Chapter 7: Three Days in Rio
The 787 banked over Guanabara Bay at dusk, and Rio de Janeiro unfolded beneath them like a fever dream.
Dom had seen cities from the air for twenty years—the grid of Los Angeles, the sprawl of Tokyo, the gray ribbon of the Thames cutting through London. None of them hit like this. The mountains rose from the water like the spines of sleeping beasts. The favelas clung to their slopes in patches of terracotta and neon. The beaches curved along the coastline, pale and endless, and beyond them the Atlantic stretched dark and indifferent toward Africa.
He felt something shift in his chest. Not the familiar hunger. Something older. Something he couldn't name.
Valeria was in the right seat, running through the descent checklist with her usual precision. She hadn't mentioned Buenos Aires since they'd left Madrid. Hadn't mentioned the cockpit, or the sunrise, or the words they'd exchanged on that bench in San Telmo. Professional. Clean. Like none of it had happened.
Dom respected that. He also didn't trust it.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"Just looking."
"At what?"
"The city."
She glanced out the window. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah."
"First time here?"
"No." Dom adjusted the trim. "Third. But it's been a while."
"How long?"
"Eight years. Maybe nine."
Valeria didn't ask why he'd stopped coming. She didn't need to. The answer was written in the spaces between his words—the way he'd burned through cities like cigarettes, lighting one off the last until there was nothing left but ash and the smell of smoke on his fingers.
They landed at Galeão International just after seven. The heat hit Dom like a wall when he stepped off the jet bridge—humid, heavy, carrying the scent of salt and diesel and something sweet he couldn't identify. The terminal was chaos. Families embracing. Taxi drivers shouting. A group of tourists in matching shirts arguing about luggage.
Dom moved through it all like water. He'd learned to navigate airports the way other people navigated their living rooms—without thinking, without effort, every turn memorized.
The crew hotel was in Ipanema, a block from the beach. He checked in, dropped his bag, and stood at the window watching the ocean.
His phone buzzed.
Kenji: You there?
Dom: Just landed.
Kenji: Rio. Lucky bastard. You know what they say about Rio.
Dom: What do they say?
Kenji: That no one sleeps.
Dom: Who needs sleep?
Kenji: You're forty-two. You need sleep.
Dom: Forty-three next month.
Kenji: Even worse.
Dom smiled. Put the phone down. Stared at the ocean.
The logbook was in his bag. He hadn't written in it since Buenos Aires. Not because he didn't want to. Because he didn't know what to say.
---
He went out at nine.
The streets of Ipanema were alive—neon signs, street vendors, the thrum of samba drifting from open bar doors. Women in tiny dresses walked in packs. Men in linen shirts smoked cigarettes on corners. The air smelled of grilled meat and cachaça and the salt of the sea.
Dom walked without purpose. That was the trick. Set a direction, keep moving, let the city come to him.
He found a bar on the corner of Visconde de Pirajá—small, crowded, a band playing in the back. He ordered a caipirinha and stood at the counter, watching the room.
The samba dancer caught his eye within five minutes.
She was young—mid-twenties, maybe—with skin the color of caramel and hair that fell past her shoulders in dark waves. She wore a red dress that left nothing to the imagination and moved like she'd been dancing since before she could walk. Her hips swayed. Her feet beat a rhythm against the floor. Her smile was electric.
She noticed him watching. Held his gaze. Didn't look away.
Dom raised his glass. She laughed.
Her name was Leila. She was a dancer at a club in Lapa. She'd grown up in the favela of Mangueira, where her grandmother had taught her to samba before she could read. She spoke English with a heavy accent and Portuguese with her whole body.
"You're a pilot," she said. Not a question.
"How'd you know?"
"The way you stand." She took a sip of his caipirinha. "Like you're always about to leave."
Dom smiled. "Maybe I am."
"Maybe you should stay."
She finished his drink. Set the glass down. Took his hand.
"Come," she said. "I want to show you something."
---
Her apartment was in Mangueira—a narrow building painted the color of a bruised plum, wedged between two others like a tooth in a crowded mouth. The stairs were steep and dark. The walls were thin. Music bled through from the neighbors—funk, samba, a TV playing a novela at full volume.
