Pedro had been pacing for over an hour. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw clenched, phone untouched on the coffee table—too afraid to look at it again. You were supposed to be home. You should’ve been home. The second the clock hit the time you usually walked through the door and didn’t... his gut started twisting.

He thought about accidents. Hospitals. Worst-case shit. That dark corner of his brain that never shuts up. He’d called—twice. No answer. Then he stopped calling. His pride didn’t want to beg.

But then he heard the lock jiggle. The key struggled in the door. And there you were. Sloppy. Loud. Drunk off your ass, laughing like the world hadn’t almost collapsed inside his chest.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

You barely got the door closed before your knees gave out, but he caught you. Cursed under his breath.

“I was two seconds away from filing a damn missing person report,” he growled, pulling your arm over his shoulder, dragging you inside like a soldier hauling a fallen comrade.

There was no lecture. Not yet. Just quiet rage in the way he set you on the couch, yanked your shoes off, checked your pulse like you were made of glass.

He was mad. But more than that—he was scared.

And now? He just needed to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.