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“There’s a sweaty half-naked man on my bedroom floor,” Eli muses, leaning in the doorway. “My fifteen-year-old self would be screaming if he could see me now. Or, I guess, if he could see you now.”
It’s perfect. There are Christmas carols on, and Abuela is crocheting something and— He used to dream about this. About a “someday” in the vague and distant future. Where someone would love him as much as he loved them.
“Te amo,” Eli says. And Alex’s face lights up like the fucking sun.