The apartment itself was small. A bed. A table. A hammock strung across the window that looked out over the street. The air smelled of jasmine and something cooking—beans, maybe, garlic and onion.
Leila didn't turn on the light.
She pushed him against the wall. Kissed him hard. Her mouth tasted of cachaça and lime. Her hands found his belt, his zipper, the waistband of his boxers.
"Wait," he said.
"Why?"
"Just—wait."
She pulled back. Looked at him. Her eyes were dark, curious.
"You think too much," she said.
"Yeah."
"Don't."
She kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower.
He let her undress him. Let her push him toward the hammock. Let her straddle him in the darkness while the samba from the street played like a soundtrack.
She was warm. Wet. Ready.
She took him inside her with a gasp.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Dom grabbed her hips. Felt the hammock sway beneath them. Felt the rhythm of her body against his.
She rode him slowly at first. Deliberately. Like she was savoring it. Then faster. Harder. The hammock creaked. The music thumped. Someone in the street laughed.
"More," she said. "Deeper."
He thrust up into her. She cried out. Begged him in Portuguese—words he didn't understand but felt in his bones.
"Fuck me," she gasped. "Fuck me like you mean it."
He did.
He fucked her until the hammock threatened to break. Until she came with a scream that would've woken the neighbors if the neighbors weren't already awake. Until he came inside her, his hands gripping her ass, his teeth clenched against the need to roar.
She collapsed against him. Breathless. Laughing.
"See?" she said. "I told you to stay."
Dom stared at the ceiling. Felt the sweat cooling on his skin. Felt the weight of her body on his.
"Yeah," he said. "You did."
---
He left at dawn.
She was asleep when he slipped out—curled on the bed like a cat, one arm draped over the pillow. He pulled on his clothes. Wrote his number on the back of a receipt. Left it on the table.
He didn't know if she'd call. Didn't know if he wanted her to.
The streets were quiet. The sun was rising over the mountains. He walked back to Ipanema through neighborhoods that were just waking up—bakers pulling fresh bread from ovens, old men drinking coffee on stoops, dogs sniffing at trash cans.
His phone buzzed.
Kenji: How was Rio?
Dom: It's Rio.
Kenji: That's not an answer.
Dom: You're right.
Kenji: You okay?
Dom: I don't know.
Kenji: Call me if you need to.
Dom stopped walking. Stared at the phone. Wanted to call. Wanted to hear Kenji's voice—steady, familiar, the way it sounded when he was talking about his kids or his wife or the boat he was building in his garage. Wanted to be told what to do.
He didn't call.
---
The married socialite found him that afternoon.
He was at the hotel bar, nursing a scotch and staring at nothing, when she sat down beside him. Tall. Elegant. Diamond earrings the size of his thumbnail. A wedding band that caught the light like a warning.
"You look lost," she said.
"I'm not."
"Then why are you drinking alone at three in the afternoon?"
Dom looked at her. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. A mouth that promised everything and nothing.
"I'm a pilot," he said. "Drinking alone is part of the job."
She laughed. Ordered a martini. Told him her name was Isabel. Her husband was in São Paulo on business. She was bored.
"You want to get out of here?" she asked.
"Where would we go?"
"Anywhere."
---
Her car was a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a driver who didn't look back once. She gave him an address. The engine purred. The city drifted past like a movie on mute.
She didn't kiss him yet. Just sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and something sharper, like cut grass. Her knee pressed against his. Her hand rested on his thigh.
"You know who you are," she said.
"I know who people think I am."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Let her hand drift higher. "I like that."
The driver turned onto a side street. Slowed. Stopped.
"Wait here," she told him.
Then she turned to Dom. "Back seat."
They climbed over the console. She pulled him down beside her. Kissed him with an urgency that felt like hunger—like she was trying to consume him, like she knew this was the only chance she'd get.
"You want this," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Then take it."
He pushed her onto the leather. Lifted her skirt. Pulled aside her underwear—silk, expensive, already soaked.
He buried his face between her legs.
She gasped. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her hips bucked against his mouth.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Don't stop."
He didn't.
He licked her until she came—quick, sharp, a shudder that ran through her whole body. Then he pulled her up. Flipped her onto her stomach. Held her against the seat.
He entered her from behind with one thrust.
