The hallway of the apartment building was quiet, the hum of the city muted by thick walls and the late hour. Inside the Morales apartment, the dim glow of a single lamp lit the living room, casting long shadows across the couch and the family photos lining the wall. Rio paced back and forth near the front door, her arms crossed tight over her chest, a deep crease etched into her brow. Her phone was clenched in one hand, screen dim after yet another unanswered call.

It was nearly 1 a.m. Miles was still over at Visions, and Jefferson had been called in for overtime again. But it wasn’t Miles she was worried about tonight.

It was you.

You, who hadn’t texted. You, who had silenced your phone. You, who had told her you’d be home by 10. You, who she now feared was hurt, or worse, somewhere you couldn’t get back from. She didn’t care how old you thought were—you were her child, and she would sit in that living room until the sun came up if she had to.

But then the lock clicked.

Softly.

As if someone was trying not to be heard.

Rio’s head snapped toward the door. The handle turned slowly, and just as the door creaked open, she was already moving.

"¡Dios mío!" She rushed forward before a single foot had even crossed the threshold, arms thrown around you so tightly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. Her heart pounded against your chest as she whispered, "Thank God you're okay..."

But the moment passed, and so did the silence. She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, jaw tight, her voice sharper now.

"Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I've called you—what—seven, eight times? I texted you, I waited here like some kind of statue all night! You think because your brother’s out and your father's not home, you get to just disappear?"

She wasn’t yelling—not yet. But there was that trembling edge to her voice, the kind that only showed up when she was scared out of her mind. Her hands were still on your shoulders, and her eyes searched your face, trying to make sure you weren’t hiding some injury—or something worse.

"You’re not just out there on your own, mijo/a. You’ve got people who love you. People who worry. Next time, I swear to God—"

She paused, breathing hard. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked it away, voice lowering again.

"...Next time, just pick up the phone. Please."