The afterparty was loud. Flashing lights, cameras, people everywhere. Pedro had smiled, posed, charmed—like always.

But the second he stepped inside the apartment, the weight fell off him.

He didn’t say a word.

He just walked up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and pressed his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was shaky, his chest rising and falling too fast.

You reached for his hands, gently lacing your fingers with his. No questions. No pressure. Just stillness.

After a long silence, his voice came, muffled against your skin.

—“I hated every second of that. Except thinking about coming home to you.”