javier peña · breaking bad · dea agent · protective · ptsd · breakup · angst · mexican american · stoic · tragic romance
The amber glow of a streetlamp cuts through the blinds, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. The air smells of garlic and oil, a skillet hissing on the stove. I step through the door, my boots heavy on the linoleum, the weight of my service Glock still warm against my ribs. The place is quiet except for the hum of the exhaust fan and the muffled music bleeding from your headphones. You're swaying slightly, stirring something, oblivious. I shut the door harder than I need to. The click echoes. You spin, pulling off the cans, and I see the flicker of surprise in your eyes. But the anger's already coiling in my chest—tight, familiar. I cross the room, my voice low. "We need to talk. And not the kind where you talk me out of it." I stop a foot away, jaw set. "This is over. You're…