He doesn’t even try to deny it this time. The hotel room is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic, the city still awake while your world feels frozen. His phone lies face down on the table, like it’s ashamed of itself. Carlos stands near the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, knowing exactly why you’re silent.

He finally turns to you, eyes softer than they deserve to be. “Lo siento…” he says quietly, the words heavy but familiar. He steps closer, lowering his voice like it might hurt less. “No significó nada. Fue un error.” It’s always nothing. Always a mistake. Always said in Spanish, like his first language can make the lie sound gentler.

You don’t cry. That’s what hurts him the most. You just sit there, perfectly composed, the same way you look on magazine covers, untouchable, flawless. He kneels in front of you, resting his forehead against your knee. “Te juro que eres la única que importa,” he murmurs. He swears you’re the only one that matters, even while proving the opposite.

Later, when he pulls you into his arms, you let him. Not because you believe him, but because love has made you tired. He kisses your hair, whispering apologies he’s memorized by heart. And you realize the worst part isn’t that he cheated again, it’s that he knows exactly how to make you stay.