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mikaylathenerd5 · 3 months ago

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Open Arms + Chapter 3

Previous Chapter ৹ Masterlist ৹ Join My Taglist Pairing: Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC (Isla Sage Navarro) Content Warning: The chapters of this story may contain NSFW, profanity, potential violence, age gap, and themes that may be triggering. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Intended for mature audiences only. Authors Note: Please feel free to leave a comment. Feedback is always helpful ❤️ Comment on the taglist post if you would like to be added to the taglist for future updates. Word Count: 9.9k Song Inspo: "Open Arms" by SZA

Isla’s car shuddered to a halt in the driveway, gravel snapping under the tires like firecrackers, each sharp pop a jolt yanking her back to a past she’d let fray at the edges, threads unraveling with every mile she’d stretched between herself and this place. She twisted the key, killing the engine, and silence crashed down, heavy as the humid air seeping through the cracked window, thick with wet earth, salt, and the faint tang of gasoline lingering from the long drive. Her gaze snagged on the porch light—flickering, erratic, a dying pulse stabbing against the dusk’s bruised purple, casting jagged shadows that twitched across the peeling clapboard like restless ghosts. It hadn’t stuttered months ago, and the sight clawed at her chest, sharp as the rust she’d tasted fixing it at seventeen—ladder rungs digging into her palms, cold metal biting her skin, Javier’s voice booming over the cicadas’ relentless hum, “Don’t fall, loca—you’re the brains here!” Her shirt had clung damp with sweat, hair plastered to her neck, the bulb’s filament glowing faintly as she twisted wires with trembling fingers, but she’d grinned wide when it flared steady, a small triumph. Mariana had clapped from the porch steps, apron flapping, Javier tossing her a soda, its icy aluminum kissing her calloused fingers, fizz hissing as she cracked it open, bubbles stinging her lips. Now it blinked like a rebuke—proof WWE’s grind had stretched her visits thin, turning this house into a memory she barely brushed, a ghost glimpsed in fleeting rearview glances, fading with every late-night shift. Her knuckles tightened on the wheel, leather creaking under her grip, guilt pooling cold and slick in her gut—she’d once rolled in every few weeks, coffee steaming on the counter with Mariana, grease black under her nails from the garage, laughter bouncing off the walls like a living thing. Now it was a shadow slipping under her neglect, a thread she hadn’t pulled taut, fraying loose.

She shoved the door open, hinges wailing like a wounded animal, a high-pitched scrape that echoed in the still air, and stepped onto gravel that crunched and bit through her sneakers’ worn soles, each step a jolt against the quiet, pebbles shifting underfoot like restless bones. The house loomed ahead—peeling paint curling like old skin, sagging porch defiant against time’s slow grind, boards groaning under invisible weight, nails popping loose in the thick, wet air that clung to her arms, sticky and warm. Jasmine hung heavy, sweet and cloying, snaking through her lungs, dragging her back to firefly chases with Camila across dew-soaked grass, their whispers swapped under a swollen moon—dreams of escape, voices hushed in the rustle of leaves, bare feet slick with earth, giggles swallowed by the night’s embrace. She craved this chaos, this heartbeat of home pulsing louder than her sterile beach mornings—white walls glaring under fluorescent buzz, waves crashing against a silence that pressed too hard—but that stuttering light gnawed, a quiet accusation threading through her ribs—had she let too much slip through her fingers, let it drift beyond reach?

Her eyes drifted to the garage, its cracked door gaping like a scar torn wide, oil stains seeping into the concrete, dark as spilled ink against the fading light, glistening faintly under the dusk’s last gasp. She could feel the summer heat radiating off the workbench, a phantom warmth baking her skin, Javier’s shadow looming over her as she hunched over a carburetor at twelve, grease slick under her nails, gasoline sharp in her nose, stinging her eyes until they watered, blurring the rusted bolts. “You’ve got the touch, mija,” he’d grunted, voice rough as sandpaper, tossing her a rag stiff with grime, pride glinting in his squint as the engine roared to life, a guttural growl shaking the walls, tools rattling on the bench like loose change in a jar. She’d been all bony elbows and grit then, fixing radios with frayed wires spitting static, lamps with cracked bases flickering weak, that damn porch light now winking at her like a betrayal, its glow faltering. Hours had melted away there—Javier’s laughter booming over botched fishing tales, rod snapping in his hands, the twins banging wrenches on scrap metal, their high-pitched squeals piercing the air, Mariana’s voice cutting through from the house, “Wash up, you gremlins, or no dinner!” It had forged her, those oily fingerprints pressed into her life, smudged and indelible—now it mocked a bond she’d let rust, dust settling thick on tools she hadn’t touched in months, their outlines blurred by neglect, handles cold where they’d once been warm in her grip.

The screen door creaked open, a sharp whine slicing the dusk, and a voice burst through, bright and urgent, shattering the stillness like glass. “Isla, mija!” Mariana stood framed in the doorway, smile splitting wide, silver braid swaying as she waved, apron dusted with flour in soft drifts, hands damp and tacky from dough, leaving faint smears on the frame where her fingers gripped, a white imprint against the chipped wood. Her eyes crinkled, warm as the kitchen light spilling out behind her, amber and inviting, casting a halo around her silhouette, and Isla’s chest loosened, a knot untying she hadn’t known was there, tight and aching from the road’s long pull.

“Couldn’t stay away too long,” Isla called, hurrying across the yard, gravel shifting and popping underfoot, sneakers skidding faintly on the uneven ground, a faint spray of dirt kicking up behind her. She hugged Mariana hard, arms wrapping tight around her soft frame, lavender and cumin flooding her senses—home distilled into a single, deep breath—dissolving the day’s jagged edges, peeling back the tech girl façade to the barefoot kid who’d ruled this earth, chasing wind through the trees, fearless and wild, hair whipping free.

“Work still wild?” Mariana asked, pulling back, hands firm on Isla’s shoulders, eyes piercing like they could strip her half-truths bare, flour flaking onto her sleeves in soft clouds, dusting her dark jacket white.

Isla laughed, brushing hair back—a tic she couldn’t shake, fingers catching on a tangle matted by the drive, tugging faintly at her scalp. “Always, but I’m holding it together—barely.” She dodged the details—code crashing at 2 a.m., screens glowing red with errors, Joe’s texts pinging her phone like quiet beacons through the noise—secrets too tender for this whirlwind, too raw to spill over the threshold into this chaos she loved, a storm she’d missed more than she’d let herself admit.

Inside, the house thrummed like a live wire—dishes clashing in the sink, a metallic clatter bouncing off the walls, voices tangling in rapid Spanish and raucous laughter, overlapping in a cacophony that buzzed in her ears, air thick with family and the heat of bodies packed tight, sweat and spices mingling into a heady fog. The kitchen burned with life, chipped tiles slick underfoot from spilled water, cool against her soles, saffron and rice from Esperanza’s Arroz Con Pollo hitting her like a Sunday memory—hands sticky rolling dough, flour dusting her jeans in powdery streaks, the twins sneaking bites with impish grins, sauce smearing their fingers red. Mariana darted beside her, tomatoes thudding onto the counter with wet, heavy slaps, juice pooling faintly under their bruised skins, flour puffing into the air, dusting her blouse like a faint snowfall, catching the light in soft glints. “Don’t overdo the saffron, Mamá,” Isla said, snatching the jar quick, its glass cool and smooth in her palm, the scent sharp and earthy as she twisted the lid, a faint creak under her fingers.

