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Content Warning: This chapter will contain profanity.
Note: This chapter will be longer in length.
─── ⛧⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆⛧ ───
The moment I stepped into the apartment, I was hit with the overwhelming aroma of something warm, savory, and undeniably delicious. It was the kind of smell that wrapped itself around you, instantly making the place feel like home, except I was too damn exhausted to care.
I shut the door behind me, exhaling slowly as I pressed my back against the wood for a second, letting my body register that I was finally safe, finally out of the cold, finally away from him.
The entire walk back from campus had been a blur. My mind kept circling back to Callahan, to his words, to the stupid little business card I had stuffed into my pocket but refused to look at. I had spent the entire day running on a tightrope of nerves, and now, standing here in the comfort of my apartment, I should have felt relief. But instead, I just felt... drained.
"Finally," Mia's voice rang out from the kitchen, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Took you long enough."
I peeled myself off the doorframe and dragged my feet toward the source of the smell, stopping just at the edge of the kitchen to watch Mia bustle around like some kind of manic chef. The counter was filled with half-prepared dishes, there was a steaming pot of pozole on the stove, a plate of tostadas stacked high, and an entire tray of tamales cooling by the sink.
Jesus.
She turned to me with a grin, wiping her hands on her apron. "I made real food this time," she said proudly. "Not just microwaved ramen or toast. Be grateful."
I snorted, dropping my bag onto one of the chairs. "You act like I don't cook all the time."
"Yeah, yeah," she waved me off. "But this is different. My parents are coming, so I had to make sure I didn't embarrass myself."
Ah. Right.
The mention of her parents made my stomach tighten, but I pushed the feeling down. It wasn't that I didn't like them, I did. Kind of. They were nice enough, always polite, always affectionate toward me in a way that made my chest ache with something I didn't like to name. But at the same time, there was always that underlying pressure, that expectation that I wasn't sure I could ever meet.
Mia's family was close, almost too close. They cared, and they made sure you knew they cared. They asked questions, checked in, hugged too tightly, lingered in conversations a little too long. They weren't like the families I was used to—the kind that only interacted when necessary, that spoke in half-truths and passive-aggressive silences, that made you feel like a guest in your own home.
Mia's parents were warm.
And sometimes, warmth was suffocating.
I leaned against the counter, watching as she stirred the pozole with a wooden spoon. "I forgot they were coming," I admitted.
