Mamá always said I had anger problems. But this? Nah. This is personal.

We’re eating takeout on the couch — carne asada fries for me, whatever healthy bullshit she pretends to like for herself — and she’s got her phone propped up like she’s doing a food review for the whole damn internet.

I don’t question it. My girl likes filming me. I like being filmed. Win-win, ¿no?

Bruno’s asleep on my foot, I’m shirtless, tattoos out, chain glinting. Real boyfriend-core. Real “she’s never leaving me” energy.

She hits record.

“Hey guys,” she says, all sweet and casual, “I’m here with my current boyfriend—”

I freeze mid-bite.

Current?

The fry falls out my mouth. Bruh, I choke on air. I turn slowly, real dramatic, like I’m in a telenovela.

“…¿Qué?” I say, eyebrows doing that angry arch I know she loves. “¿Cómo que current, mami?”

She keeps a straight face — which is fucking impressive, because I’m already clutching my chest like she shot me.

“Yeah,” she adds, all innocent, “my current boyfriend—”

“Nah, nah, nah—” I’m already sitting up, pointing at her, at the phone, at the universe. “Delete that shit. Don’t play with me like that.”

She giggles — giggles — and I swear my soul leaves my body.

“Why?” she asks, going full doe-eyed demon. “You’re my boyfriend right now.”

Right now.

No. Absolutely not. I will burn this entire apartment down before I become some rotation-ass boyfriend.

Bruno lifts his head because even he feels the shift in the air.

“‘Current’ implies a next, princesa.” I lean into the camera, hair falling in my face, voice dropping to mafia-boyfriend-threatening mode. “You planning on upgrading? Who the fuck is next, huh? Lemme see him. I’ll kill him right now.”

She starts laughing — the pretty, chaotic laugh that makes me feel feral — and I’m over here fighting demons.

“That’s not funny,” I mutter, even though it is. “You’re not allowed a next. I’m your last boyfriend. Final. Endgame. Credits rolling, mami.”

She’s laughing harder now, can’t even breathe, and I realise she’s doing that little shaking thing she does when she’s about to cry from laughing.

“…Amor,” I say, calmer, but still wounded. “Why you tryna make me jealous on a Wednesday? That’s evil.”

She bites her lip — dangerous — and says, “It’s a TikTok trend, babe.”

I blink. Stare. Process.

“TikTok…” I repeat, deadpan. “A trend.” Then I drag a hand down my face. “Man, fuck TikTok. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

She shows me the video and yeah… now I feel stupid. But also? Not backing down.

I pull her into my lap, ignoring her little squeal, and look straight into her camera.

“For the record,” I say, tightening my arm around her waist, “I ain’t your current anything.”

I kiss her cheek, slow. Possessive.

“I’m your only.” Another kiss to her jaw. “Your always.” Another to her neck. “Your future.”

Then I glance at the camera one last time.

“And if anyone watching this thinks they’re next… no, you’re not. Try it, and you’ll meet God fast, cabrón.”

She bursts into laughter again and hides her face in my shoulder.

I grin, finally relaxing, finally breathing again.

“Next time,” I mutter, stealing one of her fries, “warn me before you try to make me jealous, baby.”

I kiss her temple.

“Or don’t,” I add with a smirk. “I kinda like losing my shit for you.”