Esperanza swatted her wrist, spoon flashing silver in the steam, laughter rolling like thunder across the room, deep and resonant, shaking her frame. “You’d serve slop without me, niña—this needs soul, not your tech tricks!” Her gray bun held firm, pinned tight against the heat, eyes glinting as they landed on Isla, sharp and fond, cutting through the haze like a blade. “Your mother’s hopeless, mija—save us from her bland mess, por favor.” She stirred the pot, steam curling up in wisps, golden rice swirling under her steady hand, the wooden spoon scraping faintly against the metal, a soft rasp blending with the radio’s hum.

Isla grinned, taking the spoon, steam licking her face, heat radiating through her wrists as she stirred, the rhythm familiar, grounding her like an anchor in the storm, rice parting under her touch, golden and fragrant. “Gotta keep the peace,” she said, voice steady, the pot’s edge hot against her knuckles, a faint burn she welcomed, a tether to this moment. The radio spat salsa, a brassy pulse thumping through the walls, trumpets blaring over the clatter, the beat quick and insistent, and Mariana cranked it higher, the knob creaking under her flour-dusted fingers, grabbing Isla’s arm with a sudden tug that jolted her forward. “Dance with me, mija—you’re home now, let loose!”

“No way—” Isla balked, sneakers scuffing the tiles, rubber squeaking faintly, protest swallowed as Mariana spun her hard, the room blurring into streaks—yellow light flickering from the bare bulb overhead, chipped paint flashing on the walls, Esperanza’s spoon glinting mid-stir like a metronome keeping time. Laughter broke loose, raw and ragged, spilling from her throat as Esperanza clapped, apron swaying, her cackle cutting through the beat, high and wild, a sound that lifted the air. Isla surrendered, feet stumbling into the rhythm, hips swaying awkward then sure, chaos seeping into her bones—a lifeline her quiet beach mornings, all white walls and crashing waves, couldn’t touch, a pulse she’d forgotten she craved. The twins whooped from the corner, banging spoons on the table, sauce-stained shirts flapping as they jumped, and Camila hollered, “Get it, Isla!” her gum snapping loud, a sharp pop punctuating the noise, her braids swinging as she swayed in mock imitation.

Gasping, lungs burning, Mariana let go, braid whipping as she spun away to grab a spatula, and Isla braced against the counter, its edge biting her hip, bruising faintly, face flushed, sweat beading at her hairline, cool against her heated skin, breath coming in short bursts. “You’re a menace,” she teased, breathless, voice rough, grin tugging her lips wide, stretching her cheeks. Esperanza slid her a knife, handle worn smooth by years, wood warm in her grip, familiar as an old friend, its weight steadying her trembling hand. “Carrots, mija—chop before she drags you again, or we’ll never eat tonight,” she said, smirking, her eyes crinkling with mischief, a glint catching the light.

Isla nodded, chopping steady, blade slicing clean through orange flesh, the crisp snap grounding her as she watched their dance—Mariana’s flurry of motion, skirt swishing against her calves, Esperanza’s slow grace over the stove, her hands steady despite their faint tremble, veins mapping her knuckles like rivers. This was her forge, where she’d mended radios with trembling hands, wires sparking under her touch, patched hearts with quiet words over steaming mugs, stitched family threads with every visit—still fierce, still alive, but fleeting now, her trips home rarer than the storms that rattled these walls, rain drumming the roof like a fading echo, a rhythm slipping from her grasp.

“Mija,” Esperanza said, voice soft but iron, wiping her apron, hands gnarled by time, knuckles swollen yet strong, flour dusting her fingers like ash. “You’re more beautiful every time—time’s kind to you, not like me, all wrinkles now.” She patted her own weathered cheek, smiling wry, lines deepening around her mouth, a map of decades etched deep.

“Missed this, Abuela,” Isla replied, leaning in to kiss her cheek, skin warm and papery under her lips, sinking into the embrace, flour smudging her shirt in a faint cloud, a soft mark she didn’t brush away. Mariana smiled, wiping flour from her own cheek with a rag, leaving a streak like a painter’s careless stroke. “Always fixing—radios, Javier’s junk computer, that old toaster I swore smoked worse than his truck exhaust. We knew you’d soar, mija, sky-high.”

“More like a terror,” Isla said, slicing a carrot, the snap loud in her ears, juice staining her fingers a faint orange, sticky against her skin. “Lucky I didn’t burn it all down—remember the lamp that sparked, nearly torched the curtains?” She laughed, a quick burst, picturing the acrid smoke curling up, Mariana’s yelp as she doused it with a towel.

Esperanza’s laugh filled the room, warm as a tide, shaking her shoulders, a sound that wrapped Isla tight, pulling her in. “Stubborn, not a terror—blew a fuse, sure, but you fixed it, rewired it better than before. Found your way, always did, even when it sparked.”

“Did I?” Isla mused, their pride threading through the doubt coiled tight in her chest, a knot she couldn’t slice through like the carrots piling up in neat stacks, their edges glistening faintly under the light, sharp and precise.

“Isla!” Camila crashed in, braids whipping wild, grin feral as she barreled across the kitchen, sneakers squeaking on wet tiles, a blur of energy that jolted the air. She hugged Isla hard, nearly toppling her into the counter, all elbows and kinetic force, mango gum sharp on her breath, a sweet tang cutting through the spices, snapping her awake. “You’re back—finally! Thought you’d forgotten us, lost in that tech jungle!”

“You too, trouble,” Isla smirked, steadying herself against the counter’s edge, Camila’s presence a live wire sparking the room, electric and uncontainable.

“You’re too serious,” Camila said, voice dropping conspiratorial, leaning in close, gum popping like a gunshot, loud and sudden. “Need a guy to crack that tech-girl shell—someone hot, tall, brooding, huh?” She waggled her brows, and Joe’s “Hey, glad you made it safe” flashed unbidden—Isla’s cheeks burned, a flush creeping up her neck, hot and sudden, betraying her in an instant, a heat she couldn’t tamp down.

“I’m fine,” she said, steadier than she felt, hands fumbling the knife, blade slipping a fraction on the cutting board, a faint scrape against the wood. Camila edged closer, elbow nudging her ribs, a sharp jab that made her flinch. “Come on, you’re glowing like a neon sign—someone’s got you buzzing, I can tell. Spill it, who’s the mystery man keeping you up late, texting you under the table?”

Isla’s pulse jumped, grip tightening on the handle, knuckles paling against the wood, a faint tremor running through her fingers. “No one’s keeping me up,” she lied, words flimsy as wet paper under Camila’s glee, Joe’s quiet presence a hum she couldn’t shake, a steady beat threading through her skull.

“Right,” Camila said, gum cracking loud enough to turn Esperanza’s head, her grin wicked and knowing, eyes glinting like she’d caught a secret mid-flight. “Bet he’s some big-shot type—tall, dark, all intense, the kind who’d sweep you off your feet if you’d let him. I’d dig for dirt, but you’re too sneaky, hiding him in that phone of yours!” She laughed, a sharp burst, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, her posture daring Isla to deny it.

