𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 4.9k

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 simultaneously as the most frequented hangout spot for kids under twelve and one of the lowest rated establishments in the Valley. It also just so happened to be where Tory Nichols worked for a couple extra bucks, serving chicken nuggets, sodas that tasted just off center from the name brand, and everything else on the menu. So, when an invitation to the rink's '80s Night made its way onto Gwen and Miguel's imaginary desk, the only deliberation they had to face was deciding which '80s icons they were going to dress up as.

"We could do Beetlejuice and Lydia, their wedding looks."

Gwen's nose scrunched. "I do not want to be seen with you in a fugly green wig," she grimaced. "What about... Westley and Buttercup from The Princess Bride?"

It was Miguel's turn to scowl, then. "So, the green wig is a no-go, but you'd want me to pull up with a skeevy mustache?"

"It's not skeevy!" she protested. "It's... cool. Especially with his mask."

The pair rounded the corner of the mini mart, the entrance to Cobra Kai coming into view. Miguel hiked his duffle bag higher up on his shoulder, his eyes rolling. "In the court of public opinion, I'm pretty sure the combination of a mask and a wispy mustache would not put me anywhere near 'cool.'"

"What-ever," Gwen drawled, her expression growing dismissive. "I guess I'm just gonna do my own thing, then. Since you're clearly not seeing my vision."

"Works for me," Miguel muttered, still grumbly even though he held the door to the dojo open for her. She slipped right in with a little pep in her step, her swinging ponytail delivering a subtle smack against his cheek that left him sputtering.

Sensei Lawrence's lowered head and gruff voice immediately set the tone for class that day. He walked slowly to the front of the room, less for dramatic effect and more like he was having to physically drag himself up there. "Today, we'll be learning one of the most important lessons a Cobra Kai could ever know."

"Where's Sensei Kreese?" asked Eli, a softness to the demanding edge usually in his voice.

"Yeah. Shouldn't we wait for the sensei emeritus before we get going?" Stingray's chin lifted in a way that Gwen thought was an attempt at being masculine. But Sensei Lawrence's piercing stare burned a hole through his exterior right away. Stingray let out a prolonged sigh, one that had his chest visibly deflating. "Or not..."

"Mr. Kreese will no longer be joining us," Sensei Lawrence announced.

A quiet, yet noticeable, rush of whispers filled the dojo. Confused looks were exchanged, none of which were directed at the deliverer of the news. And yet, he answered... most of their questions, anyway. It seemed like a lot of it circled back to Kreese's personal shortcomings—whether it was his inability to understand nuance, think with something other than his fists, or lead a new generation of students.

In all honesty, Gwen didn't really care about the reasoning behind his departure; she was just glad he was gone. She could never get on board with his creepy, misogynistic undertones, no matter how much she tried. Besides, she had more important things to worry about than some antique losing his karate gig. For example, how to survive a headbutting lesson without facial bruising and finding the perfect costume for '80s Night.

Being duplicitous is so very important for a girl's brand.

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Sensei Lawrence's place made perfect sense from everything Gwen knew about him. Minimal furniture aside from a cracked leather couch, low quality hair metal music playing from an unknown source, stock photos of motorcycles and women in bikinis on the walls, a sizable collection of beer bottles scattered across the kitchen counter... It was a total man cave—with a strong emphasis on the word cave.

The only reason she had even stepped foot in the place was because of Miguel. His pleading for a woman's touch on Sensei Lawrence's online dating profile was just pathetic enough to capture her attention.

However, once they were actually inside of the apartment, Gwen couldn't have looked more out of place in her ultra-low-rise jeans and baby tee that read, in bold letters, "DON'T HATE ME, IT TURNS ME ON!" Her little red leather handbag hung precariously on the back of a dining room chair that couldn't have been worth more than ten dollars. Actually, she wouldn't have been surprised if he told her he found it beside someone's trash on the street. She slowly paced around the room, working up the courage to have a seat... anywhere.

"Do you have anything to drink?" she asked, her tone clipped. "Maybe some sparkling water or...?"

Johnny's eyes narrowed at her from the couch. "Sparkling water?"

"Yeah, like... water with bubbles in it?"

"Closest I've got is the Coors Light that I bought on accident a few months ago."

The corners of Gwen's mouth twitched downward. She cast a sideways glance at the underwhelming kitchen. The various shapes and colors of the stains on the stove caught her eye first. "I'll see what I can find," she said through gritted teeth, taking a few slow steps towards the ominous fridge.

