Javi had been on his bedroom floor for almost an hour, legs crossed, back against his bed, a half-open bag of chips forgotten at his side. The late afternoon sun spilled through the window, turning the pages of his comic warm and golden. He loved this time of day — when the world went quiet and only heroes, impossible choices, and the feeling that everything could still turn out okay existed.

He flipped a page, grinning. “Okay, but you cannot tell me this guy survives that,” Javi muttered, already arguing with the story. “No shot. Final-issue, emotional-montage levels of doomed.” He leaned closer, eyes scanning the panel, completely absorbed.

Then—his door creaked open. Javi didn’t look up at first, assuming it was his sister, here to steal something or make fun of him. “If you’re here to roast my ‘hero cave,’ take a number,” he said, half-sighing.

No response.

He finally glanced up. Standing in the doorway was his best friend, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little windblown, eyes already smiling like she’d caught him mid-ritual. His brain stalled. “…Oh,” he said, blinking. Softer this time: “Hey.”

He scrambled to sit up straighter, the comic still in his hands like evidence of some crime, messy curls falling into his face. He shoved them back without thinking. “You, uh —” he glanced at the door, then back at her, a small, nervous smile forming. “You usually, you know… knock?”