Chapter Text
The house breathed around him, old wood settling, morning stretching slow limbs across the tile floors. Shadows shifted with the rising sun, and somewhere above, a door clicked softly shut. Pipes groaned awake. Light crept in slanted beams through the curtains.
Camilo lay still beneath a borrowed blanket, afraid that if he moved too suddenly, the spell would break.
The sofa wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t meant for sleeping. His shoulder ached where he’d curled wrong, a slow throb with a heavy rhythm. The quilt had slipped halfway off sometime in the night, but someone—he didn’t know who—had pulled it back up around him. Tucked the edge in near his collarbone.
Careful.
Thoughtful.
It made his chest squeeze in a way he hadn’t expected.
His shoes were lined up neatly by the door.
He hadn’t put them there.
Camilo swallowed and pushed himself upright, slow and quiet. The pillow smelled like rosemary and a sweet soap he didn’t recognize. Clean. Not the sharp, medicinal scent his house carried now—boiled herbs and smoke and tension that clung to the walls like it was afraid to leave.
This place felt… gentle.
He didn’t trust it.
Guilt pressed heavy behind his ribs, dull and constant. His mama had woken up alone this morning. He knew that without having to be there.
She always did when things went wrong—woke early, stiff and quiet, moving through the house like every step cost her something. He pictured her standing in the kitchen, hair loose, hands braced too tightly on the counter as the kettle boiled too long.
And where was he when she needed him?
The thought tightened his throat.
He hadn’t meant to stay. Just one night, he’d promised himself. Just until the rain stopped hammering the roof and the lightning quieted enough for him to breathe again. Just until she calmed down enough that he could slip back in and pretend nothing had happened.
But he’d slept. Deeply. For the first time in weeks.
And waking up here—warm, covered, considered—felt like a betrayal.
Because she was still his mother.
Because she’d tried, hadn’t she?
Because she was tired and scared and carrying too much, and wasn’t that reason enough?
He told himself all the familiar things. That he shouldn’t have pushed. That he should’ve known better than to talk back. That if he’d just stayed quieter, smaller, easier—last night wouldn’t have ended the way it did.
Staying here meant admitting, even for a moment, that leaving had been a relief.
And that felt unforgivable.
The mug on the low table caught his eye. Plain ceramic, chipped at the rim. Nothing special—except for the name written on the side in faded marker, colored in the bright splotch of color that made it clear a child crafted it with love.
Madrigal.
His chest tightened again. It always seemed to do that here.
It wasn’t his. He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t magical or remarkable or woven into the bones of this house the way they were. And yet someone had made tea and set it beside him last night as if it was obvious he’d still be here in the morning.
As if they’d assumed.
As if he hadn’t been planning his escape the moment the sun came up.
He stood quickly, before the feeling could swallow him whole. The blanket slid from his shoulders. He folded it once, clumsily, then stopped—unsure if that made things better or worse.
The hallway was cool beneath his bare feet. Morning stretched long and pale across the floor, light catching on doorframes and the worn edges of rugs. The house creaked softly, settling around him.
Not watching.
Just… aware.
Casita always noticed.
His pulse kicked up anyway.
“You don’t have to go back yet,” Félix had said the night before, rain flattening his curls, voice steady even as thunder split the sky.
Camilo had shaken his head, soaked and shaking. “No, no, I—I’m overreacting. I should be there when she wakes up—”
“Mijo,” Félix had said gently, hands firm on his shoulders, “that’s not safe right now. Look at this rain.”
Camilo hadn’t answered. He hadn’t known how to explain that leaving felt dangerous—but staying felt worse.
And Pepa—
She’d stood just inside the doorway, a cloud trembling above her head like it didn’t know whether to cry or hold itself together. Storm rumbles echoed in time with her blinking, misty eyes. When he looked up, the bleak gray above her felt so wrong against her vibrant yellow dress and fiery hair it made his head throb.
“Please,” she’d whispered. “Just stay the night.”
Just one.
He hadn’t wanted her to cry.
So he’d nodded, throat tight.
