The front door creaked open, and Fred half-carried Alejandro through the threshold, the storm's rain pattering against the windows like insistent fingers. Elena was already on the couch, the television flickering blue light against her face, casting long shadows that made her look weary and distant.
"You're late," she said quietly, her voice laced with quiet disappointment rather than anger.
Fred eased Alejandro onto the armchair. "Yeah, sorry, Elena. Boys' night—he just needed to chill off tonight. Work's been brutal. I couldn't leave him like that."
She gave a small nod, her eyes flicking to Alejandro's slumped form. "Go home, Fred. I've got this."
Fred hesitated, then clapped Alejandro on the shoulder. "Sleep it off, man. Call me tomorrow." He gave Elena one last apologetic look and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Elena crossed to him, her footsteps soft on the worn carpet. "Ale."
He blinked slowly, trying to focus through the haze. "Mmm?"
"Why do you do this?" she asked, her voice low, trembling with a mix of hurt and exhaustion. "Is this really the life you want our children growing up seeing? Coming home like this?"
Alejandro gave a dry, humorless laugh that dissolved into a cough. "We don't have any kids yet."
Her eyes softened, but there was a resolve in them now. "I made an arrangement with Dr. Morales. Tomorrow at eleven. I thought maybe it's time we stop guessing and actually find out what's wrong."
He reached out, brushing her cheek with clumsy fingers. The touch was meant to be tender, but the alcohol made it awkward. "I'm sorry."
"Are you hungry?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly as tears welled up.
He shook his head. "No, just bed."
She helped him stand, and he leaned heavily on her as they made their way down the hallway to the bedroom. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with unspoken words. She guided him to the mattress, tugged off his shoes, and unbuttoned his shirt. He collapsed face-first into the pillow with a groan, the world spinning even behind closed eyes.
Elena pulled the blanket over him, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his back. In the quiet, the thoughts she'd been pushing away all evening crept in like thieves. Maybe he's drinking because he's ashamed, she thought, her heart aching. Ashamed of me, of the negative test results that piled up like failures. She had always believed that if she could just give him a son, everything would right itself. The late nights would stop. The distance would shrink. Their love, once so fierce and passionate, would reignite.
She curled up beside him, careful not to touch, listening to his breathing deepen into sleep. Hot tears slipped silently into her pillow, soaking the fabric. The storm outside raged on, thunder shaking the windows, mirroring the turmoil in her soul. Tomorrow, she would go to the doctor. Tomorrow, she would find out if there was still a chance for them, for the family she dreamed of.
But as sleep finally claimed her, a nagging doubt whispered in the dark: What if the truth shattered everything?
The alarm beeped at 6:07 a.m., that cheap electronic chirp piercing the air like an unwelcome intruder. Alejandro slapped at it without opening his eyes, missing the first time, then silencing it on the second try. The room was still mostly dark, faint light seeping around the edges of the window blinds. He lay there a moment, listening. No breathing beside him—Elena was already up.
Down the hall, the kettle clicked off, followed by the soft scrape of a chair. She was up early, the way she did when something felt off, when the weight of the day pressed on her before it even began.
He swung his legs out, found his slippers with his toes, and shuffled toward the kitchen in his old gray sweatpants—the ones he refused to throw away, worn soft from years of comfort. The hangover throbbed dully in his temples, a reminder of last night's excesses.
She glanced up as he entered, her eyes tired but warm. "Morning, viejo," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Alejandro didn't speak. He just walked straight to her, wrapped both arms around her waist from behind, and pressed his face into the warm space between her neck and shoulder. The scent of her—soap and faint vanilla—grounded him.
"I love you," he murmured into her skin. It came out muffled and rough, like the words had been waiting all night to escape.
Elena set the knife down carefully, pausing in her task of slicing fruit. She turned in his arms, slid her hands up under his T-shirt, palms flat against his back. "I've always loved you from the first day we met," she replied, her voice soft but with a cold chuckle that didn't match her words.
He pulled back slightly, searching her face. "I remember the day you walked up to me, tits out, eyes shining, asking for a free ride like you already owned the place."
She laughed lightly, the sound easing the tension.
"My father had only two sons. My brother loved riding, lost both arms thrown off a horse. I feel sorry for him—he can't scratch his balls nor jerk off. Father's old place out in the hills, horse manger's still there, though we sold the animals after he died."
She reached up and brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. "You need to shave."
"I know."
"And you're going to be late."
He blinked, glancing at the microwave clock. 6:28. "Shit."