She screamed. He covered her mouth with his hand.
"Shh," he said. "The driver."
"Fuck the driver."
He did.
He fucked her hard. The car rocked slightly. The leather creaked. Her fingers clawed at the door handle. Her legs spread as wide as they could in the cramped space.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes. God. Yes."
"Cock-hungry bitch."
"Your cock-hungry bitch. Fuck."
He grabbed her hair. Pulled her head back. Her back arched. Her ass pressed against him.
He fucked her until she came again. Until her legs gave out. Until he pulled out and came on her lower back, watching the white streaks paint her skin.
She laughed. Breathless. Wrecked.
"You ruined me," she said.
"Good."
She pulled down her skirt. Fixed her hair. Gave him an address in Leblon.
"Drop him here," she told the driver.
Dom climbed out. The car disappeared around a corner.
He stood on the sidewalk for a long time. The sun was setting. The sky was orange and pink and gold. Somewhere in the distance, samba played.
---
The American tourist found him that night.
He wasn't looking for her—or anyone. He was sitting at a hostel bar in Botafogo, nursing a beer, watching a football match on a grainy TV. She sat down beside him. Blonde. Early twenties. A camera around her neck and a guidebook in her hand.
"You're American," she said.
"So are you."
She laughed. Ordered a caipirinha. Told him her name was Emma. She was from Ohio. She'd just graduated from college. She was traveling for a year before she started law school.
"Fuck law school," she said.
"Fuck it," Dom agreed.
They drank. Talked. Laughed.
Her hostel was nearby. His hotel was closer.
"Your place or mine?" she asked.
"Mine."
---
The room was on the fifteenth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of Copacabana Beach spread out like a postcard—sand, surf, the lights of the city curving along the coast.
She pressed herself against the glass. Looked down at the beach. Laughed.
"This is insane," she said.
"It's just a view."
"It's not just a view." She turned to face him. "It's everything."
He kissed her.
She tasted of lime and sugar and the recklessness of youth. Her hands found his belt. His found hers. They undressed each other in a tangle of limbs and laughter and the kind of urgency that only comes when you know you'll never see someone again.
He picked her up. Pressed her against the glass. She wrapped her legs around him.
"Fuck me," she said. "Fuck me against the window."
He did.
She was tight. Young. Soaking wet. Her back slammed against the glass as he thrust into her. Her tits bounced. Her head fell back. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Oh god," she gasped. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck."
"You like that?"
"Yes. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't.
He fucked her until the glass fogged. Until her legs shook. Until she came with a wail that echoed off the walls.
He put her on the floor. Spread her legs. Fucked her again.
The city glittered below them. The waves crashed against the shore. The moon hung heavy in the sky.
"Come inside me," she begged. "Please. Please come inside me."
He did.
He came with a grunt. Filled her up. Collapsed on top of her.
They lay there for a long time. The city hummed. The stars wheeled. The glass grew cold against their skin.
She fell asleep eventually. Dom carried her to the bed. Pulled the sheet over her.
He stood at the window. Looked out at the ocean.
His phone buzzed.
Carmen: I miss you.
He stared at the words.
Three little words. Four letters, two spaces, another four letters. Nothing at all.
Everything.
He thought about the logbook in his bag. The blank pages waiting.
He thought about Rio. The samba dancer. The socialite. The tourist. Their bodies. Their moans. Their hunger.
He thought about the sunrise over Buenos Aires. Valeria's words on that bench. "I see you."
He thought about Kenji. About the photograph in his logbook. About what it meant to have something worth coming home to.
He typed: I miss you too.
Then he deleted it.
Then he typed it again.
Then he sent it.
The reply came almost instantly.
Carmen: Good.
Dom smiled. Put the phone down. Looked out at the ocean.
The sky was beginning to lighten. The first hints of dawn creeping over the mountains. Somewhere in the city, a rooster crowed.
He didn't sleep. He just stood there, watching the sun rise over Copacabana Beach.
And for the first time in twenty years, he didn't feel like he was running.
He felt like he was arriving.
The blank pages in his logbook were still waiting. But they didn't feel like empty promises anymore.
They felt like possibilities.
He opened the book. Wrote: Rio. Day one. Leila. Isabel. Emma. I still don't know.
