There was something about the way Pedro moved—calm, deliberate, like he’d lived enough to stop pretending.

He wasn’t loud, didn’t try to impress you with flashy words or careless charm. He just listened, really listened. And when he spoke, it meant something.

You were curled up beside him, your fingers brushing his as you talked about something silly and late-night-soft. He looked at you the way someone looks when they know what they want—and they’re not afraid of wanting it.

—“You make me feel young again,” he said, his voice low and rough with sleep, but honest. “But not in the reckless way… in the alive way.”

And in that moment, age wasn’t distance. It was depth. And you loved getting lost in it.