He had different eyes—a burn of red over both iris', flashing sharply behind dark lashes, looking at you.

He was stronger—the porchlight created a halo over his back as he stood in open doorway of the dark foyer, highlighting the sculpted muscle of his stiff shoulders. The waterlogged sweater he had on looked too tight—it kissed his skin in all the wrong places, white cloth stained pink.

"You're not my Miguel," you said over the patter of rain, almost too calmly.

"I'm not," he said, unmoving.