"Okay, the app is downloaded," Miguel announced, having taken control of Sensei Lawrence's phone the moment they arrived. The initial pride dissolved into a weighted sigh as he turned towards their new project with thinly-veiled apprehension. "What type of women are you looking to meet?"

The silence that followed was strangely loaded. Gwen peered up at them from the kitchen, unable to stop herself from clearing the clutter from off of the counters and into the trash can.

Miguel's lips pursed. "Super-hot babes," he filled in. "Sorry, dumb question. What about your likes?"

"My likes?" Sensei echoed incredulously. "What am I supposed to say? Long walks on the beach?"

Glass bottles loudly clinked together in the trash bag as Gwen tossed them out. She leveled her sensei with a deadpan look in her eyes. "Sure, if you want to seem like a hobbyless, no-life loser."

He let out an overdramatic grunt, halfway throwing his hands in the air for added effect. He probably would have gone all out too, if it weren't for the ice-cold Banquet in his grip. "Fine, y'know what? I like... muscle cars, martial arts, and Iron Eagle..." A pause as he pondered it. "... and Iron Eagle II."

The smile that unfurled on her lips was... definitely there, but noticeably lackluster. She was quiet as she mulled over a response, her head bobbing back and forth as if the right words were knocking around in her mind like ice in a cocktail shaker. "O-kay..." she started. "Those would... not make you seem... hobbyless," she eventually forced out.

If he spotted her underlying meaning, Johnny sure didn't let on. "Why aren't you texting this down?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly to look over Miguel's shoulder. "Computer dating's your idea."

Miguel's eyes rolled into a glare. "Look, you have to take this seriously."

"It used to be simple," Johnny said, and Gwen could sense that he was about to start waxing poetic about the trials and tribulations of modern dating. Her arms locked over her chest, all of her weight relaxing onto one leg. "Find a chick at a bar. Bump into her hard, but not too hard. Still pretty hard. Then you buy her a beer."

Okay, about as poetic as Johnny Lawrence could get.

Gwen snorted in that mocking sort of way she had perfected over the years. "I mean, I guess you're still welcome to try that, but I don't see it actually getting you anywhere."

"Tried and true, Villanueva. That's how the cavemen did it," he said with a carefree shrug. Then, his eyebrows lifted like some lightbulb just flipped on upstairs. "Cavemen, that's another like."

"Cavemen?" Gwen repeated with all the exclamation of a genuinely concerned citizen.

"You know, like the ones in those insurance commercials," he continued, doubling down on that newest level of insanity. He roughly shoved Miguel, nearly jostling the phone out of his hands in the process. "Jot that down."

"Miguel, don't you dare–"

"I wasn't! Believe me, I wasn't." The couch squeaked in an unbecoming way as Miguel drooped backwards onto it. He held the phone over his face, the glow illuminating his dark features. "What about clothes? What are you wearing?"

Johnny set his Coors Banquet down with a hollow clank. "You gonna teach me about fashion now?" he asked, incredulously.

"Couldn't hurt," Gwen chimed in. She plastered on a tight-lipped, sugary-sweet smile as soon as two pairs of eyes focused on her from across the room. She rounded the kitchen counter, which was then clearer than it had been in months. "You have a closet, I presume? One that you use on a semi-regular basis at least?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's not hard to find," Johnny grumbled, waving her off with his free hand that wasn't already busy scrolling through the dating app. Miguel had surreptitiously shoved the phone into his sensei's calloused palm, allowing him to trail behind Gwen into the only bedroom tucked at the very back of the hallway.

The "closet" in question was nothing more than a couple beige button-up shirts, a flannel in a crumpled heap on the top shelf, one pair of cargo pants, and an Internet For Dummies book. Gwen stood in the middle of it all, taking it all in as the overhead light's pull chain swung tauntingly in front of her. "This is... dystopian."

"I don't know. I think we could do something with this," Miguel reasoned. "I was just thinking a buttoned-up shirt and some distressed jeans."

"Sorry, what?" Gwen blinked, her visible cringe fading only slightly. "All I heard was distressed."

"Ha, ha. Very funny," Miguel deadpanned, pushing around their limited choices which dangled from cheap hangers. Then, in some Narnian turn of events, he shoved aside a shirt with the most intense pit stains Gwen had ever seen, only to reveal a perfectly vintage, red leather jacket hidden at the back of the lineup.

"Is that–"

"An old Cobra Kai jacket?" he finished for her, seeing the embroidered emblem on the chest at the same time she did. "Yeah, I think it is..." The corners of her lips lifted, her eyes glazing over as she thought about how much a piece like this would go for on Depop. Miguel, on the other hand, raised his voice loud enough for Johnny to hear him over the oldies music rattling from the radio in the living room. "Hey, can I borrow this jacket?"

