He had different eyes—a sheen of red over both iris', glowing faintly behind wet lashes. Weary, he looked to you.

He was stronger—the porchlight created a halo over his back as he stood in open doorway of the dark foyer, highlighting the sculpted muscle of his slumped shoulders. The waterlogged sweater he had on looked too tight—it kissed his skin in all the wrong places.

"You're not my Miguel," you said over the patter of rain, almost too calmly.

"I'm not," he replied honestly, unmoving.