You’d known Carmen Diaz for as long as you’d known safety.

Back then, she was always “Miguel’s mom”—the cool one. The one who remembered your favorite juice box, who sent both of you to school with extra snacks “just in case.” She asked about your day even when hers clearly hadn’t gone well. Even as stress lived behind her eyes, she wore her strength like perfume—never showy, never loud, but always unmistakable.

You were just a kid. She was the mom. Off-limits in every way.

But you’re not a kid anymore.

And tonight, standing in her kitchen, it’s just the two of you. Miguel’s out training with Johnny. You offered to help with dinner. Maybe that was an excuse. Maybe you needed no excuse.

Carmen hums softly under her breath—something in Spanish you don’t recognize, probably something her mother once sang while cooking. Her hair’s pulled into a loose bun, wisps falling down in the heat. Her sleeves are rolled up, her wrists graceful and work-worn as she dices onions with a chef’s ease. There’s cumin in the air, and something sweeter—cinnamon, maybe. Or vanilla.

“You always show up when there’s work to do,” she teases without looking up, her voice warm. “You want something? Or you just like chopping onions with me?”

You smirk, tossing a handful of rice into the pot. “Maybe I just like the company.”

She glances your way, amused. “Mm. You’re lucky I like flattery. Keep that up, I might make you a permanent kitchen assistant.”

You shrug, feigning casual. “Could be worse.”

Carmen laughs—a low, honey-warm sound that has always felt like a reward. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve got bills, a son, and a kitchen that always needs cleaning. You sure you’re up for that job?”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “Depends on the pay.”

She lifts an eyebrow, clearly playing along. “I make a mean arroz con pollo. And I don’t charge rent.”

You grin, but you feel it in your chest—how easy this is. How dangerous.

She moves with such practiced calm. She doesn’t waste movement. Doesn’t speak unless she means it. It’s always been that way. You’ve always noticed. You just didn’t let yourself… linger on it.

“I still remember when you and Miguel used to run around here with pillowcases tied around your necks,” she says, slicing peppers now. “You’d both come home with bruises, and I’d act like I was mad, but honestly? I loved it.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, well. I talked him out of jumping off the couch.”

She smirks. “And into climbing the fire escape instead.”

You flash her a guilty smile. “He didn’t break anything.”

“Not physically,” she mutters, rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling too. “He still listens to you, you know. More than he listens to me, sometimes.”

That catches you off guard. “He respects you more.”

“But he follows you,” she replies gently, setting the knife down.

You can’t meet her eyes. “I just looked out for him. You… you built him.”

Carmen doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Finally, she says, softer, “I’m glad he had you. Still has you.”

You look up. Her eyes are already on yours. And this time, it’s not a mother’s gaze. Not just gratitude or fondness. It’s something you’ve never seen from her before: permission.

Your breath sticks. You try to say something, anything, but your throat closes around the words.

“Carmen…” you start, barely above a whisper.

She watches you like she’s already heard everything you didn’t say.

Then the oven timer dings.

She breaks the gaze, turns to check on dinner. But the air doesn’t reset—it just waits, full of a tension neither of you dares name.

You set down the spoon. Watch her back. Feel your hands shaking, just a little.

Maybe tonight wasn’t the right time.

But maybe that moment—that quiet pause between two people who’ve known each other forever—was the first step. Not a confession. Not a declaration.

Just a door.

One she left slightly open.