"Yeah, whatever," Sensei Lawrence called back, his distraction evident even in his voice.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Miguel asked, eagerly.

Gwen's head cocked sideways. She hummed out a noncommittal sound and finally lifted her attention away from the jacket. "Unless you were calculating how much you could reasonably overprice this thing in order to sell it to some clueless LA transplant, I think not."

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Taking a page from Miguel's book, Gwen did a SWAT-level raid of her mom's closet prior to '80s Night. There wasn't nearly as much hot pink tulle or expired blue eye shadow as she expected to find, but she hadn't been planning on going for the trashy side of the 1980s, anyway. Ultimately, the white, fringe-laden jacket she found tucked in a perfectly labelled box pretty much made her decision for her.

She gathered up some slightly-longer-than-fashionable shorts, some white boots, and more hairspray than she had used in a very long time, and transformed herself into Sloane Peterson. Perhaps if she had had the foresight, she could have convinced Miguel to go as Ferris Bueller, but she was just hoping and praying he had officially trashed the Beetlejuice idea for good.

When the two of them pulled up in Gwen's car—noticeably lacking any green hair or black and white stripes—she was shocked to see how packed the parking lot was. "The rink hasn't been this busy in years," she commented, stepping out and slamming her door shut. "I mean, for reference, my eleventh birthday party was probably the last big soirée this place ever had."

Miguel gave her a look out of the corner of her eye. "You would classify your eleventh birthday party as a soirée?"

"Blowout, get-together, fête... Whatever you want to call it," she replied with a dismissive flick of her hand. "The bottom line is that this is the perfect place for you and I to be seen together."

Miguel lifted his shoulders, puffing his chest out just slightly as the two of them neared the building. "Well then, I'm glad we could make it," he said with a dimpled smile. One of Michael Jackson's hits could be heard thumping through the bricks as the two of them walked up to the ticket booth. The music got louder with every crack of the heavy, metal doors. "Two tickets, please?"

It wasn't until they were under the strobing neon lights of the skate rink that Gwen took Miguel's hand into her own. It took him off-guard at first, but her fingers laced through his, soft to the touch, yet strong in their near-bruising grip. It was paradoxical, but still so very Gwen. Subconsciously, his thumb grazed over the four hills of her knuckles, loosening the tension in her muscles there just slightly. Her eyes never met his, though. She was far too busy scoping out who was in attendance.

"Gwen! Miguel!" A familiar voice chirped from amidst the crowd. Tory weaved through the masses of moving bodies, surprisingly steady on her rink-loaned skates. She threw an arm around Gwen in a halfway hug once she was close enough, an empty tray tucked against her opposite hip. "I wasn't sure if you guys were gonna make it."

"Oh, please. Like Miguel was going to miss a chance to wear shutter shades out in public," Gwen chuckled, casting him a teasing look. Her hand untwisted from his in order to skim along the fishnets that covered Tory's shoulders, and pluck playfully at the corkscrew curls that fell around her face. He mourned the loss of it for only a second, then flexed his fingers to take in the newly free spaces between them. "Madonna is a perfect look for you. I can't believe I didn't think of this."

Tory expertly brushed off her compliments. "Please, you're a perfect...?" she trailed off.

"Sloane Peterson. Ferris Bueller's Day Off?" Gwen supplied.

"Right, of course." She let out an easy-going laugh before her eyebrows shot upward, her on-duty perkiness rearing its head once again. "So, can I get you guys anything to–"

"Excuse me, can we get some menus?"

Behind Tory's shoulder, Sam LaRusso was almost unrecognizable in her wig and ill-fitting Party City dress. It actually took seeing Robby Keene with her in order for Gwen to put two and two together. Tory, on the other hand, was a lot quicker.

"Well, look who it is."

Gwen could see Sam's confidence falter, her shoulder nervously bumping Robby's. "I, um... didn't know you worked here."

"You guys know each other?" Miguel asked from behind Gwen and Tory.

A thin-lipped smile displayed Tory's disdain perfectly. "Yeah, we met already," she answered. "Sam and I had a little run-in at the beach club."

Sam's head turned, fully facing Miguel instead of either of the girls. "So, how do you guys know each other?"

"Well... Tory and Gwen are in Cobra Kai, so..."

Gwen watched Sam's mouth twist wryly, her icy blue eyes doing very little to make her eye roll look subtle. "Figures..." she muttered under her breath.

"What'd you just say?" Gwen probed, doing her best to sound genuinely curious. But the sharpness in her eyes gave her away, displaying the white-hot awareness that bubbled just below the surface.