Flushing deeper, a wildfire spreading under her skin, Isla ducked as Mariana called, “Mija, help—the rice is sticking!” She bolted to the stove, heat blasting her face, shielding her from Camila’s spark, who trailed behind, softer now, concern flickering in her eyes like a dimming flame. “You okay? You went red fast—seriously, what’s up?”

“Just tired,” Isla said, chopping again, knife a lifeline slicing through the noise—Joe’s voice warring with Camila’s tease in her head, a tangle she couldn’t cut loose, sharp and insistent, twisting tighter.

Dinner erupted—talk crashing like waves against a rocky shore, laughter sharp as shattering glass, the table groaning under platters of chicken and rice, steam curling up in wisps that fogged the air, thick with saffron and heat. Isla shaped tortillas with Esperanza, their questions a warm barrage, dough clinging sticky to her fingers, flour dusting her forearms like a second skin, soft and powdery, grounding her in the rhythm of pressing, flipping, stacking. Marco and Mateo lunged for the last drumstick—Mateo pinning Marco’s arm to the table, his elbow digging into the wood, Marco yelping, “No fair, he’s bigger—cheater!” Plates rattled, sauce splattering across the scarred surface in dark streaks, and Mariana swooped in, voice slicing through like a blade, “Enough, you little beasts—sit, or no dessert, I swear it!” They froze, giggling, eyes darting to Isla, who split the drumstick with a grin and a quick twist of her knife, grease shining on the blade, a clean break snapping loud in the din. “Share it,” she said, their truce her victory, sauce smearing their chins as they tore in, grinning through messy bites, teeth flashing white.

“WWE still busy?” Esperanza asked, stirring the pot beside her, steam curling around her gray bun, the spoon scraping metal with a faint rasp, a steady beat under the chaos.

“Yeah,” Isla said, pressing dough flat, its tacky pull against her palms familiar, grounding her like the hum of an engine under her hands. “New system’s a beast—lag spikes, server crashes, fans screaming on X—but it keeps me sharp, on my toes, always moving.”

Mariana glowed, pride crinkling her eyes, hands pausing mid-wipe on her apron, flour streaking the faded fabric in gray smudges. “From books and wires to tech star—look at you, mija, running that circus, keeping it all spinning.”

Their faith steadied her, warm as the Arroz Con Pollo hitting the table, golden and fragrant, saffron threading through the air like a fine thread, Javier’s tale thundering over the clatter like a storm breaking loose, wild and untamed.

The door slammed, windows rattling in their frames, a sharp bang that jolted the room, and Javier strode in, grease-streaked shirt unbuttoned to the chest, tackle box clanking against his hip, trout dripping onto the tiles with wet, heavy slaps, scales glinting silver under the kitchen light, catching the glow in sharp flashes. “¡Oye, familia! The VIP’s here—bow down!” he bellowed, voice booming like a foghorn, tossing the fish onto the counter, a thud that made Mariana groan loud and Esperanza cross herself quick, muttering “Ay, Dios” under her breath, her fingers brushing the rosary beads tucked in her pocket. His grin locked on Isla, reckless and wide, eyes glinting like he’d hooked the moon itself, wild and untethered. “Mija, you’re back! Too big-time for us now, huh, fixing screens for those fancy meatheads?”

“Hey, Tio,” Isla smirked, but he crushed her in a hug, fish and gasoline sharp in her nose, a pungent wave that stung her eyes, hands rough on her back, smearing grime across her sleeve, damp and cold against her skin, leaving a dark streak she felt more than saw.

“Missed you, kid!” he said, mussing her hair with a meaty paw, laugh booming loud enough to shake the lightbulbs, a deep rumble that filled the room, vibrating the floor under her feet. “Fixing screens for meatheads? I’d tell ‘em their truck’s got more growl than those muscles—give me a wrench over a dumbbell any day!” He flexed an arm, shirt sleeve straining at the seams, then laughed harder, a sound that rattled the plates stacked high with food, a tremor through the chaos.

“Too sharp for your scrap heap,” Camila jabbed, gum cracking like a whip, leaning against the counter with her phone still glowing, screen casting a faint blue on her face, shadows dancing across her cheekbones.

“Scrap heap? That’s an empire, niña!” Javier clutched his chest, mock-wounded, waving a tortilla like a flag, crumbs flying onto the floor in a scatter, dusting the tiles white. “Monster fish nearly sank me—big as Marco, thrashing like a damn beast!” His roar shook the table, twins leaning in wide-eyed as he mimed the fight—arms flailing, chair creaking under his bulk, the tackle box tipping, hooks scattering across the tiles with tiny clinks that echoed like falling coins. “Line snapped—bam!—thought I’d go under, boat rocking hard, water sloshing in my boots, soaking me to the bone, but I wrestled it aboard, bare hands, scales cutting my palms bloody, stinging like hell!” He slammed the trout down again, guts splattering, a wet smack that made the twins squeal, “Again! Again!” their voices high and shrill, fists pounding the table, sauce-stained sleeves flapping.

“Show us!” Marco yelled, jumping up, chair tipping back with a thud, Mateo scrambling after him, snatching a wooden spoon and a pot lid from the counter, clanging them together like a makeshift drum. Javier grinned, wild, grabbing the fish by the tail, swinging it high—droplets flying, splattering the twins’ faces, their shrieks piercing the air as they ducked, giggling, sauce mixing with fish water on their cheeks.

“Javier, stop it—my kitchen!” Mariana snapped, lunging with a towel, swatting his arm, flour puffing off her in a cloud, but he dodged, spinning the fish like a trophy, tail flapping, the twins darting around his legs, a chaotic dance of limbs and laughter, pots rattling on the stove from their jostling.

“Another fish story?” Mariana asked, amused despite herself, wiping her hands on the faded towel, flour streaking it gray, her brow arched in playful doubt, lips twitching upward.

“It’s a legend, mujer!” Javier winked, tossing a fin into the sink with a clang that reverberated, sharp and metallic, water splashing up, glistening on the edge. “Isla, fishing next time—no dodging me, you hear? We’ll hook a monster—you fix engines, I’ll fix the bait, unbeatable team!” He slapped the counter, fish guts smearing across the wood, a dark slick catching the light, and the twins cheered, banging fists, “Fish! Fish!” their voices a high-pitched chant rising over the salsa’s fading notes.

“Maybe,” Isla laughed, picturing his chaos—boat tilting wild on choppy waves, lines snapping like thread, Javier cursing the sky as fish flopped free, water soaking his jeans to the knees, his boots squelching with every step. “If you don’t sink us first, Tio—don’t drag me under with you.”

“No man yet?” he asked, sly now, eyes glinting under bushy brows, tortilla paused mid-wave, hovering like a taunt, crumbs clinging to his fingers. “Got a wrestler stashed in that tech bag—some big shot keeping you busy?”

Her face flamed—Joe’s “Talk soon” searing her mind like a brand—and she stumbled, “No one, Tio,” voice thin, cracking faintly under his stare, a heat she couldn’t dodge. Camila’s brows arched high, a knowing smirk tugging her lips, Javier jabbing his tortilla at her, crumbs dusting the table like confetti, a scattered mess piling up.

“You’re lying! Red as a tomato—I’ll hook you a fisherman, better than those gym rats, someone with grit!” His tale drowned the noise, room electric with his storm, the twins chanting “Fish man! Fish man!” as he flexed again, grease shining on his knuckles, a sheen catching the light, his laughter a thunderclap rolling over them all.

