“Exactly,” I say, smiling slowly. “She’s sweet company.”
Her mom laughs, then murmurs, “Mira nada más…” with this soft, teasing delight that makes Alycia’s spine go rigid.
“Mamá,” Alycia warns.
“It’s a compliment,” her mother insists, smiling at her own joke. “And who is this handsome boy?”
I open my mouth, realizing instantly I have no clue what to call her. “Uh…”
“Mom, this is Kyle,” she says quickly, and when she says my name, it hits like a body check.
She’s never said it out loud before, at least not like that, and now she’s looking at me like the word belongs in her mouth. I could get addicted to this.
“Kyle, nice to meet you. I’m Marisol.” Her mom arches a brow, smiling.
I take her offered hand, trying not to look like a man who just narrowly escaped calling herMomwithout knowing what else to do.
“Marisol is a beautiful name. I should probably hold off on calling you Mom until I’ve at least survived dinner, right?”
“Oh my God.” Alycia groans under her breath.
“Good answer. You’re a charmer, eh?” Marisol laughs, a full-bodied sound of delight.
“If I told you the truth, I’d sound like an idiot, so charm will have to do.”
Marisol cuts her eyes toward Alycia, lips curling like she’s clocked something I haven’t. “Tiene labia, este.”
Alycia chokes on air. “Mamá.”
Marisol only smiles wider, satisfied like she’s nailed me to the wall with three words. “Dinner is almost ready. You can tell me all about how you met while we wait.”
“Or not,” Alycia mutters.
“Or especially that,” Marisol corrects with a wink.
The house smells of roasted vegetables and cumin, like warmth and safety, but there’s more under it nowthat we’re closer to the kitchen, something that’s been simmering for hours and probably tastes like comfort you can’t fake. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach tighten in the best way.
Jazz hums low from a speaker somewhere, blending with the soft sizzle coming from the stove and the steady rhythm of Marisol’s knife hitting a cutting board. There’s a stack of warm tortillas under a dish towel on the counter, steam curling from underneath like they’ve been made fresh. I don’t know much about cooking, but I know that smell. It’s incredible. Every inch of this place feels lived in and loved.
Alycia moves through it easily, brushing her fingers along the back of a chair, little grounding touches, but her nerves show in the quick glances she throws me, making sure I’m keeping up. She keeps looking toward the hallway like she wants one second alone. I shouldn’t notice, but I do.
“Can I help with anything?” she asks, stepping into the kitchen.
“Can you pour the wine,Mija?” Marisol asks, opening a cabinet with her hip like she’s been doing this forever, before glancing over her shoulder at me. “Do you want red or white, Kyle?”
“Whatever you’re pouring.”
“That’s brave.” Alycia laughs softly as she reaches for the bottle. Her hand passes by a bowl filled with limes and something leafy and bright that smells fresh even from here.
“Or stupid,” I counter, leaning against the counterbeside her. Our elbows brush, a fleeting contact that shoots through me like static. She glances up, pretending it didn’t happen, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
Marisol, still setting out plates, hums under her breath, “Mira nomás cómo lo estás mirando…”
Alycia stiffens like she’s been shot, eyes snapping to her mom—adon’t you darekind of glare. I have no idea what was said, but the way Alycia cuts a glare at Marisol tells me it was probably not something she wanted me to hear.
“I hope you like homemade pie,” Marisol says, pulling plates from a cabinet. “I have to know whose pie is better—tu mamá’sor mine.” She points a wooden spoon at me like she’s issuing a formal challenge.
“I love pie,” I say without thinking. “My mom makes a great apple pie that Alycia can’t get enough of.”