Sam's nostrils flared, her stare bouncing between the three faces in front of her. She looked so much like she did that day in Yasmine's car, begging for someone to come to her defense, but coming up short. "Nothing," she ceded, quietly.

Gwen smiled rigidly, her eyebrows arched high in a harsh, mocking sort of way. "Thought so," she said, voice curt. With a theatrical essence about her, Gwen draped herself around Miguel's arm, all interlocked fingers and clutched biceps. "Now, if you'll excuse us, it's date night. Miggy and I are gonna go grab a bite to eat. See you around?"

The final sentiment was obviously deficient in any authenticity. But Gwen didn't bother waiting around for a reply before she said her 'later's' to Tory and swept Miguel away towards the concessions. Gwen tossed her hair over her shoulder, a smirk curling the corner of her lips. "Oh, I wish I could see her stupid little face right now," she said through clenched teeth.

Miguel leaned in to her. "You really thought that was the best time to drop that information?"

She gave him a knowing look through her lashes, paired with a perfectly cocked eyebrow. "Oh, Miggy. You've gotta strike first. You should know that by now."

True to their word, Gwen and Miguel sat across from one another at a rickety, plastic table and shared a plate of mozzarella sticks and a large Coke. The lulls in conversation didn't feel too stretched out in the moment, thanks to the steady thrum of Oldies Hits. Gwen just hoped Sam wasn't watching too closely, or she would spot the way the pair's eyes drifted every few minutes, silently taking in their surroundings instead of one another.

"You ready to get out there?" Miguel asked, standing to collect their crumb-covered tray and empty cup. "I'll toss this stuff and get us some skates, yeah?"

"Sounds good," she nodded, watching his back as he started to wander off. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out to him. "Size seven!"

He threw a thumbs up over his shoulder in response. Something fuzzy warmed so deeply within her stomach, she almost didn't pick up on it.

Almost.

"Gwen?"

Her gaze lifted, meeting a pair of dark eyes that matched the raspy voice she distantly recognized. She looked him up and down, immediately appreciative of his strangely accurate Bender from The Breakfast Club costume. She kept her enthusiasm stowed away behind a cocked eyebrow and a subtle frown. "Can I help you?"

Her icy demeanor didn't put a dent in his confidence. Another point for him, she supposed. He reached out a leather-gloved hand, allowing her to come to him—which she did, shockingly. "Xander Stone," he said, with a self-assuredness that struck her. "We met at the All-Valley Tournament."

"Right." A smile graced her features for the first time since he approached her table. "You're the one who lost."

He laughed loudly, unabashedly. A couple people turned to check out the noise, but Xander didn't seem to notice. "That was me," he nodded. "Although, I remember there being a few more losers than just me..."

"Maybe you were just the most memorable loser, then," she quipped with a smirk.

"Hey, y'know what? I'll take it."

Gwen's pulse quickened when she realized that her hand was still grasped in his. Her eyes darted around the room, silently begging to not find Miguel's stare boring into her. It was their first, official outing as a "couple" and she was already borderline blowing it by flirting with some—

"Okay, what the hell is he–" she hissed under her breath as soon as her eyes landed on Miguel. He was noticeably not worried about her and whoever she was talking to because he was too busy having some sort of serious conversation with Sam LaRusso. Right in front of the skate rental spot, where anyone with working eyeballs could see!

"Is everything...?" Xander's eyes followed her sharp stare. "Oh, are you here with–?"

Gwen plastered a smile on her face and reached out to gently grab at his arm. "Oh, don't worry about him. It's so not a big deal," she assured him. Then, before her brain could catch up with her mouth, she was asking, "Tell you what, are you busy this Sunday?"

Xander pulled in a sharp breath, his eyes filling with a surprising amount of light and intrigue. "Not anymore," he answered, quickly. "What would you have me doing this Sunday?"

Oh, he was good.

She glanced away to hide the uncontrollable grin on her face. When she looked back up at him, Gwen had to force an air of sternness to come through in her eyes. She could not have this man out here making her giggle and blush right in front of him. "My friend, Moon, is throwing a big birthday party slash back-to-school bash that night," she explained. "I think it would be cool if you came."

"I could make an appearance," he nodded, holding her eye. "How 'bout you shoot me the address? You've got my number, right?"

Of course, this is when Miguel decided to make his return to their table. Four skates hung from his hands as he approached, catching the tail end of this conversation. A wrinkle formed in the middle of his forehead as his stare darted between the two of them, slowly setting the smaller skates at Gwen's feet.

"Yeah, I'll text you," she said, acutely aware of Miguel in her periphery.

