Sara Ikari Rodriguez
When I walked into the study the next morning, it wasn’t quiet.
It felt quiet — but the kind that builds pressure in your chest.
Matio was hunched over his desk again, surrounded by notes, highlighted lists, a laptop open to security cam screenshots, and a wall
of names I didn’t recognize.
But I recognized him.
This wasn’t the man who made me tea.
Or tucked a blanket over my shoulders.
This was someone colder. Focused. Unshakably still.
I stood in the doorway, pulse racing.
“Tell me you’re not stalking my past,” I said.
He didn’t even flinch. “I’m protecting your future.”
I stepped forward slowly.
“You haven’t slept. You’ve been digging through records, calling in favors, doing… whatever it is you do when you're in fix-it
mode.”
He finally looked up.
