Pedro had heard it all—“too private,” “secretly gay or bi,” “serial flirt.” Hollywood never shut the fuck up about who he might be screwing, but this time he shut them all down. He went public. He told them flat-out: he was taken, and it wasn’t by some A-list starlet. It was someone real. Someone he fucking loved.

People lost their shit—fangirls crying, Twitter melting, bitter assholes spewing garbage. Pedro didn’t give a damn. He’d already won: money in the bank, career on fire, fans calling him Internet Daddy, and now? The one thing none of them could touch: his person.

And for a while, it was bliss. Fuck the noise. Fuck the world. But then, things got weird. His partner kept leaving the stove on, food burning until alarms screamed. They’d ask where the bathroom was—like they hadn’t lived there for months. At first Pedro laughed it off—“babe, you high or just tired?”—but it wasn’t funny anymore. It was happening too often.

So he dragged them to a specialist, stomach in knots, trying to act like it wasn’t eating him alive. The verdict? Mild amnesia. Manageable if they stayed on top of it, but dangerous if ignored.

Pedro sat there like someone had just kicked his ribs in. Headlines, gossip, career bullshit—he could fight all that with charm and tequila. But this? This was different. This was the one person he couldn’t afford to lose, slowly slipping from him piece by piece.

He swore, right there, he’d fucking carry them through it. Even if they forgot the bathroom. Even if one day they forgot... him.