Now it was morning. The storm was gone. And no one had come to tell him to pack up and leave.
Yet.
No sharp voice called his name. No tension snapped the air tight.
Camilo drifted across the floor like smoke, the familiar knot in his stomach tugging him toward the door anyway. Every step felt heavier. Every thought tangled tighter.
Maybe I should just go back.
His fingers brushed the doorframe. His mother would be waiting. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe it was better to leave before she really noticed the cracks starting to show.
The floor shifted beneath him, coaxing his weight forward.
Not abrupt. Just enough.
The tiles nudged him forward, subtle and insistent, like a whisper he didn’t quite hear but still obeyed. His feet carried him the other way, toward the kitchen, toward the sound of soft humming.
Warm yellow light spilled out to meet him.
Mirabel stood at the stove, hair pulled back, humming under her breath. There was no tension in her shoulders. Her movements were a little jerky, a little frantic.
But joyful.
Full.
Camilo lingered in the doorway, suddenly unsure where to put himself.
At home, mornings were quiet in the wrong way. Careful. Every sound measured. He’d learned young how to read the air—how to tell if it was safe to speak, safe to breathe too loud. Some days his mama was gentle, tired but kind. Other days, the smallest thing could set everything off.
He’d learned to be good.
To be small.
To disappear.
Mirabel looked up and smiled like she’d been expecting him. “Morning.” Without asking, she set an extra plate on the table.
Camilo’s stomach twisted. He sat because not sitting felt ruder.
She didn’t ask when he was leaving.
No one asked why he was here.
After a moment of debate, hunger won out. He picked at the edge of an arepa, heat seeping into his fingers. The food smelled rich and warm and wrong in the way kindness sometimes was when you didn’t feel like you’d earned it.
You should go back, his guilt whispered. She’s alone.
But another thought followed—quieter. More dangerous.
You’re safe here.
Mirabel glanced sideways. Her eyes were searching with a look Camilo was oddly starting to recognize, a look like she wanted to discover all the mysteries of the world and had just found her next clue. “Aye, finally. Mama told me I was under strict orders to feed you. She thinks you’re too light.”
The joke landed soft.
Camilo huffed out something like a laugh before he could stop himself. It startled him.
“I—” He hesitated. “I could… do that?”
Not a promise. Just an offering.
Mirabel’s smile softened. “We’ll have to figure something out.”
We.
The word followed him when he excused himself and slipped back into the hallway, lingering there longer than necessary. His fingers brushed the wall, grounding himself in its cool solidity.
A doorway stood open ahead.
Photos lined the walls.
They weren’t formal—no stiff poses or careful spacing. They crowded together, overlapping, corners curling with age. Frames didn’t match. One had been cracked and glued back together.
People laughed from inside them.
Camilo stopped short.
There was Pepa, younger, hair wild, laughing as Félix dipped her backward.
Antonio perched on someone’s shoulders, eyes shining.
Dolores smiling with her hands over her ears.
Group shots at odd angles, half-blurry, caught mid-motion.
No one was watching the camera.
Warmth radiated off the wall.
His stomach turned.
He didn’t belong here. Not in these moments. Not in these frames. Seeing them felt invasive, like opening a door he wasn’t meant to touch.
This was their life.
He imagined a wall like this in his own house and came up empty.
There were photos—but they were careful. School portraits. Straight frames. Proof that things were fine.
Nothing accidental.
Nothing joyful.
His breath went shallow. The hallway narrowed.
Why does this make me feel sick?
Why does being this close to love feel like doing something wrong?
“Camilo.”
He startled hard, shoulder clipping the wall.
Pepa stood nearby, a mug cradled carefully in both hands. The small cloud above her head was pale and quiet.
Her hair was loose, sleep-soft, and Camilo found his eyes lingering on it. He’d never seen her hair down like this. It looked different. Relaxed. Beautiful.
“Oh—lo siento,” she said quickly, eyes flicking to his face and then away, giving him space. “I thought you might want something warm.”
She stepped closer and held out the mug. Tea. Steam curled gently into the air, smelling faintly of herbs and honey.
