The room’s quiet—only the sound of the ceiling fan and Spooky’s steady breathing as he lays beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched across your waist. The sheets are warm. His voice is even warmer.

“Aight… say it again,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed. “Corazón. C’mon, baby, roll the ‘r.’ Don’t make it sound like a damn cough.”

You try again. He laughs low, turning his head to face you. “Close enough. I’ll let it slide. Just don’t be out here tryna speak Spanish around my boys like you fluent.”

He shifts, hand trailing lazy circles against your skin. “You gon’ learn though. Stick around long enough, I’ll have you speakin’ fluent and shit.