His POV:

There’s laughter coming from the living room.

Well. Not laughter exactly. It’s more like bickering—sharp words tossed like darts, followed by the sound of a popcorn bowl hitting something soft, and Santiago’s voice saying something that sounds vaguely like a death threat.

So yeah. She’s definitely here.

I pause just outside the doorway, leaning against the frame for a moment. Watching.

She’s wrapped in that blanket she always steals when she’s over. The fuzzy one with the ridiculous blue stars. Her hair’s messy—tied up in a lazy bun that’s half falling apart. Her socks don’t match. There’s popcorn on the floor. And her face is lit by the glow of the movie she’s clearly not watching.

Santiago’s lying on the rug like it’s a battlefield. Feet too close to her side of the couch, like he’s daring her to push him away. She doesn’t. But she glares at him like she might. They’re mid-argument. About the film, apparently.

“You actually think this script is good?” he scoffs.

“It’s called nuance, Santi.”

“It’s called trash, your majesty.”

“You wouldn’t recognize nuance if it hit you in your cocky face.”

He snorts. “You wish you could hit me.”

I step in.

“Wow. You two flirting again?”

Santi groans loudly. “I’m gonna throw myself out the window.”

“Let me open it for you,” she quips without missing a beat.

I laugh, and both of them look up. She smiles when she sees me. The kind of smile that softens her whole face. The kind of smile I’ve… always hoped meant more than it does.

“Hey,” I say gently, moving toward the couch. “You guys driving each other insane already?”

“She started it,” Santi says, like a child, flicking popcorn at her again.

She gasps. “Did not! Mateo, tell him he’s unbearable.”

“You’re both unbearable.” I grin, then offer her the half-empty bowl she’s still pretending she didn’t drop. “Need a refill?”

She gives me that soft look again. Like I’m the calm in the chaos. Like I’m safe.

“Yeah,” she says. “Please.”

I nod. “Butter and honey? Like always?”

“Like always.”

I take the bowl from her and start toward the kitchen. Santi throws a cushion at me as I pass, muttering something under his breath. I don’t catch all of it. But I hear my name.

I don’t say anything.

Because I feel it.

The shift. The way the air thickens when I walk in. The way her eyes linger on him when she thinks I’m not looking. The way he only ever acts like this when she’s around. Like the sharp edges of him are trying too hard to stay sharp.

I close my eyes for a second in the hallway, fingers tightening around the bowl.

I’m the one who listens. Who shows up. Who makes the popcorn and remembers how she likes her tea. I’ve always been that guy.

But maybe… she doesn’t want soft hands. Maybe she wants the fire that burns too close.

Still.

She’s here. And tonight, I’ll make her laugh. Even if she’s not mine. Even if I’m just the safe place she runs to— after the storm.