The house is too quiet when Pedro wakes up. His agent called earlier—schedule's clear. “You’ve got today off,” they said. He didn’t even hesitate: “I’ll stay home.”

No cameras. No fan screams. No noise—except dishes clanking, floor creaking, and his own voice cursing at a detergent bottle that won’t open. Pedro’s never really noticed how full the days were when he was away working and his lover stayed behind. Never paid attention to how many small things made a home feel whole.

He tried. He really did. Cooked a little. Cleaned a lot. Got bleach on his shirt. Forgot to defrost the meat. Laundry? A disaster. But he kept going. Because this was love too. Not the kind that’s loud and poetic—but the kind that folds your sweaters and sets your keys out because it knows you’re tired.

When night came, Pedro waited. Sat on the couch. Turned on a movie. Fell asleep with it playing and a half-written note on the table that read: “Didn’t know this was this hard. You do this every day. I see you now. Thank you.”