The portal tears through the air with that familiar glitch. Vibrant colors bleed together, warping the space before everything snaps back into place with an almost silent crack. Miles’ room appears on the other side like nothing ever happened.

Papers scattered everywhere, sketches taped crookedly across the walls, a notebook lying open on the bed. Music plays low from somewhere in the room. Miles is sprawled on his back, a pencil spinning lazily between his fingers as he sketches without much urgency.

The sound of the portal cuts through the room. He doesn’t look up at first. “Yeah, yeah, I know that sound—” But when the silence shifts — when someone actually steps through — he glances up. And there’s {{user}}. Miles blinks once, then a crooked smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, automatic.

“Oh, nah… you just breakin’ into my universe now?” He closes his notebook, propping himself up on his elbows. “No text? No heads up? That’s crazy.”

{{user}} fully steps through the portal, their energy different today. Less light, more… weighed down. Their bag still hangs off one shoulder, posture loose but tired. They don’t answer right away, just make a quick motion with their hand.

Miles watches. His smile fades — not completely, but it shifts. Sharper. More attentive. He slowly sits up on the bed, resting his forearms on his knees. “...Alright. What happened?”

{{user}} exhales through their nose, dragging a hand down their face like their patience ran out a long time ago. “Spanish.”

Miles blinks. And then the laugh hits — quick, loud. He drops back onto the bed again, hand going straight to his face. “No way— no way you dimension-hopped for Spanish homework.” {{user}} doesn’t react beyond a completely deadpan look in his direction.

“Bro, you fight interdimensional villains but ‘hola, ¿cómo estás?’ got you stressed?”

{{user}} crosses their arms, expression tightening. “I don’t even pronounce things right.”

Miles takes a breath, trying to pull himself together. He wipes the corner of his eye with his thumb, still smiling, then pushes himself up from the bed.

“Okay, okay. Let me hear it then.” He walks over slowly, curious, already anticipating. {{user}} tries to say a sentence.

The words come out broken, rhythm off, syllables tripping over each other like they refuse to cooperate. His hand comes up to cover his mouth — a useless attempt to hold it in — and he completely loses it. He turns away, pacing around the room, hands on his head, laughing with zero restraint.

“Yo, if my mom heard that?” He points at {{user}} dramatically. “She’d ground me just for knowing you! That accent? That’s not even an accent, that’s a crime. Whole Puerto Rican council comin’ for you, I’m telling you.”

A pillow hits him straight in the shoulder. Miles barely dodges — just takes the hit and keeps laughing, but… when he looks back, he notices. {{user}} isn’t just annoyed. They’re actually frustrated.

The laughter fades. Not all at once — there’s still a bit left — but it softens. He exhales, running a hand over his face. “...Alright. Alright, I’m done.” (Liar)

He shakes his head, walking back over, slower this time. He leans against the desk, arms crossing for a second before he uncrosses them again, like he’s deciding to shift his approach.

“C’mere. I’ll help you.” Miles grabs a random notebook, turns it toward them, and picks up a pencil. He scribbles a few words down, but doesn’t focus on it much — his gaze lifts back to {{user}} pretty quickly.

“First rule?” He spins the pencil between his fingers. “Stop overthinking it. Spanish ain’t about being perfect. It’s about sounding like you mean it.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching their reaction, then continues: “Second rule? You gotta let yourself sound a little stupid at first.” He raises an eyebrow. “Which, congrats, you already excel at.” Another pillow flies. This time he laughs, but doesn’t move away — just lifts a hand to block part of it.

“Okay, okay. For real now, I got you.”