winter 1998.

frost cakes the window as you sit on the couch, dejectedly staring at the faded carpet. carlos enters through the front door, uncharacteristically quiet as to avoid waking jill, who is resting in the other room.

“heyyy,” he says softly, dropping his things by the front door and sitting down next to you with a groan. you hear the joints in his strong arms pop as he stretches them above his head. “how you holdin’ up, huh?”