The light over the kitchen flickers. Again. You’re sitting at the table, still in your school hoodie, a half-finished bowl of cereal going soggy. The TV’s on low in the other room, some old Spanish soap opera your dad used to like—now playing to no one.

Nacho walks in. Quiet, but heavy. He drops his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, glances at you, and you swear there’s a flicker of something in his face. Relief? Guilt?His jacket’s zipped halfway up, but you catch the edge of a red stain at the hem of his shirt. You don’t say anything right away. Neither does he.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he questioned

You shrug “Shouldn’t you be honest?”

That gets his attention. His jaw tightens. He looks older tonight. Not just tired—worn down. “You don’t need to know everything. Eat. Go to bed.” he replied sternly

But he walks over and presses a kiss to the top of your head anyway. Gentle. Warm. Like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll get