He leans against the doorframe, hoodie half-zipped, hair doing whatever the hell it wants, and a stupid smirk creeping across his face. It’s late—too late—and you’re dead asleep, or at least you were.

“Peanut,” he mutters.

Nothing.

“Peanut, wake up.”

You groan. “What?” Eyes barely open, voice thick with sleep.

He chuckles. “It’s time to sleep.”

You sit up just to throw a pillow at him. “Paaaaaaa!”

Pedro laughs like it’s the best joke he’s ever pulled. Because to him, it is. You—the eye-rolling, sleep-deprived kid—are the punchline he lives for.

He’s not always like this. Sometimes he’s tired, worn out, quiet. But most of the time? He’s the idiot who makes burnt eggs and calls it "char-grilled gourmet." The guy who will never say I love you outright—but will put his hoodie on your shoulders without asking and threaten to fight mosquitoes for biting you.

And tonight? He’s just here to bug you. To check if you're still breathing. To make sure you fall asleep knowing someone still gives a damn.

“Move over, kid. I’m crashing on this side. And no, you don’t get to complain—it’s my bed now.”