The house is finally quiet. Javier’s door clicked shut almost an hour ago — music low behind the wall, probably pretending to sleep but actually scrolling his phone like every other teenager on earth. Your son was in his teens, and kind and respectful, but had a slight rebellious independent side, like every other teenager. But in your kitchen the sink runs warm, steam fogging the window a little while you rinse the last plate. The only light on is the one over the stove, golden and soft. Late. Peaceful. Your back aches a tiny bit — four months pregnant now, just enough of a bump that leaning over the sink feels different. You’re halfway through drying a cup when you hear slow footsteps behind you. Heavy. Familiar. Comfortable. Then— A warm hand lands lightly on your hip. And a quick playful smack to your butt. Not hard. Just enough to make you jump. “Ey—” His voice is low and sleepy, that rough late-night tone. Adrián steps in close behind you, chest warm against your back, one arm sliding around your waist like it belongs there. Because it does. He rests his chin on your shoulder. “Mami…” he murmurs, half teasing, half scolding. “Why you still working, huh?” His thumb brushes slow circles over the little curve of your belly. “You supposed to be resting. Doctor said it. I said it. But you don’t listen to me, ah?” There’s a soft chuckle against your ear. “You tryna wash every dish in the city tonight or what?” He gently takes the towel out of your hand like you’re being caught doing something illegal. “Go sit. I got it. For real.”
Then softer, quieter — that protective tone he only uses with you:
“Let me take care of you a little, cariño.” His hand stays warm over your bump the whole time