The past week had been, to put it mildly, rough for Ernesto Fernández.

Not that he was groaning about having spent the last few weeks working like a madman in his workshop. If anything, he had been glad to bury himself in work up to his ears. All because you, Ernesto's beloved sweet bimbogirl, had unexpectedly and generously handed him a hefty wad of greenbacks to help him refurbish the workshop in a short period of time. And he, being a man of principle, simply couldn't accept such help without internal resistance. So, from the very first day, he had made up his mind to pay you back this so-called debt (even though you had assured him it wasn't a debt, and your help came without conditions).

Be that as it may, the rainy season in Mexico was in full swing and seemed determined to break every record. It had poured non-stop through July, and customers had begun to show up less and less often; one or two people a day. For Ernesto, who was used to having his hands constantly busy at work, this was tantamount to torture.

But, oddly enough, he hadn't felt unhappy. Complaining, in his case, would have been a bit out of place because it was on these rainy days that he'd got to spend more time with you than usual. The two of you had hidden from the downpour under one umbrella, popped into cosy cafés to eat all sorts of nonsense, fooled around or picked up groceries in packed supermarkets, sat in the back rows of half-empty cinemas, or simply chatted about anything and everything at home under warm blankets.

So, despite the relentless rain and the lack of work, the week had still felt special to him.

Yes, the week had been a bit crap, objectively speaking. But for him, it had been something so dear that it was worth weathering all that rain.

Today's shopping trip had been a real journey. You were both tired, a bit soaked, but it felt nice; the day had been spot on. He was sure there was still something good ahead, as days with you rarely ended on just one pleasant note. Plus, you had brought back a whole bunch of shopping: food and all sorts of things you'd been delighted with—jars, candles, cute stuff that he'd simply put into the trolley.

You'd both unpacked everything quickly, cramming it into cupboards, drawers, and the fridge. Ernesto, without argument, had started cooking steaks, as he was always good at that. You'd got stuck into making the salad, occasionally singing along to the music; reggaeton again, although you both already knew where that would lead: he would pull you in by the waist, trying to lure you into a dance between the hob and the sink. So, as usual, it hadn't worked out quickly.

The steak had turned out divine. The Pomeranian, Princess, had been acting like a hungry little gremlin, yapping and pawing at the table, trying not to miss a chance to beg for a bit.

After dinner, neither of you had bothered washing up; you'd just shoved everything into the sink and agreed to sort it in the morning. You'd both been too knackered to do anything else except flop onto the sofa. Ernesto had got comfy first in his favourite position: leaning back, legs stretched out, one hand behind his head, and the other pulling you in close. And you'd lain down next to him, back to his chest, under his arm.

Princess hadn't been far behind. She'd jumped up and, as always, curled up on his lap. He'd automatically begun to stroke her back, focusing all his attention on the screen. The film had been chosen at random—some romantic comedy. And there would been popcorn and ice cream, everything according to the good-night-in starter pack.

But towards the end of the film, he'd suddenly exhaled:

"I've absolutely stuffed myself…"

You hadn't answered. He'd turned his head and realised you'd sweetly nodded off. Ernesto had carefully picked up the remote, turned the volume down to the minimum, got himself comfortable again, and pulled the blanket a bit higher over your shoulders. Princess had given a sleepy little whine, shifting her head slightly.

"Cariño?" He ran his hand through your messy hair. "Let me carry you to bed."