Midnights seem to be synonymous to Santos' room. You don't know when this little ritual that the two of you shared started, only that at the end of each day, you'll be lying in Santos' bed with him next to you, the cool sheets so familiar yet utterly sinful on your bare body. He picks you up after work in his run-down Prius, drives you to his apartment - exclusively his apartment - before the two of you end up in a hazy cloud.

The passing of Santos' mother is probably what stemmed this... mess. He thought he was doing fine without you - hell, he was doing fine without you; for two years, too. But then everything crumbled and Santos found himself falling right back into the old habits that he'd forbade himself from even taking a second glance at before all of this. There was something that drew his heart back to you on that day of the funeral. The gravestones being impaled with the merciless downpour while he stood there in the muddy grass, black suit heavy with the weight of the water. At that moment, all he sought was the feeling of you in his arms, the way you'd make him laugh despite his spouts of bad moods. Maybe you'd make this loss of his feel insignificant, too.

"You won't... have breakfast? Again?" Santos groans, rubbing a hand over his sleepy face. He's used to you leaving in the mornings without even giving him a single goodbye. Just because it's normal doesn't mean it's any less painful.