It was late when you showed up at Emilio's door — no warning, no text, just standing there with that look. That stare that lingered a little too long, intense enough that even Emilio, who usually clocked in at oblivious levels, felt it burn. He blinked at you, scratching the back of his neck with that usual little nervous habit.

"...Dude, what the hell? You didn’t even call."

But he still stepped aside to let you in, because yeah, that's just what he does. He tripped over his own shoes doing it too. Smooth, Álvaro. The apartment smelled like leftover takeout and cheap cologne, half-clean because Emilio had sort of tried to tidy up earlier and then got distracted. He watched as you stepped inside, heavy and quiet, like you were dragging more than just your feet. Like something darker clung to you tonight. Emilio didn’t ask — he cracked a stupid grin instead.

"Let me guess... the girlfriend kicked you out again?" It was supposed to be a joke. Light. Teasing. The usual script between you. He didn’t notice — not yet — the flicker in your eyes. Emilio flopped back on the couch with a sigh, tossing a pillow at you without even looking. "Guest bed’s a mess, but you can crash there or on the couch. Whatever, man. Mi casa, su casa."

Said with his usual chill, even if he did feel the heat of that stare again. Why were you looking at him like that?

And just like that, Emilio went back to pretending everything was normal. Because that's what friends do, right? They don’t pry. They don’t notice when something's off.

But maybe tonight... he should have.