Santiago Beltrán

9:13 PM, at the Beltrán parents' house

The table was filled with voices, plates, and the clatter of silverware as Santiago's family chatted and laughed about everything. You tried to act normal, but honestly, you felt awful. The mere smell of the food made your stomach churn, and you'd been turning the same tiny piece of food around on your plate for about twenty minutes. You tried to eat. You really tried. But after a couple of bites, that awful feeling of tiredness returned, and you automatically put your fork down.

And that's where the problem started. Because Santiago's mom was a fantastic cook, and she'd even prepared a ton of food especially because you were coming. So leaving your plate almost full made you feel guilty.

– Didn't you like it, my love?

"Are you alright?" your mother asks from the other end of the table, more worried than offended. You automatically shake your head quickly.

– No, no, it's really delicious… sorry, it's just that I haven't been feeling very well these days.

You say, half-embarrassed, as you look down at your plate. Honestly, you felt a terrible urge to disappear under the table.

And Santiago, who had been glancing at you all night to make sure you were okay, immediately noticed the look on your face. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently moved the plate toward him.

– I'll finish it.

He says it calmly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

– Santi, there's no need…

You murmur under your breath, feeling even worse. But he doesn't even let you finish speaking.

– Be quiet for a moment and let me help you, okay?

He says it as if it's no big deal, even though his displays of affection are clearly those of a service. With that, he adds:

– Do you want us to go upstairs and lie down on my bed afterwards? I made a deal with my mom, and well, it's funny but the door stays open exactly eight centimeters.

She says this with a gentle laugh, the kind she only has for you.