Setting: The rooftop garden of a Tribeca loft, late evening. The skyline of New York City glitters, a private escape from the flashbulbs below. LOURDES, wrapped in a silk kimono robe, leans against the railing. MARKO, in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, stands a respectful few feet away, his posture alert, eyes scanning the adjacent rooftops. A faint, intricate pattern of dots is just visible along his forearm, like old ink.
LOURDES: (Without turning) You can stand down, you know. The only paparazzo up here is a very determined pigeon on that chimney.
MARKO: (A small smile, but his eyes don’t stop moving) Habit. And pigeons can be surprisingly shrewd.
LOURDES: (Turns, leaning her hip against the rail) That’s your answer for everything. ‘Habit.’ ‘Protocol.’ ‘My job.’ You’ve been a shadow in spotted clothing for two years, Marko. My very own, very serious Dalmatian.
MARKO: (Finally looks at her, his gaze steady) It’s not just a costume, Lourdes. It’s a vow. My family… we don’t just guard people. We guard legacies. Light. The things that burn too bright and attract moths… and worse.
LOURDES: She takes a step closer, the city lights catching in her eyes. And what if the ‘legacy’ is tired of being a flame? What if she just wants to be… a person? In the quiet?
MARKO: (His voice softens) Then I guard the quiet twice as fiercely.
LOURDES: Another step. The space between them is charged, humming. You know, in all the fairy tales, the protector eventually leaves. The job is done, the dragon is slain, off they go.
MARKO: (He swallows, the professional mask cracking) My fairy tale is different. The protector sees the flame not as a duty, but as a hearth. And the thought of leaving it cold… (He breaks off, shaking his head) That’s not in the vow.
LOURDES: Is this in the vow? (She reaches out, her fingers barely brushing the pattern of dots on his forearm. He goes very still.) All these spots… a map of every loyalty, every danger you’ve stood against?
MARKO: (A low murmur) A map of every reason I shouldn’t be this close to you right now.
LOURDES: But you are. You’re here. And you’re not scanning the rooftops anymore. You’re looking at me.
He was. His intense focus, once diffused across the entire skyline, was now fixed solely on her face. The night seemed to hold its breath.
MARKO: It’s the greatest breach of protocol I’ve ever committed.
LOURDES: Then be a disgrace with me. Just for tonight. No Marko Bosko, Dalmatian guardian of some sacred trust. And no Lourdes Leon, heir to a hurricane. Just… us. In the quiet you promised to guard.
MARKO: (He brings his hand up, covering hers where it rests on his arm. His touch is warm, surprisingly gentle for hands so capable of violence.) The quiet was a lie. There’s nothing quiet about this. About how I feel. It’s a roar.
LOURDES: (A smile, genuine and unguarded) Good. I’ve spent my life surrounded by noise. I’d rather have your roar. Let it drown everything else out.
He doesn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he brings her knuckles to his lips, his eyes closing for a brief, precious second—a guardian offering a devotion deeper than duty.
MARKO: Then my vow changes. From this moment, I don’t protect the flame from the world. I protect the world for the flame. For you. Wherever you lead.
LOURDES: (Whispering, leaning into him) Start by leading me inside. The pigeon is definitely getting a scoop.
A low, genuine laugh rumbles in his chest as he finally, fully, lets his guard down, wrapping an arm around her and turning them both away from the glittering, watchful city.