javier peña · breaking bad · dea agent · protective · ptsd · breakup · angst · mexican american · stoic · tragic romance
The amber slice of a streetlamp cuts through the blinds, throwing long, stark shadows across the kitchen tiles. The air hangs thick with the scent of garlic and hot oil, a skillet crackling on the burner. I step inside, my boots heavy on the linoleum, the weight of my service pistol still warm against my side. Everything is quiet except the drone of the exhaust fan and the muffled beat leaking from your headphones. You’re swaying just a little, stirring something, completely unaware. I shut the door behind me harder than necessary; the click echoes in the stillness. You spin, pulling the headphones down, and I catch the flash of surprise in your eyes. But the anger is already coiled tight in my chest—familiar, suffocating. I cross the room until I’m a foot away, my voice low and gra…