That we haven’t ended. Because even though I won’t say it out loud, he’s my world.
Miguel’s condois fifteen minutes from campus, in an older complex that always smells like sea air and cut grass. His truck’s parked out front, gleaming under the streetlight.
He opens the door before I can even knock.
“Hey.”
His voice is low, steady, and familiar enough to make something unclench in my chest. He looks tired, with grease still on his hands and work boots still on, but he smiles when he sees me.
“You look like hell.”
“Love you too,” I say, stepping inside.
The apartment’s warm. Spanish music hums softly from the kitchen, the smell of onions and cilantro thick in the air. Celeste must’ve stocked his fridge, there’s always good food here. Always warmth.
She’s offered to bring me meals, especially when she noticed I wasn’t eating. She never believed my “I’m cutting weight” excuses. My stepmother has been in my life long enough to know when I’m lying.
Miguel hands me a bowl offrijoles de la ollabefore I can protest. “Eat first, overthink later.”
He knows me all too well.
I grin, small but real, and sit at the counter. Looking at the bowl in front of me, I think to myself that this is one of my favorite things his mom makes. It’s simple. But it was the firstthing she fed me when I came to live with them after what happened.
He doesn’t know that, though.
Miguel leans against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes soft. Watching me.
“Stop staring,” I mutter between bites of rice.
“Can’t.” He smirks. “You’re cute when you pretend you don’t like it.”
I roll my eyes but don’t look away.
For a second, it feels normal, like two brothers teasing each other in a kitchen. Then his hand brushes against mine when he takes the empty bowl, and everything shifts. The air tightens.
He doesn’t touch me again, but the look in his eyes says enough.
It says, “I’m here.”
It says, “I haven’t changed my mind.”
It says, “You’re mine even if we can’t say it out loud.”
“Do you wanna talk?”
I let out a sigh. “Not really.”
Miguel’s back is to me as he washes the dish at the sink, but I can see the tension in his back. He’s trying so hard to respect my space. I love him for that.
“I need a shower. Today was pretty rough at work.” He turns around and leans against the counter. “If I take one real quick, will you still be here when I get out?”
I shrug.Probably not.
“Come on,” he says, already moving towards the hallway. “You’re taking one with me then.” I don’t argue. Arguing would be pointless, especially when all I want is his hands on my body. He disappears down the hall, not waiting to see if I’ll follow.
I do.
The sound of the shower starts before I reach the doorway. Steam curls into the air, softening the edges of everything—light, sound, and thought. Miguel’s shirt hits the floor just as I step inside the bathroom. He doesn’t look at me right away, just reaches into the stall to test the water.
