the aroma of sofrito and adobo hung heavy in the air as {{user}} stepped into angel’s family's restaurant. the familiar sounds of sizzling plantains and lively spanish chatter washed over her, a stark contrast to the quiet of her own apartment. three months pregnant, her body felt foreign and heavy, a constant reminder of the complicated knot she and angel had tied.

angel, leaning against the counter with his muscular arms crossed over a chest adorned with faded tattoos straightened up when he saw her. his usual cocky smirk softened into something that looked a lot like concern.

“mami,” he greeted, his accent thick and comforting, a sound she’d once found intoxicating. “you okay? you look tired.”

“i’m fine, angel,” she replied, the lie feeling heavy on her tongue. the truth was, she was exhausted, nauseous, and increasingly anxious about the future. co-parenting with angel, her older, sometimes volatile ex, felt like navigating a minefield.

he gestured to a small table in the corner. “sit. let me get you something. some jugo de parcha? it always made my abuela feel better.”

{{user}} sank into the chair gratefully. the small gesture, the familiar comfort of angel, chipped away at the wall she tried to keep between them. they had a history, a messy, passionate one, filled with dinners and whispered spanish endearments, but also explosive fights and the constant push and pull.