Isla drank it in—clamor, love, heat pressing thick with spices and sweat, the table sticky under her elbows, a faint tack against her skin, plates clinking as hands reached for seconds. Joe hovered, a quiet pulse in her skull, steady and warm beneath the chaos, but home held her fierce, an anchor she’d forgotten she needed, pulling her under its wild tide, deep and unrelenting, a current she couldn’t fight.

Post-dinner, dishes banged in the sink, soap suds popping with faint bursts, a sharp scent cutting the air, family buzzing like bees—Mariana and Esperanza plotting errands over the hiss of running water, voices sharp with plans, Camila herding the twins with candy promises, their sneakers thudding on the stairs, squeals fading into the upper hall as wrappers crinkled. A shadow crept into Isla’s chest, unease heavy as the damp night air seeping through cracked windows, fogging the panes with faint breath, a chill brushing her arms, raising goosebumps under her sleeves.

Her phone glowed on the counter—Joe: “Hope you’re enjoying family time—surviving the madness?” Heart leaping, she slipped to the living room, noise dimming behind the sagging couch, its springs creaking as she sank into it, replying with thumbs brushing the screen, flour still caked under her nails, a faint grit against the glass, rough and real.

Isla: "Yeah, crazy but nice—barely breathing."

Your Tribal Chief: "Keeping you on your toes? Twins still ruling the roost?"

Isla: "Always. Nearly broke the table over chicken—wildlings."

Your Tribal Chief: "Need an escape? I’m your guy—say the word, babygirl."

Isla: "Thanks. Nice hearing from you—grounds me when it’s loud like this."

Your Tribal Chief: "Anytime. Talk later—don’t let ‘em wear you out."

Isla: "Soon. Take care—don’t crash that flight."

Joe’s words lingered, warming her fingertips, a tether threading through the storm, steady and sure. Jess called, ring sharp as a blade, cutting the quiet, insistent and shrill, vibrating the couch cushion under her thigh. Isla stepped onto the porch, jasmine thick in her throat, sweet and heavy, setting her laptop on Javier’s wobbly table, wood creaking under its weight, glow casting shadows across the peeling rail, faint and jagged, flickering with her breath.

“Hey, Isla,” Jess said, voice tight, static crackling like a bad wire over the line, sharp in her ear. “Pre-show stream’s tanking—fans losing it on X, black screens everywhere, #StreamFail trending hard. Help me out—please?”

“Sure,” Isla said, logging in fast, Camila’s shouts—“Marco, brush your teeth or no TV tomorrow!”—echoing through the screen door, a distant clamor piercing the night. “Bottleneck—servers choking bad, pings spiking to 300ms. Rerouting now—down to 50ms, holding.” Fingers danced over keys, laptop humming hot against her lap, glow flickering as she tweaked, breath syncing with each fix, the chaos behind her a dull roar muffled by the dark, cicadas humming low outside.

“Lifesaver,” Jess said, relief softening her tone, static fading to a faint hum, her exhale audible. “Holding steady now?”

“Should be,” Isla said, eyes locked on the screen, metrics leveling green, a bead of sweat trickling down her neck, cool against her flushed skin, pooling at her collarbone. “I’ll watch it—make sure it sticks, no more crashes.”

“Thanks—owe you big. Family okay?”

“Loud,” she smirked, Camila’s voice bouncing off the walls, “Mateo, spit that candy out—now!” a sharp command cutting through. “Surviving—barely, they’re a riot.”

“Enjoy it,” Jess said, warm now, a smile audible over the line. “Back soon—need you sharp for the next mess, tech whiz.”

Hanging up, the door crashed open, hinges squealing loud enough to make her flinch. “Isla! Abuela’s story time—move it, you’re missing it!” Camila yelled, braids swinging, gum snapping, her silhouette sharp against the kitchen light, a burst of energy cutting the night like a flare.

“Coming,” Isla called, shutting her laptop with a soft click, screen fading to black, stepping back into amber glow—tea and saffron thick in the air, curling around her like a blanket, warm and heavy, pulling her in.

Marco and Mateo sprawled on the rug, sauce-stained shirts untucked, wrestling over a toy truck, its wheels spinning wild, plastic clattering against the hardwood, a sharp rattle. Mariana sipped tea on the couch, steam rising from her mug in faint wisps, curling toward the ceiling, while Esperanza ruled her armchair, throw draped over her lap, eyes bright as she settled in, a queen on her throne, hands folded over the fabric. Camila patted the couch beside her, fabric rough under Isla’s thighs as she sank down, worn threads catching her jeans, tugging faintly. “Her first love—go,” Camila grinned, gum snapping loud, elbow nudging Isla’s side, a sharp prod that made her shift.

Esperanza’s eyes danced, crinkling at the edges, glinting with memory as she leaned forward, voice dropping low, intimate, drawing them in. “1975, sixteen—not your abuelo, no, not yet. Raul, tall as a palm, sea-storm eyes like broken glass, all jagged and deep, cutting right through me. Market boy, whistling off-key through chipped teeth—I’d haggle mangoes just to hear it, juice sticky on my fingers, running down my wrists, sweet and warm, dripping onto the dirt.” Her gaze drifted to the dark pane, fogged and streaked with night, reflecting the room in faint smears. “Picnic by the river—crusty bread tearing under my hands, sharp cheese melting in the sun, his grin brighter than the light off the water, dazzling me ‘til I couldn’t look away. Rain hit sudden, a downpour soaking my dress, plastering it to my skin, cold and heavy, but he laughed under a tree, pulling me close, leaves dripping icy on us, his hands warm on my arms. That kiss—sharp, sweet, electric, tasting of salt and storm, his breath hot against my lips.” Her voice softened, hands folding tight in her lap, knuckles white against the throw, a faint tremble in her fingers.

Isla’s throat caught—Ryan’s charm flickered, coffee steam curling between them at that campus café, his laugh a hook she’d chased, warm and fleeting, pulling her in deep, his fingers brushing hers over a chipped mug, “You’re my anchor, Isla,” a vow she’d swallowed whole. “He left for the city,” Esperanza whispered, eyes distant, lost in time, voice cracking faintly. “I waited, mailbox chipping red to rust, checking it daily ‘til my shoes wore thin, soles peeling, nothing came—empty, always empty. Then abuelo showed—steady where Raul was wild, a rock I didn’t know I’d need ‘til he stayed.” She paused, exhaling slow, a breath heavy with years, and Isla felt it—Ryan’s shadow creeping in, his words turning cold, “Too needy, too weak,” slicing her open, leaving her small, shrinking into herself.

Silence pressed, heavy as the humid air—lost love Isla knew too well, a bruise never fading, tender under her ribs, aching faintly with every beat. Ryan loomed in her skull, his boots scuffing out of her life, Joe tugged at her edges—she gripped the cushion, seams fraying under her nails, doubts etched deep as the lines in Esperanza’s hands, a map of what could’ve been, what might still break her again. “I waited too,” she murmured, unbidden, voice barely a whisper, slipping out before she could catch it, raw and fragile, hanging in the air.

Esperanza’s eyes snapped to her, sharp, seeing too much, and she reached over, hand trembling but firm, squeezing Isla’s knee through the throw, a quiet anchor. “You learned too, mija—waiting breaks you, but it builds you back harder, stronger. Don’t let it hold you still.” Her grip tightened, a promise in her touch, and Isla nodded, throat tight, Ryan’s echo—“stupid girl”—clashing with Joe’s “I’m here,” a war she couldn’t silence.