Then he wrote: But I'm starting to.
Then he closed the book and went to wake Emma up.
The sun was up. The beach was alive. The day was waiting.
And for once, so was he.
The sun was up. The beach was alive. The day was waiting.
And for once, so was he.
Emma stirred in the bed behind him. The sheets rustled. She mumbled something in her sleep—a name, maybe, or a fragment of a dream—and rolled onto her back. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled gold. Her lips were parted. Her breathing was slow and even.
Dom watched her for a moment. Then he opened his bag.
The logbook was where he'd left it—wedged between his spare uniform shirt and the paperback he'd been carrying for three flights without reading a single page. The leather cover was worn at the corners. The pages were soft from years of use.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Pen in hand. Read what he'd written the night before.
Rio. Day one. Leila. Isabel. Emma. I still don't know.
But I'm starting to.
The words looked foreign. Like someone else had written them.
Emma shifted again. Her eyes opened. Blinked against the light.
"Hey," she said. Voice thick with sleep.
"Hey."
"What time is it?"
"Early."
She stretched. The sheet slipped. Her breasts caught the sunlight from the window—small, pale, nipples hard from the cool of the air conditioning.
"Come back to bed," she said.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I have a flight."
She propped herself up on one elbow. Looked at him. Really looked.
"You're leaving," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Buenos Aires."
She laughed. Not bitter. Just—amused. "Of course you are."
Dom stood. Pulled on his uniform. Buttoned the shirt. Fastened the tie. The movements were automatic. Twenty years of muscle memory.
"You want breakfast?" he asked.
"Nah." She flopped back onto the pillow. "I'm gonna sleep."
"Okay."
"Hey."
He turned.
"Thanks," she said. "For last night."
"Thank you."
She smiled. Closed her eyes. Was asleep within seconds.
Dom finished dressing. Grabbed his bag. Took one last look at the room—the rumpled sheets, the fogged window, the view of the beach that still looked like a postcard.
Then he left.
---
The crew van picked him up at six.
Valeria was already inside. She sat in the back row, headphones on, staring out the window. She didn't acknowledge him when he climbed in.
Dom took a seat two rows ahead. Watched the city slide past.
Ipanema gave way to Copacabana. Copacabana gave way to the highway. The favelas on the hillsides caught the morning light—orange and pink and yellow, stacked like children's blocks. The ocean glittered on the right. The mountains loomed on the left.
The driver played samba on the radio. Dom didn't understand the words. He didn't need to.
They reached Galeão in forty minutes. The terminal was a blur of fluorescent lights and moving walkways and announcements in three languages. Dom moved through it like a ghost.
Valeria caught up to him at the gate.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks."
She studied him. Her eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
"Anyone I know?"
"No."
She nodded. Didn't push. They boarded the plane together—Captain and First Officer, side by side, professional as always.
The pre-flight checks were routine. Dom ran through them without thinking. Switches. Gauges. Instruments. The 787 hummed beneath him like a living thing.
"Ready?" Valeria asked.
"Ready."
They pushed back from the gate at 7:42. Taxied to the runway. Cleared for takeoff at 7:58.
The engines roared. The plane lifted. Rio shrank beneath them—the beaches, the mountains, the favelas, the city that had given him three days and two nights and a glimpse of something he couldn't name.
Dom watched it disappear. Then he turned to the instruments. Then he turned to Valeria.
She was watching him.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"Same thing."
She smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
"You're different," she said.
"Everyone's different."
"No. You. Something's changed."
Dom adjusted the trim. Did not look at her.
"You're imagining things," he said.
"I don't imagine things, Captain."
"Then what do you call it?"
"Paying attention."
---
They leveled off at 38,000 feet. The Atlantic stretched beneath them—endless, indifferent, the color of slate. The autopilot hummed. The cockpit was quiet.
Valeria broke the silence first.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
"Last night. Or the night before. In Buenos Aires. You said you didn't know."
"Didn't know what?"
"The truth."
Dom stared at the horizon. The sun was rising behind them now—a thin line of gold along the edge of the world.
"I still don't," he said.
"Then why did you call her?"
"I didn't call anyone."
"Bullshit."
He turned. "What?"
