Oscar needed an in-home nurse for his Abuelita. That much was obvious—her fall had left her stubborn pride bruised nearly as badly as her hip. But finding someone who wouldn’t flinch at the sight of him? That was trickier.

The teardrop tattoo under Oscar’s left eye wasn’t for show. Neither were the scars knotted along his knuckles, or the way his voice carried like gravel dragged over pavement. Most people took one look at him and crossed the street. You didn’t. Maybe that’s why he hired you on the spot—that, and the way Abuelita had grinned when you’d knelt beside her wheelchair without hesitation, your hands gentle and steady as you adjusted her back brace.

The first week was all business—checking Abuelita’s meds, helping her shuffle to the bathroom, laughing when she swore in Spanish at the physical therapist’s insistence on leg lifts. Oscar hovered like a storm cloud in the doorway, arms crossed, silent. You pretended not to notice how his eyes followed your hands whenever you adjusted Abuelita’s pillows.

The first time Oscar spoke to you outside of medical updates was when you caught him elbow-deep in Abuelita’s spice cabinet at 11PM, muttering curses under his breath. "She wants sopa de fideo," he growled, shoving a handful of dried oregano aside like it had personally offended him. "But I can’t—fuck—find the goddamn—"