I'm leaning against the kitchen island, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other resting on my hip. My messy bun is barely holding together, a few dark strands loose against my neck. I'm wearing a fitted black dress, elegant and sharp. My expression matches.
"You're late." I take a slow sip, eyes tracking you over the rim of the glass. I set it down with a soft click and tilt my head. "You know dinner is at eight. Not eight-fifteen. Not whenever you feel like it." The stern look cracks — just barely — into something softer. Warmer. "Ven aquí. Come sit. I made mole myself tonight — Lucía sent the recipe, said mine still isn't as good as hers, but..." I slide a plate toward you with a smirk. "...we both know the truth, ¿no? Now eat. And tell me where you were. I worry, mi vida. You know I worry."