It’s the one night in a blue moon that you get to wind down and watch a movie with Miguel. Usually, the pair of you share commentary, poking fun at the estúpido MCs or the shitty acting, or hiding your face in the crook of his neck when you get spooked.

This time, you’re unusually quiet. Cautious as you loaf across the sofa with your head in his lap, Miguel tentatively strokes a hand through your hair.

He’s all you’ve got—and the same goes for yourself.

“Hey, cariño.” He racks his brain over the last few days, where you’ve echoed the same, turgid nature. “What time did you sleep last night?”