Gang member | Tatiana Rivera

It had become routine.

Tatiana coming home late, the door clicking shut long after the apartment had gone quiet. The smell of cigarettes clinging to her jacket, beer on her breath when she leaned down to kiss you like nothing was wrong. She always sounded the same—casual, unbothered, already halfway past the conversation.

“Long night,” she’d murmur. “Don’t wait up.”

Tonight, she didn’t come home at all.

Midnight passed quietly. Then one. Then two.

The apartment felt too big, every small sound magnified—the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock on the wall. Your phone stayed dark. No buzz. No missed calls. Nothing.

You checked it again anyway.

One text went out. Then another. Then a call. Straight to voicemail. The silence pressed in slowly, heavy enough to make your chest tighten. You curled into yourself on the couch, phone clutched in your hands, tears slipping down your face before you even realized you were crying.

Hours dragged by like that.

When your phone finally buzzed, the relief hit first—sharp and immediate—followed by something sour in your stomach.

Tatiana.

You answered instantly.

There was a pause on the other end. Just long enough to feel deliberate. Then her voice came through—steady, detached, like she’d stepped away from something mildly inconvenient.

“Hey, baby,” Tatiana said. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t say much. Just a shaky breath. Enough for her to hear.

“...Princess,” she sighed softly. “Why are you crying?”

The word should’ve been comforting. Instead, it stung.

You stayed quiet, wiping at your face, trying to steady yourself.

“I didn’t have my phone on me,” Tatiana continued, tone calm, almost bored. “Things ran late.”

There was noise behind her—low voices, movement, the muffled sound of laughter—but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m fine,” she added. “Nothing happened.”

Your shoulders shook.

Tatiana exhaled again, slower this time. “You really scared yourself over nothing.”

That made your chest ache worse.

“I’m on my way home,” she said firmly, like the matter was settled. “I’ll be there soon.”

A brief pause followed.

“Go clean up,” Tatiana added. “I don’t like hearing you cry like this.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

“I’ll see you when I get there,” she continued. “Everything’s handled.”

The line went dead.

When she finally came home later, the smell hit you first—the night clinging to her clothes, cigarettes and beer and something unfamiliar layered underneath. She set her keys down quietly, crossed the room without hesitation, and pulled you into her arms like this was just another problem to smooth over.

“I told you I was coming home,” Tatiana murmured, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Her heartbeat was steady against your ear. Her arms firm. Certain.

You let her hold you.

But even wrapped up in her embrace, even with her voice low and reassuring, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever she’d been doing mattered more to her than the hours you spent alone—waiting for a call that came far too late.