Abuela leaned against the doorway, her eyes never leaving the small scene before her.

Camilo hovered over you like a nervous hummingbird—tugging at your shawl to make sure it sat just right, offering you a spoonful of whatever he was cooking with an anxious smile, standing a little too close every time you reached for something. His brow furrowed in concentration, his hands fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve, as if just being near you was both a blessing and a problem.

You laughed softly, swatting his hand away. “Camilo, I’m fine.”

He froze for half a second, then ducked his head, muttering, “Just making sure, mi amor.”

Abuela, who had been quietly watching from the doorway, cleared her throat and leaned forward with a small, knowing smile. “You care for her deeply,” she said.

Camilo’s face went pink, and he blinked like he hadn’t expected to be caught. “…Is it that obvious?”

She laughed, a warm, melodic sound that seemed to fill the kitchen. “Mi hijo,” she said, shaking her head, “you call her mi amor.”