Reporting from the underworld

chapter fourteen

Alejandro pov

The air in the small workshop smelled of CLP oil and woodsmoke, a heavy, masculine scent that seemed to trap the heat between us.

I held the frame of what he called a semi-automatic in my hands, the steel cold and unforgiving, but I couldn't focus on the mechanics. All I could feel was Miguel standing directly behind me.

“Focus, Alejandro,” he murmured.

“I'm trying to i thought, you're not making it any easier for me.”

His voice was a low vibration that settled right at the base of my skull. “It’s about the alignment. If you force it, it resists.”

I felt his hands long before I saw them. He reached around, his palms settling firmly on my hips to square my stance.

The contact was brief—just a grounding pressure through my denim—but when his thumbs traced the line of my belt before sliding away, my breath hitched in my throat.

“Hold the slide,” he instructed. He stepped closer, the heat of his chest pressing against my shoulder blades.

His hands moved up, gripping my shoulders. He didn’t just touch; he squeezed, a silent command for me to drop the tension I hadn't realized I was holding.

“Your hands are too tight. Let the metal do the work.”

I nodded slowly as I tried to guide the recoil spring into place, but my fingers felt clumsy under his gaze.

He didn't take the weapon from me. Instead, he draped his arms over mine, his calloused skin brushing against the sensitive underside of my wrists as he reached for the slide.

He leaned in, his face so close that I could feel the ghost of his breath against my lips as he spoke. He wasn't looking at me—his eyes were fixed on the steel—but the proximity made the room feel half its size.

“Guide it home,” he whispered, his mouth inches from mine. “Steady. There.”

The slide clicked into place with a definitive, metallic snap. The vibration of the steel traveled through my hands and into his.

He didn’t pull away. For a long, quiet moment, he let his chin rest against my shoulder, his hands lingering on the table, framing mine. I could hear his steady heartbeat against my back, a sharp contrast to the erratic thudding in my own chest.

“Again,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“Strip it down and show me you remembered the feel of it.

I stared at the gun, my fingers hovering over the release.

I didn't care about the weapon anymore. I only cared about the moment he would touch me again to correct my form.

“Anytime now” he urged.

The metallic click of the slide echoed in the silence, but I didn't reach for the release to strip it down again.

The tension in the room had reached a breaking point, I just had to wait till it was dripe enough.

A dangerous thought formed in my head. It was going to be rewarding,but risky nonetheless.

I set the gun down on the padded mat, the weight of it leaving my hands feeling strangely light and empty.

Slowly, deliberately, I turned within the small circle of his arms.

Turning around was a mistake—or the best thing I’d done all night.

Miguel didn’t back away. He stayed rooted, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

Up close, the workshop lights cast deep shadows across the planes of his face, making his expression unreadable, though his dark eyes held a predatory kind of patience.

"You're supposed to be stripping the weapon, Alejandro," he said. His voice was a low rasp, but his hands stayed firmly planted on the workbench on either side of my hips, effectively pinning me against the wood.

"I remembered the feel of it," I countered, my voice steadier than I felt. I reached up, my fingers grazing his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscle beneath his shirt. I wanted to see if I could knock him off balance the way he’d done to me. "I think I've got the mechanics down. It's the... technique I'm struggling with."

The air between us was electric, thick enough to taste. Miguel’s gaze dropped to my lips, and for a heartbeat, the mask of the teacher slipped. His thumb reached out, tracing the line of my jaw before settling at the corner of my mouth. His palm was rough, smelling of steel and salt, and the contact sent a jolt straight to my core.

"Technique is everything," he murmured, his thumb pressing just hard enough against my lower lip to pull it down, exposing the damp heat beneath. "And you're a very distracted student."

He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching mine.

I could feel the heat radiating off him, a physical force that made it hard to think. I wasn't looking at the gun anymore; I was looking at the way his eyelashes cast long shadows and the way his breath hitched, just for a second, when I moved my hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck.

"So teach me," I whispered, the words disappearing into the fraction of an inch that remained between us.

Miguel didn't move to kiss me—not yet. He just hovered there, letting me endure the agony of the near-miss, his hands sliding from the workbench to grip my waist, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer until there was no light left between us.

"Everything has a sequence," he said against my skin. "You have to know exactly when to pull the trigger."

The tension was ripe now, I patiently expected it to snap and leave us both scarred. I could feel the rough fabric pants beneath my palms and the steady, heat-radiating bulk of him pinning me against the workbench.

We were balanced on a razor’s edge, the air between our lips practically sparking.

But then, Miguel’s eyes cleared. That dark, predatory focus shifted back into something disciplined, something infuriatingly professional.