Camila nudged her, elbow sharp against her ribs, jolting her back. “Someone on your mind, huh? You’re squeezing that pillow dead—spill it.”

“No,” Isla said, heat crawling up her neck, voice tight, betraying her with a faint shake. “Just listening—good story, Abuela.”

“Sure,” Camila teased, gum snapping, a knowing glint in her eye, mischief dancing, but Marco cut in, truck raised high, wheels spinning fast. “Is Roman Reigns the strongest ever?”

“Yeah, top tier,” Isla said, relieved, Joe flashing unbidden, a flutter stirring her gut, warm and unexpected, his broad frame cutting through her thoughts. Mariana shooed the twins—“Bed, now!”—their protests fading up the stairs, thumps and whines echoing down, a fading storm. Isla cleared cups, tea rings staining the table in dark circles, Joe and Raul tangling in her head—trust a tightrope stretched over a chasm, fraying at the ends, swaying with every step she dared.

She hugged Mariana fierce, arms trembling with the force, kissed Esperanza’s cheek, a soft press against papery skin, dodged Javier’s fishing vow—“Next time, Tio, I swear!” her laugh shaky, “Soon, mija,” Mariana called as Isla stepped out, jasmine thinning in the cooling air, porch light flickering into the dark like a heartbeat fading, weak and unsteady, a pulse she couldn’t steady anymore.

The highway unfurled, tires thrumming over slick asphalt, a low drone vibrating through the wheel into her palms, headlights carving sharp through dusk’s shroud, beams bouncing off wet road signs, their edges glinting faintly, letters blurring into smears under the rain’s smear. Ocean loomed left, a black expanse stretching endless, salt snaking through cracked windows, tugging at her hair, tangling it wild against her face, damp strands sticking to her cheeks. The radio spat Ryan’s ballad, slow and mournful, steel guitar twanging like a plucked nerve, twisting her gut—knuckles whitened on the wheel, leather creaking under her grip, a faint squeak cutting the silence. She saw him—coffee shop, late autumn, leaves skittering across pavement outside, his hand brushing hers over a chipped mug, steam curling between them, “You’re my anchor, Isla,” eyes soft as the amber light filtering through the window, voice low and sure, a vow she’d believed with every fiber. Days stretched into months, late-night talks in his beat-up Civic parked under a flickering streetlamp, exhaust puffing clouds into the frigid air, his laugh a tether she’d clung to—then sharper, colder, “Too needy, too weak,” words slicing her down in their cramped dorm, his boots scuffing the linoleum as he packed, posters curling off the walls like dying leaves, leaving her small, shrinking into the mattress, shards of herself she pieced alone, ache dull but unsealed, a cut that bled slow, staining her memory.

She sifted the day—Mariana’s embrace warm as fresh bread, dough sticky in her hands, Esperanza’s tale sharp with lost love cutting deeper now, Javier’s storm shaking the walls, twins’ chaos tugging her lips despite the weight. Warmth clashing with her beach’s silence—white walls glaring under fluorescent buzz, empty air pressing heavy, fridge humming too loud against the waves’ crash beyond her window. Joe’s “If you need an escape” burned in her skull, a lifeline threading through Ryan’s echo—“You’ll fall again, stupid girl”—sunset smearing her windshield red and gold, a fleeting blaze swallowed by dark, resolve fraying like the wipers scraping rain, squeaking against glass, a rhythm that matched her pulse. Could she risk it, lean into that pull, or wait for nothing, stranded in the quiet she’d built brick by brick, a fortress cracking under its own weight?

Her lot loomed, engine ticking down to silence, salt air thick on the stairs, railing cold and slick under her palm, rust flaking onto her fingers, gritty and sharp. Toby meowed, a high whine piercing the stillness, curling into her legs as she sank onto the couch, springs creaking under her weight, the day crashing over her like a rogue wave, heavy and relentless. The ocean roared outside, pounding the shore beyond her window, salt spray misting the glass, fogging it faint with a haze she could trace, cool against her fingertip. Toby leapt up, paws kneading her lap, purring loud and insistent, his fur damp from brushing the sill—wild cat, forever chasing shadows across the hardwood, knocking over a mug she’d left out days ago, coffee rings staining the wood dark and uneven like old bruises, a map of her distraction.

Her phone glowed on the cushion beside her, Joe’s last message a beacon in the dim light—Talk later?—and her pulse spiked, need rising like a tide she couldn’t hold back, surging hot in her chest. She typed, fingers trembling faintly, nails clicking against the screen, a soft tap in the quiet.

Isla: "Home. Quiet’s nice—too nice after that storm."*

Your Tribal Chief: "Break from the chaos?"

Isla: "Yeah, it grounds me, but I’m on fumes—running dry."

Your Tribal Chief: "Glad you’re safe. Family grill you hard?"

Isla: "Tio thinks I’m hiding a wrestler in my bag—half-right, huh? Still up for that escape? Can I call?"

Your Tribal Chief: "He’s onto me already? Call anytime—I’m here, babygirl, waiting."

Her thumb hovered, then pressed, the line humming alive, and Joe’s voice rolled in, low and steady, wrapping her like a warm current pulling her from the undertow, deep and resonant through the speaker. “Hey, you made it.”

“Yeah,” she said, a smile tugging her lips, small but real, Toby’s purr rumbling louder, tail flicking her arm, a soft thud against her sleeve. “Family’s a tornado—barely held my ground, wind’s still spinning in my head.”

“I get that,” he chuckled, rich and deep, vibrating her chest through the phone, a rumble she felt in her ribs, grounding her. “Mine’s a circus—cousins everywhere, chaos non-stop, knocking over chairs. Tio say what?”

She laughed, picturing Javier’s tortilla jab, crumbs flying onto the tiles, twins chanting below his roar, a scene vivid as the grease on her sleeve. “Needs me a fisherman—or wrestler, can’t decide. Half-right, like I said.”

“Half-right?” he teased, grin audible, a playful edge cutting through the static, warm as a shared secret curling between them. “Which half am I tonight, Isla—fish or fight?”

Her breath hitched, heat curling in her gut, fingers tracing Toby’s fur, soft and damp under her nails, a faint tremble in her touch. “Fight,” she murmured, then louder, “Fight—I’d bet on you over a fish any day, hands down.”

“Smart money,” he said, laugh low and rolling, a sound she wanted to bottle, to keep close, rich and warm like cedar smoke. “Had to wrestle my own tornadoes today—flight’s tomorrow, red-eye, gonna be a mess, engines whining all night. Wish I was there instead, hearing that laugh live, cutting through the noise.”

Her chest fluttered, a spark igniting, and she shifted, Toby nudging her chin with a damp nose, whiskers tickling her skin. “Yeah? You’d brave Javier’s fish tales for that—slimy hands and all?”

“For you? Hell yes,” he said, voice dipping, softer now, a thread of something tender weaving through, tugging at her. “Those tales sound wild—give me the rundown, babygirl, paint it for me.”

