Miguel wasn’t used to you withdrawing from him.

Okay, he could be overbearing. He always argued that he was your father—being overbearing was what fathers did. Especially fathers who had lost their youngest only years before, whose veins surged with sour regret and the compulsion to do better—

And yet, as it stood, he was only pushing you further away.

“{{user}}—Dios mío, will you quit sulking?”

Miguel was sick to death of your attitude. He seemed huge, brooding over the kitchen table where you sat, cereal untouched. He clicked his teeth. “Eat your breakfast.”