He pulled away but not completely,the predatory edge softened into a smirk that was somehow more devastating.

He let his hands slide from my waist back to my hips, not to pull me closer, but to firmly guide me back around to face the workbench. The loss of his heat against my front felt like a physical blow.

"Sequence, Alejandro," he reminded me, his voice returning to that steady, instructional hum, though the gravelly undertone remained.

He stepped back just an inch—enough to give me room to breathe, but not enough to let me forget he was there. "You don't get to skip to the end of the manual just because you've mastered the grip."

I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white, my heart still trying to kick its way out of my ribs. "I wasn't skipping," I muttered, trying to find my center. "I was... testing the safety."

I let out a laugh—a low huff of air that brushed against the back of my neck. He reached over my shoulders, his arms framing mine as he picked up a fresh magazine from the tray. His chest grazed my back again, a deliberate reminder of exactly how much control he held over the space between us.

"The safety is only as good as the man holding the weapon," he said.

He leaned down, his lips hovering just an inch from the shell of my ear. "And right now, your hands are shaking."

I looked down. He was right. My fingers were trembling, a visible betrayal of the fire he’d just stoked.

He reached out, his large, steady hand covering mine, stilling the movement. He didn't let go; he just held my hand against the cold steel of the gun, grounding me.

"Again," he commanded, but this time it wasn't a growl; it was a challenge. "From the beginning. Disassemble, clean, reassemble. And this time, Alejandro, keep your eyes on the sights."

He stayed there, his hand resting over mine for a second longer than necessary before he finally retreated to the other side of the room to watch.

The silence was no longer heavy with just oil and steel—it was heavy with the unspoken promise of what would happen when the lesson was finally over.

I picked up the tool, the metal feeling warmer than before. I had a feeling this was going to be a very long night.

I took a long, slow breath, pulling the scent of gun oil and cold air deep into my lungs. I had to get a grip.

Miguel was watching me from the shadows of the far wall, his silhouette relaxed but his eyes—I could feel them—tracking every movement I made.

I picked up the slide. The metal felt different now—less like a cold tool and more like an extension of the discipline I needed to find. I forced my thoughts away from the ghost of his hands on my hips and focused on the mechanical logic of the weapon.

Slide, barrel, recoil spring.

I worked with a clinical precision I didn't know I possessed. Each piece clicked into place with a sharp, rhythmic finality. I wasn't just assembling a gun; I was rebuilding the wall between us, brick by brick.

By the time I racked the slide to check the action, my hands were as steady as stone. The sound—a sharp, aggressive clack-clack—echoed through the rafters, signaling that I was back in control.

I didn't turn around this time. I kept my back to him, staring at the finished weapon on the mat. "Done," I said, my voice flat and professional.

I heard the slow, deliberate creak of his boots as he walked toward me. He stopped just behind my right shoulder, his presence still a heavy pressure, but I didn't flinch.

He reached out, his fingers brushing mine as he picked up the gun to inspect my work. He checked the tension, the alignment, and the safety.

"Perfect," he admitted. The word was quiet, almost a private thought. He set the gun back down and let his hand linger on the table, close enough that the heat from his skin jumped the gap to mine. "You learn fast when you aren't fighting the instructor."

I knew he was trying to complement me but that statement made me want to fight him

more.

He walked over to the door and flicked the main light switch. The sudden shift to the dim, amber glow of the security lights changed the mood instantly, making the workshop feel less like a classroom and more like a sanctuary.

"That's enough for tonight," Miguel said, grabbing his jacket from a hook.

I followed him out, the cool night air hitting my face like a shock. As we stepped onto the gravel path, he paused to lock the heavy metal door. In the moonlight, the tension from the workshop didn't disappear; it just changed shape, becoming something leaner and more dangerous.

As we walked to the car, his arm brushed against mine—a casual, accidental contact that felt like a lightning strike. He didn't apologize. He just looked at me, a faint, knowing tilt to his lips.

"We're leaving for the field," he said, his voice dropping into that low register again. "We'll see how much you remember if things get hot ”

“I guess we'd have to wait and see.”

He pushed a button on his key and the door clicked

I got into the car and sat beside him, my heart still pounding with excitement

Right before the vehicle pulls out, like he read my mind he said

“This time, if you die, it won’t be because of me.”

“If I die, it’ll be because I listened to you.”i muttered.

Miguel almost — almost — smiled

Miguel stepped on the gas and the car moved

Not long aftrvweleft the house i heard Miguel mutter under his breath, instinctively I looked at the mirror, the one object his eyes had been fixated on.

I noticed Miguel’s hand subtly reach for his gun.

“We are being followed.”he warned, “let's see how much of what you remember.”