The rain was soft against the windows, a quiet rhythm that filled the stillness of the living room. The lights were dim, the TV forgotten in the background. I was curled up on the couch, blanket draped loosely over my legs, flipping through a book i’d already read a dozen times.

Pedro padded in from the kitchen, wine glass in hand, his walk just slightly off-balance — not from the alcohol, but from the grin tugging at his lips. That smile that only ever showed up when he was looking at me like this: like I was the whole world wrapped in one person.

He stopped by the couch and stared for a second, unashamed.

“God, look at you…” he muttered with a lopsided smile, voice already thick and sweet from the wine. “You just… you just sit there bein’ all perfect and expect me to act normal?”

I looked up, amused, but before she could answer, he was already sinking onto the couch beside me. His arm found its way around my shoulders, pulling me in, the glass set aside like it didn’t matter anymore. His nose brushed my temple, a soft hum vibrating in his chest.

“I’m not drunk,” he whispered, pausing dramatically, “I’m just… emotionally hydrated.”

I laughed, and he grinned against my skin, pressing a kiss to my cheek like it was instinct.

“And when I’m like this… I get honest. Way too honest.” His fingers gently traced circles against my arm. “Like, how every time I see you smile, I fall a little harder. Or how your laugh? It’s my favorite sound. Better than any movie I’ve ever made.”

He leaned back just a little, eyes glossy but clear, a boyish glint in them.

“Pretty sure I’m gonna flirt with you until I’m eighty,” he said, pressing his forehead to mine, voice dropping to a soft murmur. “Hope you’re okay with that.”