Your mother comes downstairs complaining about her knee and asking about eggs. Esteban appears shortly after, scratching his chest, kissing your cheek, complaining about poor sleep despite having slept deeply. When his eyes land on Lucía, something flickers across his face.
Not desire. Not annoyance.
Recognition.
It disappears almost immediately.
“Morning,” he says.
Lucía doesn’t meet his gaze. “Morning.”
The exchange chills you.
For the first time, the arrangement in your bed shifts in meaning. What you once saw as awkward, embarrassing, intrusive now begins to rearrange itself into something else.
What if Lucía isn’t afraid of the dark?
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