She grinned, picturing Javier’s chaos, voice brightening as she leaned into it, the couch creaking faintly under her shift. “He stormed in with a trout, dripping all over the floor—‘big as Marco, thrashing like a beast!’ Arms flailing, tackle box spilling hooks everywhere, twins egging him on, banging pots like drums ‘til Mariana nearly lost it. Chaos doesn’t cover it—tiles still smell like fish guts.”

“Sounds like a champ in his own ring,” Joe said, amusement warming his tone, a quiet intimacy settling in, his voice a steady hum against her ear. “You refereeing that mess too, keeping ‘em in line?”

“Had to,” she laughed, lighter now, the weight of the day fraying at the edges like a worn seam. “Split a drumstick between the twins earlier—nearly lost an arm, they’re feral. Main event stuff, Joe.”

“Main event’s you holding it together,” he said, firm, conviction steady as stone, and her throat tightened, his faith a balm she hadn’t known she craved, soothing a raw edge. “Wish I’d seen it—your grin in the middle of that storm, lighting it up.”

“Next time,” she murmured, heat blooming in her cheeks, fingers clutching the phone tighter, a lifeline across the miles, nails digging faintly into the case. “Abuela’s story hit harder, though—first love gone wrong, too close to home, you know?”

“Really?” he said, gentle now, voice softening like a tide receding, coaxing her open, patient and sure. “You’ve got one of those tucked away, Isla?”

“College,” she said, Ryan looming sharp, chest squeezing, thumb pressing the couch seam until it frayed, threads pulling loose under her nail, a faint snap. “Thought it was real—coffee dates, late talks, promises over lattes gone cold, all ‘you’re my world’ in his voice. Then sour—‘too needy,’ he said, tore me down slow, ‘too weak,’ left me small, like I didn’t fit his life anymore, just trash he could toss.”

“Damn,” he breathed, quiet, a pause heavy with weight, his breath catching faint on the line, a hitch she felt. “That’s heavy—coward’s move, walking out like that, leaving you to pick it up. Had one in high school—chose my friend, caught them at my locker, her lipstick smeared on his collar, red as a betrayal I couldn’t unsee, staring me down. Cut deep, taught me trust the hard way, quick and brutal.”

Her chest squeezed tighter—shared scars aligning, a mirror she hadn’t expected, jagged edges slotting together, raw and real. “Left me scared to trust,” she said, voice low, tracing the seam ‘til more threads pulled free, fraying under her fingers, a quiet unraveling matching her words.

“I hear you,” he said, softer, a lifeline threading through the static, steady as a heartbeat pulsing through the line. “You’re still here—stronger than he ever deserved, Isla. Takes guts to climb out of that hole, to keep going.”

“Does it?” she murmured, Ryan’s “stupid girl” fading under Joe’s words, a shield patching cracks she’d mended alone, his voice a quiet fire warming her bones, steady and sure.

“Hell yes,” he said, firm, unwavering, a rock in her churn, cutting through the doubt. “Rebuilding’s tougher than breaking—takes more than he had in him, more than most. You’re proof, babygirl—standing tall.”

Her grin broke free, shaky but real, weight lifting like fog burning off under dawn’s first light, a lightness creeping in. “Maybe,” she said, voice steadier, fingers easing on the seam, letting it rest. “What about you—dodging anything tonight?”

“Just the usual,” he said, chuckle low, easing her grip on the past, a rumble she felt in her ribs, warm and grounding. “Flight prep, cousins yelling about some match—kept me sane thinking of you out there, holding your own. What else they throw at you?”

“Twins wrestling over chicken,” she said, grinning wider, picturing their sauce-smeared chaos. “Had to ref—Mateo’s got a mean elbow, nearly took me out.”

“Sounds like a title match,” he laughed, rich and easy, pulling her further from the dark. They lingered—his red-eye flight groaning in his future, engines whining on the tarmac, her cat nudging her chin with a damp nose, the worst burrito he’d braved, “grease bomb, swore it moved on the plate, nearly fought back”—until her lids drooped, his voice pulling her under like a tide, slow and sure, washing over her. “Sleep, babygirl,” he said, reluctant, a pause hanging heavy, his breath faint and warm on the line, a tether she didn’t want to snap.

“Thanks, Joe,” she murmured, phone slipping from her grip, Toby’s purr blending with his exhale, a soft rhythm fading into the dark, lulling her.

“Good night, Isla.” The call faded, Ryan retreating to shadows, Joe’s warmth a promise glowing in the quiet, an ember she cradled as sleep took her, soft and deep, wrapping her tight.

Days later, Atlanta’s beige hotel boxed her in—bed creaking under her weight, springs protesting with every shift, skyline jagged beyond smudged glass, sodium lights bleeding orange onto faded carpet, casting long shadows that danced across the walls when she moved. She sat cross-legged, laptop casting a blue glow across her face, metrics scrolling fast—lag times spiking red, server pings flashing warnings, work gnawing at her edges like a persistent ache, but she owned it, pride in every line of code she tamed, fingers steady on the keys, clicking sharp in the stale, recycled air. The hum of the arena seeped through the walls, a distant beast alive with anticipation, its pulse vibrating the floor beneath her, a low thrum she felt in her bones.

Backstage, chaos erupted—screens froze mid-match, Roman’s theme glitching into a jagged stutter of static, crowd’s chants muffled through concrete walls, a dull roar seeping in like water through cracks, X raging with #StreamFail, posts piling up like debris in a storm, furious emojis and all-caps rants. Isla’s fingers flew—server overload, 200ms lag spiking red, alerts glaring bright on her screen, a crimson flare. “Hold,” she muttered, sweat beading on her brow, stinging her eyes, rerouting fast—Roman’s spear sliced through the feed, clean and brutal, fans calming as the stream steadied, their roars filtering back through the walls, a tide turning slow. She exhaled sharp, wiping palms on her jeans, denim rough against her skin, damp with tension—her world, teetering on her shoulders, balanced by her hands, a victory carved from chaos, hard-won and fleeting.

Before pre-show, Jess burst in, voice sharp as a whip, boots scuffing the gritty floor, a quick scrape echoing. “Ghost ping—spiking the stream, dropping frames bad. Fans rioting on X—‘where’s the match?’—can you trace it, Isla?” Monitors flickered behind her, screens stuttering, arena humming low, a beast alive beyond the concrete, its pulse vibrating the air, thick with sweat and anticipation.

“On it,” Isla said, diving in, fingers flying, isolating the ping—unauthorized, internal, a snake slithering through her system, venomous and sly. “Someone’s jacking us from inside,” she hissed, rerouting streams, lag dropping to 40ms, pulse hammering her ribs as Jess exhaled, tension easing in her shoulders, boots stilling on the floor. “Got it—locked them out, but it’s close, too damn close—someone’s playing games.”

Joe texted: “Hope they didn’t grill you too hard out there.”

Isla: "Sniffed something—your fault, Tribal Chief."

Your Tribal Chief: "Innocent—blame my charm, babygirl."

Isla: "Liar. Trouble with a T—own it."

Your Tribal Chief: "Worth it if you keep talking—don’t ghost me now."

She sent an eye-roll emoji, heat blooming in her cheeks, lips twitching as she tucked the phone away, fingers brushing its edge, a faint warmth lingering.

Backstage, hunched over her laptop, chasing the glitch—pings spiking again, a taunting pulse needling her—a drawl cut through, slow and sour, dripping venom. “Tech queen.”

