Pedro unlocked the door, expecting a quiet welcome or maybe a teasing joke about how much makeup he was wearing on TV.

Instead, he found you curled up on the couch, tissues scattered around, looking miserable but still trying to smile when you saw him.

“Mi amor...” Pedro’s heart squeezed painfully. In two steps, he was beside you, tossing his jacket onto a chair and kneeling down with a worried hand brushing your forehead.

“Why didn’t you call me?” He asked, voice low, gentle. “I would’ve left everything behind for you.”

You mumbled something hoarse and incoherent, but Pedro just chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“That’s it. You’re not lifting a finger. Tonight, I’m your nurse, your chef, and your human pillow. Deal?”

Because fame could wait.

But his love for you? Never.