla stirred slightly beside me at the sound of my voice.

I almost laughed. The soreness was real, undeniable, the kind that would remind me of her every time I moved for the next two days. 

But knowing it came from Carla—from her, from last night, from everything—only made it sit differently. Sweeter, somehow. Worth every bit of it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"Life is good," I muttered, still staring at the ceiling, a slow smile spreading across my face before I could even think to stop it.

"It sure is."

Carla's voice was low and sleep-warm, roughed at the edges in that way it only ever was in the early morning. 

I turned my head to find her already watching me, her dark eyes soft and unhurried, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth like she'd been awake long enough to enjoy watching me figure out she was.

I leaned in and kissed her, slow and deliberate, taking my time with it the way you do when you're no longer in a rush—when you know this is yours to keep. 

She tasted like sleep and last night and something underneath all of that which I had never quite been able to name, only recognize. I savored it anyway.

When we finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine for a moment, eyes still closed, like she wasn't quite ready to let the quiet end.

"I can't wait to live the rest of our lives together," she murmured. "Forever."

There was nothing performative about the way she said it. No flourish, no drama—just the plain, certain weight of something she meant completely.

I felt it settle in my chest like something finally coming to rest.

"I can't wait either," I said, and I meant it in every direction—forward into all the years ahead of us, and backward too, grateful for every strange and winding thing that had led us here, to this bed, to this morning, to her.

——

"What a stupid fight," I muttered, shaking my head at the screen as the fight ended. "How did that Mexican fuck not beat that Russian bitch in the first round? It makes absolutely no sense."

I sat back against the cushions, arms crossed, replaying it in my head and finding no answer that satisfied me. 

"So fucking stupid," I said to no one in particular, already half-convinced I could have beaten that Russian lady easily.

Then she kicked.

Not a gentle flutter either—a real one, deliberate and insistent, right up under my ribs like she had something to say about my commentary and wanted me to know it.

I laughed before I could help it, the frustration of the fight dissolving almost instantly as my hand moved to my stomach on its own.

"Hungry bastard," I said softly, rubbing slow circles against the swell of it, feeling her settle back down beneath my palm like she was satisfied she'd gotten my attention.

I sat there for a moment in the quiet that followed, the TV still murmuring in the background, my hand still resting warm against my belly.

Four more months.

I let out a long breath. Four more months and she'd be here—actually here, in my arms, real and screaming and mine in a way nothing could touch. 

And once she was, I'd have the ground under my feet again. Solid enough to fight. Solid enough to finally get Miguel back from that witch's hands for good.

I rubbed my stomach again, slower this time.

"Just hold on, baby girl," I murmured. "We're almost there."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I leaned forward without really meaning to, something in the background of the shot snagging my attention the way a familiar silhouette does before your brain has even finished processing it. 

The camera was panning slowly across the ring, catching the usual post-fight chaos—corner women, promoters, hangers-on, people who wanted to be seen near the spectacle.

But there, just behind the cluster of suits near the ropes—

I squinted.

My heart did something unsteady.

"Is that..." The words came out quiet first, almost uncertain, like I was giving myself one last second to be wrong about it.

Then the camera shifted just enough. The angle caught his face clean and full and unmistakable.

"Is that FUCKING MIGUEL?"

I was on my feet before I even registered standing, one hand braced against my stomach by reflex, the other pointing at the screen like he could somehow see me through it. Because it was him. It was absolutely him —standing there calm as anything, dressed well, relaxed, right in the thick of it all.

And next to him, draped on his arm like she belonged there, was her. 

That narco bitch, smiling for the cameras like she hadn't stolen my lover and wrapped him up in whatever filth she moved through the world with.

"What the FUCK."

The words came out low and hot, not quite a scream this time—something worse than a scream. Something cold underneath the fury, the kind of anger that doesn't burn out fast.

I stood there staring at the screen, chest heaving, hand pressed flat against my stomach where my daughter had just been kicking minutes ago.

Of all the places. Of all the nights.

There he was.

Then it hit me all at once, like cold water straight to the face.

Las Vegas.

He was in Vegas. Not across a border, not buried somewhere unreachable behind layers of money and muscle and women I couldn't get through. 

Vegas. The same country, the same timezone, a direct flight away—close enough that the thought of it made my hands start moving before my mind had fully caught up with the plan.

"Holy shit," I breathed, already reaching for my phone off the cushion. "This is my chance."

My fingers were pulling up flights before the sentence was even finished, thumbing through options with the kind of focused urgency that shuts everything else out. 

Price, time, availability—I barely registered any of it beyond what was fastest and what was leaving soonest. 

I grabbed the cheapest ticket I could find without blinking, didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess.

Done.

I stared at the confirmation on my screen for a moment, my heart hammering against my ribs, my daughter shifting slowly in my belly like even she could feel the energy change in the room.

I looked back up at the TV. The camera had moved on, swallowed him back into the noise and the crowd and the bright lights of the arena. 

But it didn't matter. I'd seen him. I knew where he was.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

"You're mine," I said quietly, the words steady in a way the rest of me wasn't quite yet.

Not a wish. Not a prayer.

A promise.

——

Thanks to whoever donated <3 i was gonna post only once today but ill post twice