She froze, eyes flicking up to Austin Theory, smirking against crates, shadow jagged across the scuffed floor, arms crossed tight over his chest, muscles flexing under his shirt. “I’m busy,” she said, fingers hovering over keys, his old taunt—“WWE isn’t your nerd convention”—festering, a splinter lodged under her skin, sharp and unyielding, pricking her with every word.

He stepped closer, nudging her laptop with his boot, screen tilting, cables rattling against the table, a faint clatter echoing in the tight space. “Don’t cozy up to Joe—Bloodline’s going down hard, and you’ll sink with ‘em, tech girl. Watch your back—accidents happen, systems crash, and you’re not untouchable.” His smirk widened, coffee sour on his breath, a bitter tang hitting her nose, eyes glinting cold under the fluorescents, then he retreated, boots scuffing the concrete, screen flickering as the ping spiked—a threat she couldn’t unsee, a shadow stretching long and dark across her work, clawing at her edges.

Gut twisting, hands clenching the table’s edge, wood biting her palms, splintering faintly under her nails—Joe, her work, targets painted red on her back—she forced the system steady, jaw set tight, adrenaline surging hot through her veins, fingers trembling as she locked it down, breath shallow and fast, a storm raging under her ribs. X flickered in her mind—a cryptic post she’d glimpsed earlier, “Tech falls, Bloodline bleeds,” buried in the noise, now sharp as a blade, Austin’s voice threading through it, a warning she couldn’t shake.

At catering, she stared through stale sandwiches, crusts curling dry, Austin’s words looping—Ryan’s lies, her father’s shrugs piling on, a weight she’d fought to shed clawing back, dragging her down. “Yo, tech whiz!” Jimmy Uso called, him and Jey swaggering up, Naomi trailing with a grin, grape popping between her teeth, a sharp crack in the hum, juice staining her lips purple.

Isla forced a smile, mask tight, lips stiff as cardboard, cracking at the edges. “Hype crew now?”

“Keeping you from frying, fam,” Jey said, nudging her shoulder, his grin wide, gold tooth flashing under the lights, a glint cutting the tension.

Naomi leaned in, popping another grape, juice glistening on her fingers, a faint drip hitting the table. “Where’s your shadow? Big man’s late—probably missing you, pacing that hotel like a caged lion, growling your name.”

“Joe?” Isla asked, heat crawling up her neck, tugging her jacket zipper, fabric catching on the pull, a faint snag. “Maybe traffic—Atlanta’s a mess, roads clogged tight.”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy teased, smirking wide, tossing a napkin that fluttered down, crumpling on the floor in a sad heap. “Brooding, pining—don’t deny it, tech. He’s all ‘where’s Isla?’ backstage, moping like a lost pup, big sad eyes.”

“Cut it,” she laughed, brittle, Austin’s jab souring the air, her grin faltering, cracking further, a fracture she couldn’t hide.

Joe appeared, frame filling the doorway, broad shoulders cutting the light, a silhouette sharp against the fluorescent buzz, eyes locking on her tension, dark and probing, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Hey,” he said, soft, voice rumbling low, a question threaded through, steady as a bassline pulsing under the chaos.

“Hey,” she echoed, his gaze steadying her tremor, a rock in the churn, solid where she wavered, his presence a quiet anchor. “Just tired—long day, you know.”

He tilted his head, not buying it, brow creasing faint, but smiled, small and real, a crack of light breaking through his guard. “Take care, okay?” he whispered, stepping close, voice dropping lower, a lifeline she clutched silently, his scent—cedar, sweat—brushing her, grounding her pulse, a faint balm against the storm inside.

Naomi smirked at Jimmy, elbowing him sharp, a quick jab. “Vibe’s loud with them—deafening, right?”

“Keeping her solid,” Jimmy chuckled, napkin fluttering to the floor, shredded in his wake, a crumpled mess.

Isla nodded as they split, slipping to the corridor—cool air hitting her flush, easing the heat, concrete cold under her sneakers, a chill seeping up her legs, steadying her breath.

Back at the hotel, skyline glittered beyond her window—lights sharp as knives, sodium glow bleeding onto carpet, a faint hum buzzing through the walls, vibrating the frame like a living thing. Austin’s threat gnawed her ribs—Ryan, her father piling on, voices she’d fought to silence clawing back, a chorus of doubt she hated, this smallness she’d clawed out of creeping close again, a cage tightening around her chest.

Joe texted: “Still up?”

Isla: "Maybe. What’s up?"*

Your Tribal Chief: "Meet me outside. Lights look nice—better with you here."

Heart kicking hard, a wild thud against her ribs, she pulled on her hoodie, hood up against the chill, stepped out—air biting her cheeks, pavement damp underfoot, puddles reflecting neon in fractured shards, rippling with each step. Joe waited by the curb, hands pocketed, shoulders cutting the night, jacket scuffed at the elbows, hair loose over his brow, a dark wave catching the streetlight’s glow. His smile softened, eyes catching light, warm and steady, a beacon piercing the dark, pulling her in. “Thought you’d be out cold—rough day?”

“Almost was,” she said, arms crossed tight, breath fogging in the chill, sneakers scuffing gravel, a faint crunch underfoot, grounding her.

He shed his jacket—cedar-warm—draping it over her shoulders, weight grounding her, fingers brushing her arm, sparking faint up her sleeve, a jolt she felt in her spine. “Looked cold,” he smirked, breath fogging beside hers, a soft cloud mingling with hers in the crisp air, close enough to feel.

“You didn’t have to,” she murmured, tracing the collar, leather worn smooth, his scent clinging—cedar, sweat, him—flooding her lungs, steadying her breath, a quiet fire against the night’s bite.

“Let’s walk,” he said, gravel crunching under his boots, her sneakers, silence easy, electric, her shadows looming—Ryan, Austin, trust fraying at the seams like a threadbare shirt, pulling apart with every step.

They crossed the lot, hotel lights dimming behind, street stretching ahead—wet asphalt gleaming under streetlamps, a vendor’s cart steaming with hot dogs, mustard sharp in the air, tires hissing on the road, a slick whisper cutting the quiet. A performer strummed by a chipped bench, fountain glinting nearby, water trickling soft over stone—lost love, chords haunting, his voice cracking on “gone, gone, gone,” fingers trembling on strings, calluses catching faint. Joe grinned, arm brushing hers, warm through the jacket, a steady press that lingered. “Our soundtrack?”

Isla laughed, cutting the night, a sharp burst that echoed off brick, bright and free. “Nails it—mocking us, right?”

“Tampa vibes,” he said, leaning closer, shoulder nudging hers, a playful bump that sparked. “Karaoke—‘Sweet Home Alabama.’ Booed off in thirty seconds—voice like a dying cat, crowd threw napkins, soggy with beer, hit me square in the face.”

She grinned, picturing it—Joe fumbling lyrics, crowd jeering, napkins fluttering like sad confetti, a mess of chaos. “Proof?”

“Jimmy’s got video—blackmail forever,” he said, smile boyish, eyes crinkling at the corners, a glint of mischief. “Might rematch for you—pick a duet. You sing?”

“God, no,” she laughed, arms brushing longer, heat sparking up her sleeve, a faint jolt that lingered. “I’d clear the room—screeching, not singing, shattering glass with every note.”

“Doubt it,” he teased, elbow nudging her ribs, playful and light, his touch a quiet claim. “We’d empty a bar—hell of a duet, babygirl, you and me.”