"You called someone. I can see it on your face."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about the way you've been looking at your phone for the last hour. I'm talking about the way you smiled when you thought I wasn't looking."
Dom didn't answer. Didn't know how.
"Her name's Carmen," Valeria said.
It wasn't a question.
Dom's jaw tightened. "How do you know?"
"I don't. I guessed."
"That's a hell of a guess."
"I'm good at reading people."
She leaned back in her seat. Watched him with those sharp, calculating eyes.
"So," she said. "Carmen."
"What about her?"
"Who is she?"
Dom thought about it. Tried to find the right words. Failed.
"She's a flight attendant," he said. "We met in London. Two years ago. Maybe three."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"Bullshit."
"Stop saying that."
"You're lying to yourself, Captain. That's not the same as lying to me."
He didn't respond.
The silence stretched. The plane hummed.
"You love her," Valeria said.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know what love is."
She laughed. Not unkindly.
"That's the most honest thing you've said all week," she said.
"I'm not trying to be honest."
"No. You're trying to avoid being honest. There's a difference."
Dom looked at her. "Why do you care?"
"I don't."
"Then why are you asking?"
"Because I'm curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"I'm not a cat."
"No," he said. "You're not."
---
They crossed the equator at 11:23 Buenos Aires time. The sky was clear. The ocean was calm. Nothing to do but watch the instruments and think.
Valeria had gone quiet. Her eyes were closed. Her breath was slow.
Dom thought about Carmen. The way she laughed. The way she looked at him. The way she was always waiting—in every city, in every time zone, in every moment he needed her.
He thought about Rio. Leila's body. Isabel's mouth. Emma's breathless plea.
None of them were Carmen.
But none of them were the answer, either.
His phone buzzed. He shouldn't check it. Not in the cockpit. Not on duty.
He checked it anyway.
Carmen: When do you land?
Dom: Two hours.
Carmen: I'll be there.
Dom: You don't have to.
Carmen: I know.
Dom: Why are you doing this?
Carmen: Because you called me.
Dom: That's not an answer.
Carmen: It's the only one you get.
He put the phone away. Looked at Valeria. Her eyes were open. Watching.
"Carmen," she said.
"Yes."
"She's meeting you at the airport."
"How the hell do you—"
"It's all over your face."
Dom shook his head. "You're unnerving."
"Good."
She turned back to her instruments. Smiled.
---
They landed in Buenos Aires at 13:47 local time.
The 787 touched down with a whisper—wheels kissing the runway, flaps retracting, engines spooling down. Dom taxied to the gate with the ease of a man who'd done it ten thousand times.
The terminal was chaos. Families waiting. Taxi drivers arguing. A group of tourists in matching hats. Dom walked through it all with his bag over his shoulder and his eyes scanning the crowd.
She was there.
Standing by the arrivals gate. Dark hair. Red jacket. A smile that could light up a runway.
Carmen.
Dom moved toward her. The crowd parted. The noise faded.
"You came," he said.
"You called."
"That's not—"
"It's enough."
She kissed him. Soft. Slow. Her lips tasted of coffee and cinnamon.
"I missed you," she said.
"I missed you too."
"Say it again."
"I missed you."
She laughed. Pulled him close.
"Liar."
"What?"
"You didn't miss me. You missed the idea of me. There's a difference."
Dom didn't have an answer. She was right. She was always right.
"Come on," she said. "I have a car."
"What about my crew?"
"Valeria knows."
Dom turned. Valeria was standing by the gate, watching them. She raised a hand. Walked away.
"She knows what?" Dom asked.
"Everything."
"How?"
"I told her."
Dom stared. "What?"
"I called her. This morning. Before you took off."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see if you'd still come."
"And if I hadn't?"
"Then I would have known."
She took his hand. Led him through the crowd. The glass doors slid open. The sun hit them like a wave.
"You know what I think?" Carmen said.
"What?"
"I think you're not running anymore."
"I'm not."
"Then what?"
Dom stopped. Turned. Looked at her—really looked.
"I'm walking," he said. "With you."
She smiled. Kissed him again.
Then she led him to the car.
---
The restaurant was in San Telmo. Small. Dim. The walls were covered in photographs—old tango dancers, faded politicians, children with missing teeth. The air smelled of garlic and grilled meat and expectation.
