Denver knew what he had to say. He had all the words on the tip of his tongue, swirling around his brain. But somehow, he still had no clue. "What should I do, Papa?" he muttered, wanting his father more than ever.

"She's out of your league, son." Moscow had said, and Denver knew it was true. He didn't understand why Monica had picked him, out of all people. He didn't know why she had gone with him after the heist. He had no clue why she hadn't dumped him sooner but what he did know what that those two years of happiness didn't mean nothing. She could have left him a thousand times and she didn't, not until they were both stressed out of their minds with the heist, not until they had both nearly cracked under the pressure of it.

He knew that he would never forgive himself if something happened to her and he hadn't fixed things, or at least tried his best to fix things.

Denver took a deep breath, shoving his shaking hands deep into his pockets. Stand up straight, son. He could almost hear Moscow's voice, almost feel that slap to the back of his head, and so he straightened up and put his hands by his sides. He walked over to her where she was sitting by herself, examining the gold pellets carefully.

"Monica?" he said, clearing his throat, and she looked up.

"Yes, Denver?" she replied, attempting a smile that they both knew wasn't real.

"I have to- I have to tell you something."

Monica nodded, absently twisting a blonde curl around her finger. "Go ahead."

Denver sighed, and looked at her with those clear blue eyes. Monica had fallen in love with his eyes first. They were so expressive. When she first met him, when he was acting all tough and scary, she saw in his eyes that he didn't really want to be acting that way. She saw that he loved her in his eyes. And she saw now how scared he was, and Monica just wanted to go home.

"I just- oh Monica. I can't do this anymore," he choked, and Monica's stomach dropped.

"What do you mean?" she said carefully, slowly. She tried not to fidget.

He ran his hands through his hair. "I can't not talk to you, Monica, especially now. I am so sorry for the fight we had, in the monastery. I was stupid, and scared. I was scared that you would be killed, or that I would be killed, or that we'd both be killed. I was scared of leaving Cinci alone and scared that we would never return to him. And I'm still scared, Monica, every day, even more now, especially after-" Nairobi. A pang went through him, andhe bit his lip, trying to swallow the painful lump in his throat.

"Denver," murmured Monica, putting a gentle hand on his arm. She felt it too, he saw it in her face, saw it in her furrowed eyebrows, saw it in her trembling lips. "it's okay, you-"

"No. Can I- can I finish?"

She loved that he asked her that. "Of course."

"I don't know what I would do if you were shot and I hadn't said this. And I don't want to die without having said this-"

"Dani, you're not going to die. Neither am I," Monica interrupted, and he looked at her. She was just as surprised as he was - she never called him Dani.

"Monica, please," Denver said desperately, and she nodded. "I will change. Yeah, I get angry, you saw with Arturo. It's the heist, the pressure just gets to me. But that piece of shit forced himself on you, tried to kiss you, rubbed his dick all over you… when I heard that, I saw red, Monica, I swear I was two fucking inches away from killing him. And now there's that poor hostage, saying that he raped her… I still want to kill him, Monica, I won't lie to you. Whenever I hear his voice, whenever I see his face, I just want to rip that fucker's head from his neck."

Denver paused and put his hands to his head, breathing deeply. "I didn't mean to scare you, Monica, it absolutely kills me that you're scared of me. You are everything to me, Monica, you and Cinci. Nothing else in this world matters. And I am so sorry for how I acted and I hope you know that I would never, ever treat you the way that hijo de puta treated you. I would throw myself into lava a billion times before treating you that way."

She looked at him, her dark eyes liquid. "I'm not scared of you," she told him firmly, wanting to scream it from the rooftops.

His chin trembled. "I'm so sorry, Monica, for all my mistakes. I'm stupid, I know that, and I-I can't promise that there won't be any more mistakes, because I'm an idiot."

Monica laughed, and it was like music to his ears. She shook her head. "You're not an idiot."

"I am. I am an idiot and I make bullshit mistakes and I say bullshit things but that's all they are – bullshit. That stuff about Tokyo being a Maserati? Bullshit. That stuff I said, in the monastery? Bullshit. It's not to be taken seriously, Monica. I just get so panicked and I can't - I just – I already lost my Papa, and my mother before that. I don't know what I would do if I lost you. I would never forgive myself."

A tear fell from her eye, and she stood up, taking off her gloves and setting them aside. "Denver," she whispered, moving toward him. "You're not going to lose me. I know I said that I couldn't do it, but I will fight for us, Denver, if you can promise that you'll do the same."

He pulled her close to him, and she melted into his arms. "I promise," he whispered back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and stoking her wild curls away from her face. He tilted her chin up and put his hands on her cheeks. "I promise," he repeated. "Will you- can you forgive me? I mean, if you can't, I get it, I fucked up big time, and I-"

"Denver," she laughed again, and he stopped. "I forgive you. I'm sorry too."

"No, you don't need to- don't be sorry. I'm the one that fucked up. Oh, um, I made you something," he told her, remembering, suddenly, the necklace that Bogota told him would be a stupid way to make things up to her.

"You made me something?" Her face lit up, and he shook his head.

"No, never mind. It's stupid." He wished he hadn't brought it up. It was the ugliest piece of shit jewellery he'd ever laid his eyes on, and he was sure that she would laugh at it.

"Denver, you made me something, I want to see it."

He sighed. The necklace was his equivalent of a child's macaroni necklace, except his was heart-shaped and made from solid gold. "Really, Monica, it sucks, you don't want it, I shouldn't have even brought it up. Forget it."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"I said, bullshit. I want to see whatever it is you made for me, Denver." She stretched out her hand, and he looked at it, so pale in the dim light of the basement.

Wordlessly, he took the wonky, golden heart out of his pocket, and put it in her outstretched hand. His face went red, and he wished she would say something.

"Denver."

"Y-yes?" he croaked.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"You like it?" he asked her incredulously.

She smiled and stroked his face. "You made it for me, Denver. Of course I like it. I love it, actually."

He took the necklace from her hand. Lifting her hair, he slid the necklace over her head, brushing his fingers against the back of her neck. "Is that okay?"

"Yes. Now, come here," she said, and kissed him, not caring that they were in full view of the welders. She hummed something against his lips, and they swayed to imaginary music.

Denver had had his doubts, but in that moment, with Monica close, he felt that everything would be okay. Things would never be the same, he knew that. This heist had changed them all too much and Denver knew that some of those changes would always be with them, permanent scars to add to all the other scars they'd collected over time, over heists.

But Denver knew that one thing would never change – how much he loved Monica.