A shout—“Roman?!”—a fan stumbled up, phone raised, beer sloshing in his grip, amber liquid catching light, spilling onto the pavement in a dark splash. Joe stepped forward, firm, voice low and edged, a growl threading through. “Not now—private time, respect it.” The guy backed off, tripping over a curb, muttering curses under his breath, and Joe exhaled, hair falling loose over his brow, raking it back with a rough hand, knuckles brushing his temple.

“Close call,” Isla said, pulse jumping, gravel shifting under her step, a faint slide against her sole.

“Too close,” he said, wry, closer now, frame a shield against the wind’s bite, broad and steady. “Miss quiet—no cameras, no noise, just space to breathe, you know?”

Song softened, performer packing up, she paused, gravel still underfoot. “Simplicity?”

“Sometimes,” he said, eyes on the fountain, voice rough with something raw, hands flexing in his pockets, a faint tension in his fingers. “Less weight then—love what I do, bleed for it, but it’s loud, always pulling. Just want something real, not scripted lines and lights, something that’s mine.”

“Before him,” she said, low, heavy, breath catching in her throat, a hitch she couldn’t hide. “Ryan—serious ‘til it wasn’t. Broke me slow, doubting everything, left me picking up pieces, scattered like glass on that dorm floor.”

“Rough,” he said, hand brushing hers, warm on damp wood as they sat by the fountain, mist cool on her cheeks, a faint sheen. “Had scars—took a while to trust. Worth it, sometimes, when it’s right, when it sticks.”

Chest squeezing—shared scars cutting deep—she nodded, fingers twitching near his, trembling faintly. “Keeps you guarded, locked up tight.”

“Yeah,” he said, fingers curling around hers, calluses rough, sure, locking tight, a steady anchor in the shifting dark. “Some risks feel right—like this, here, now.”

Breath hitching, his grip steadying, fear and want tangling sharp—a cat bolted by, gray streak through shadows, and he chuckled, thumb brushing her knuckles, warm and slow, a quiet spark flaring under her skin. “Beats cameras,” she said, his laugh warming her core, a shield against the chill, solid and real.

They wandered farther, beyond the lot’s edge, where the city unfurled in a sprawl of light—sodium glow pulsing like a heartbeat, amber and white weaving a jagged tapestry against velvet dark, towers piercing the haze like sentinels, windows flickering with lives she’d never touch, stories unfolding behind glass. The air bit colder here, free of the hotel’s hum, pavement glistening wet under their steps, reflecting shards of neon that danced like scattered stars, rippling with each crunch of gravel. A breeze carried exhaust and damp earth, sharp and alive, tugging her hair wild, rustling Joe’s jacket around her shoulders, cedar and warmth clinging to her skin, a scent that anchored her against the sprawl’s chaos. The distant fountain faded, replaced by traffic’s low thrum weaving through the night, a horn blaring faint, sharp as a pinprick through the haze, tires hissing on wet asphalt beyond the curb.

Joe paused by a rusted railing overlooking the drop to the city below, lights sprawling endless, a constellation grounded in concrete and steel, twinkling with restless life. He turned to her, closer, his breath fogging beside hers, a soft rhythm she felt deep in her chest, warm against the chill. “Ever wonder what’s down there?” he murmured, voice low, rough with wonder, his hand gesturing to the glow, fingers splaying briefly before resting on the rail, knuckles brushing hers, a faint graze that sparked. “All those people, stories—makes this feel small, just us, stealing a corner of it, holding it tight.”

She leaned into the rail beside him, metal cold through her sleeves, biting her skin, following his gaze—towers glinting like knives, a plane blinking red overhead, swallowed fast by clouds heavy with rain, their edges smudged against the black. “Yeah,” she said, soft, voice nearly lost in the wind’s rustle, fingers curling into his jacket’s pockets, brushing a worn seam, leather creaking faintly. “Small but ours—keeps the chaos out, just for a minute, like a breath we can hold.”

He shifted, shoulder pressing hers, a deliberate claim, heat seeping through leather, steady and sure, his frame a bulwark against the night’s pull. “Ours,” he echoed, word heavy, a promise hanging in the chill, his breath brushing her cheek, warm and close, stirring the hair at her temple. “Been a long time since I had something this real—no crowds, no script, just you here, cutting through it all.” His eyes caught hers, dark and unguarded, glinting with reflected light, stripping away the distance she’d clung to like armor, leaving her bare.

Her throat tightened, Ryan’s “stupid girl” flickering, a ghost clawing at her edges, but Joe’s presence shoved it back, a shield she hadn’t sought but needed, solid and unyielding. “Me too,” she whispered, raw, hand trembling as it lifted, brushing his knuckles, calluses rough against her skin, a spark flaring up her arm, sharp and alive. “Hard to believe it won’t fade—like everything else, slipping through my hands.”

“It won’t,” he said, firm, quick, his hand catching hers fully now, fingers threading slow, deliberate, warm and sure, thumb tracing her knuckles, a tender stroke igniting her pulse, racing under his touch. “Not this. I don’t let go when it counts, Isla—not with you, not ever.” His voice dropped, gravelly, eyes locking hers, seeing past her walls, past the scars, past Austin’s venom threading through her work, to the girl who’d fixed engines with grease-streaked hands and dreamed big under a swollen moon.

She swallowed, breath hitching, lights blurring into streaks at her edges, amber smearing into dark, and leaned into him, cheek grazing his shoulder, his scent enveloping her—cedar, sweat, him—a quiet fire against the cold. “You sure?” she murmured, teasing yet pleading, fingers tightening around his, needing his certainty to hold her here, to keep her from drifting.

“Damn sure,” he said, smirk softening into something deeper, grip steady, shifting to pull her closer, arm sliding around her waist, tentative but firm, drawing her against his side, heat radiating through his shirt, a solid wall she could lean into. “You’re stuck with me, babygirl—lights or dark, I’m here, not budging.” His breath warmed her temple, lips brushing her hair, a whisper of contact, electric and fleeting, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her chest fluttered, fear fraying, want surging—a tide she couldn’t stop, swelling hot and fast. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze, inches apart, his eyes tracing her face slow, lingering on her lips, a question unspoken, heavy in the air between them. “Good,” she breathed, hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt, steady, alive, a rhythm syncing with hers, a quiet pull. He leaned in, forehead grazing hers, breath mingling, warm and close, the space shrinking, electric—her pulse thundered, lips parting faintly, his hand tightening on her waist, drawing her in, a hairsbreadth from closing the gap.

A car horn blared, sharp and sudden, shattering the quiet, headlights flashing across them, and they pulled back, breath catching, a near-miss hanging heavy, unspoken. He chuckled, low, hand still on her waist, thumb brushing her side, a lingering claim. “Bad timing,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes still locked on hers, dark with want, a promise unfulfilled.

“Yeah,” she said, shaky, laugh trembling, stepping back but not far, his jacket still warm around her, his hand sliding to hers again, fingers threading tight. “Guess we’ll survive it.”

“Always do,” he said, smirking, pulling her along, steps slow, reluctant, back toward the hotel’s glow, gravel crunching soft underfoot. The city sprawled below, lights pulsing—a vow etched in silence, tender, unresolved, leaving her aching for more, a spark dangling just out of reach.

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