Dom had asked her to pick.
Buenos Aires stretched beyond the window like a promise he didn't know how to keep. The city buzzed. The night hummed.
They ordered wine. Empanadas. Steak. They talked about nothing. Everything. The space between them.
Then she said it.
"I need to tell you something."
Dom set down his glass.
"Okay."
"I'm not... This isn't what you think."
"What isn't?" This. I'm not your girlfriend. I'm not your wife. I'm not the woman waiting for you."
Dom didn't blink. "I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then what am I?"
He thought about it. Really thought.
"You're the only person who ever asked me a question I couldn't answer."
Carmen leaned back. A slow smile spread across her face.
"And what question is that?"
"Whether I'm happy."
"Are you?"
Dom reached across the table. Took her hand.
"I don't know," he said. "But I want to find out."
She stood. Took his hand.
"Then let's go find out."
---
The hotel was nothing like the ones he usually stayed in—no corporate decor, no generic art on the walls, no room service menu with pictures. She'd chosen it deliberately. She wanted him somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere he couldn't fall back on routine.
The room was small. Warm. A bed. A window that opened onto a courtyard. The sound of a tango drifting up from below.
She pushed him onto the mattress. Stood over him. Unbuttoned her blouse. Let it fall.
"No promises," she said.
"No promises."
She stripped off her skirt. Her underwear. Stood naked in the lamplight.
"I'm not like the others," she said.
"I know."
"Good."
She climbed onto the bed. Straddled him. Kissed him slow. Then she lifted her hips. Took him inside her.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She didn't answer. Just started to move—slow at first, then faster, her hands pressed against his chest, her breathing sharp and uneven.
She rode him with her eyes open. Watching him the whole time. Like she wanted to see every flicker of pleasure on his face.
"You like that?" she said.
"Yes."
"Say my name."
"Carmen."
"Again."
"Carmen."
She fucked him harder. Harder. Her rhythm turned punishing—snapping hips, tightening walls, her nails digging into his chest. He grabbed her ass. Pulled her down. Met every thrust.
"Don't stop," she said.
"I won't."
He flipped her onto her back. Drove into her. The headboard slammed the wall. She hooked her legs around his waist. Took every inch.
"Christ," she moaned. "Fuck me. Fuck me like you mean it."
He did.
He fucked her until the sweat dripped from his chin onto her breasts. Until her thighs clenched. Until she came with a shudder and a scream and a long, broken breath.
But he didn't stop.
"You want it?" he asked.
"I want it."
"Where?"
"Inside."
He drove deeper. Faster. The whole bed shook.
"Holy fuck," she whispered. "I'm gonna—"
"Again."
"I can't—"
"You can."
She did.
And when he felt it crest—that moment when everything else disappeared and there was only her, only this—he let go. Poured everything into her. Collapsed on top of her.
The room went still. The tango kept playing.
Then she said it.
"I won't be another name in your logbook."
Dom lifted his head. Looked at her.
"I didn't write your name," he said.
"I know."
"How?"
"Because you called me."
He stared. She stared back.
"You're not running anymore," she said. "You're walking. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then walk."
She pushed him off. Climbed out of bed. Stood at the window. Naked. Unashamed.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
"Now you choose."
"Choose what?"
"Whether you're the man who comes back. Or the man who keeps going."
Dom lay there. Stared at the ceiling. The city hummed. The tango played.
"I don't know if I can come back," he said.
"Then don't."
"Carmen—"
"Don't. Don't explain. Don't apologize. Just decide."
She turned. Met his eyes.
"And this time, mean it."
He sat up. Ran a hand through his hair. Twenty years of flights. Twenty years of women. Twenty years of running.
"You're the first person who's ever asked me to stay," he said.
"I know."
"And if I can't?"
"Then I'll know that too."
She walked toward him. Knelt on the bed. Took his face in her hands.
"Either way," she said, "you'll know who you are."
She kissed his forehead. Then his lips.
Then she said: "Your move, Captain."
The room went quiet.
The door was open.
The night was waiting.
And for the first time in twenty years, Dom didn't know if he was leaving or arriving.
He looked at her.
Then he looked at the door.
Then he made his choice.