Before he could respond, she reached out—not touching him yet—and hesitated, as if checking first.
Then she draped a folded blanket over his shoulders.
Light.
Careful.
Camilo froze—not because he didn’t want it, but because his body didn’t know what to do with it.
At home, touch came tangled.
A hand smoothing his hair could turn sharp without warning. An arm around his shoulders might tighten if he shifted wrong. Comfort was conditional—offered, then rescinded, sometimes in the same breath. He had to earn it.
Quédate quieto.
Don’t move so much.
Ay, Camilo, why are you like this?
The memory rose unbidden: the kitchen too small, a spoon clattering too loud, his mama’s sigh heavy with something brittle underneath. Her hand on his arm—not cruel, not exactly—but firm enough to make his stomach drop. The way affection always seemed to come with instructions.
With risk.
He learned early to brace for the moment it would change.
But Pepa’s touch didn’t.
The blanket stayed where she put it. No tightening. No correction. No sharp inhale signaling he’d done something wrong without knowing how.
She stepped back instead—giving him space as deliberately as she’d given him warmth.
The difference made his chest ache.
Because he loved his mother. He did. Fiercely. He knew the sound of her laugh when it was real, the way she hummed when she was in a rare good mood, the nights she’d stayed up too late sewing, fixing, trying.
And still—
Here, no one flinched when he breathed too loud. No one softened only to harden again. No one made him guess which version of affection he was about to get.
The Madrigals held him like they weren’t afraid he might break something just by existing.
The realization scared him more than anger ever could.
His hands closed around the mug on instinct. The ceramic was warm. Solid.
“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, because that was what he always said.
Pepa smiled, soft and a little tired. “I wanted to,” she replied, like there was no argument to be had. “It gets chilly in the mornings.”
No questions. No scrutiny. No sigh that said this is one more thing I have to do.
She stayed just long enough to make sure the blanket didn’t slip, then stepped back.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said gently, and left.
Camilo leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the mug.
A memory surfaced unbidden—his own kitchen, smaller, quieter. Checking if his mama was there before even daring to creep in for a glass. Standing on his tip-toes, he’d reached up as high as he could—
And knocked the glass to the floor with the tips of his fingers.
The glass cutting his bare feet.
He didn’t go into the kitchen again for the rest of that week.
His throat tightened.
Pepa had brought him tea because he was cold. A blanket. Just because.
It didn’t make sense.
That wasn’t one of the facts of life he knew. The rules he’d learned.
Stay quiet.
Stay useful.
Don’t take up too much space.
Don’t need too much.
And even when he followed them—
Camilo stared back down the hallway, at the wall of photos he no longer felt brave enough to look at directly.
His chest ached.
The thoughts crept in, like acid melting into his core, boiling over until he felt bile rise.
What if she hadn’t just been tired?
The thought landed heavy.
She had hurt him.
His mind rushed to correct it—no, mothers didn’t do that. They didn’t hurt their children. They loved them.
But the warmth on his shoulders made pretending harder.
He should talk to them.
Fear followed immediately.
What if he was wrong?
What if saying it out loud made it worse?
He didn’t notice the footsteps.
“Camilo?”
He startled violently, mug rattling.
Agustín froze mid-step, concern written plainly across his face. “Oh—lo siento. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Camilo’s body did what it always did.
A smile.
Small.
Automatic.
“I’m fine,” he said lightly. “Just spacing out.”
Agustín studied him—not pressing, not backing away. Just noticing.
“You sure?” he asked gently.
Camilo nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Agustín hesitated. His eyes flicked to the mug, the blanket, the way Camilo hadn’t moved from the wall.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said quietly.
The words felt lighter than he expected. Like someone setting something down instead of asking him to pick it up.
Agustín lingered a second longer, then added, “We’ll talk later, okay? No rush.”
We.
Then he walked away.
Camilo stayed where he was, heart still racing, the house breathing softly around him.
He hadn’t spoken the truth yet.
But for the first time, it felt like someone might already be listening.
And Casita, mercifully, did not rush him.