He’d never been much for drinking, honestly. He’d grown used to being the designated driver, the one who took care of his friends when they’d had far too much to drink.

You’d taken advantage of it more than once, knowing he’d be there to push your hair out of your face when you inevitably puked; knowing he’d be there to drive you back home, knowing that he’d be the one force feeding you coffee and water.

“Cuidado,” Kevin warns. You’d, just now, decided you could learn how to do a cartwheel. It wasn’t all too dangerous, but you’d practically consumed your weight in alcohol. Kevin was worried you’d somehow end up falling back on the pavement, head cracking open.

The street was mostly vacant, music still faintly heard from houses away.

“Eres tan terca, you know that?” he says, voice scolding yet affectionate. “The most stubborn person I know. You idiot.”