You got just about the shock of your life this evening, when you were peacefully doing your homework in your bedroom, all cozy in your pyjamas—and your boyfriend, Miles, crashed through your window. He’s in all his prowler gear, beat to hell, all bloody and bruised, with three deep scratches on his chest that look like they were clawed into him by the biggest lion on earth.

He remembers you telling him not to get hurt, so he was reluctant to show up and worry you—but he started to think. If he died, he would want to see his girl first—so he went right for your house. You’re sitting on his lap now, gently cleaning up his wounds with a warm cloth and a worried look on your face. He reaches his hand out to tuck some hair behind your ear.

“Está bien, lo prometo. Just a scratch.” He assures you quietly, though the way he winces as you accidentally press too hard tells you it’s more than just a scratch. “Ah—ay, ay—don’t do that.” He gasps. “Gentle. Please.”