"Can't wait," Xander shot back with ease. Then, he turned to Miguel with a smile so shit-eating that it bordered on genuine. "'Sup, Miguel?"

And then he was gone, with only traces of some musky cologne and the earthy, unmistakable scent of weed as proof that he was there in the first place. Gwen blinked, momentarily dazed. And she was never dazed! Ever!

Miguel sat back on his side of the table, leaning over to lace his skates. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Gwen answered a little too quickly, but she wasn't sure if she knew what it was herself. So instead, she said, "Thanks for the skates."

She happily took his subtle nod as a reply and quickly busied her hands with putting on her skates before any further questions could be shot her way. The laces burned her fingers as she roughly tightened them, the material rubbing harshly against the blisters that had recently sprung up on her hands. She bit down harshly on the inside of her cheek as she forced herself to double-knot the skates, doing her best to ignore the heartbeat she could feel inside her own fingers.

Miguel stood first, wobbly on his skates, but with an unrelenting smile. "Alrighty. Let's get out there and show these ten-year-olds how the pros do it."

Turns out, 'how the pros did it' looked a lot like Gwen skating backwards in front of Miguel and holding his hands to steady him as they inched forward. They had almost taken a few nasty tumbles, but had thankfully stayed somewhat upright most of the time. Gwen wasn't sure if Miguel could bounce back from getting bulldozed by a group of fifth graders on skates, hopped up on soda and candy.

"You didn't mention that you had never skated before," Gwen chastised.

Miguel's lips pursed. "Yeah, well, some of us didn't have our eleventh birthday soirées at the local skating rink," he shot back.

"Okay, I don't know why you're saying that like it's my fault."

"It's nobody's fault," he argued. "I'm just saying, this may be the reason why we have to go a little slower than the... four-year-olds with the big, plastic skating helpers."

"And I'm just saying, that that may have been nice to know before I signed us up for a date night at the skating rink."

His response was more grumble than actual words, but Gwen wouldn't have been able to hear him, anyway. Her eyes had honed in over his hunched shoulder just in time to watch Sam kick Tory's legs right out from underneath her, sending fries and milkshakes flying everywhere. A collection of gasps, followed by an unusual hush fell over the rink as everyone stopped to ogle.

Gwen's voice pierced through the tension that filled the room, a booming presence despite her small stature. "Hey! What the fuck?" She all but dragged Miguel over, using the fact that he was on skates to her advantage. Releasing Miguel so that he could help Tory up, Gwen took a defensive stance in between Sam and her latest victim. "What's your problem?"

"My problem? She's the one who–"

"She's working, you psycho! Can't you act your age for two seconds and just let her do her job?"

As if on cue, one of the security guards emerged from the crowd of onlookers. He stooped down to help get Tory up onto her feet once he saw the shaky way Miguel was going about it. "Are you alright, Tory?" he asked.

She rubbed at the back of her head, her face pinched into a wince. "Yeah, I think I'm fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Thanks."

"Alright." He nodded and turned his attention back to Sam and Robby, a completely unamused look on his already-intimidating face. "That's it. You're done. You're out!"

Robby's jaw thrust forward, his nostrils flaring. "She's the one who started it!"

"I said, you're out!"

A crackling silence emanated from Robby and Sam as they cast a final glare over their shoulders. Robby's look was definitely something like a snarl or a death stare, while Sam looked more like a kicked puppy.

Gwen gave an infuriatingly petty wave of her hand, her fingers slapping audibly against her palm. "You were bringing down the property value in that dress, anyway, bitch!"

This brought the security guard's glare down on her. "One more word out of you, and you're out of here, too," he warned.

Gwen pretended to zip her lips and toss an invisible key, with an impish grin that traveled all the way up into her eyes. This really had been the best first, fake date of all time.

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With the crunchy hairspray washed out and the scent of coconut lotion wafting from her skin, Gwen climbed into bed that night with an accomplished smile on her face. Taylor Swift's debut album hummed softly from her phone, the strum of guitars and familiar lyrics easing her into the final touches she needed to add to her summer reading assignments.

She was flipping through her handwritten notes on The Catcher in the Rye when her music cut out. Gwen's eyebrows knitted together, but as soon as she picked up her phone to remedy the issue, the music had started again. She tapped the screen, but only found herself more confused by what she saw.

Miguel Diaz: 1 Missed Call.

Without really considering it, her thumb tapped to redial. Strangely, she found herself hesitating, unsure whether to follow through, or hang up and pretend she never did this.

"Hello?"

Damn, she didn't choose quick enough.

She pressed the phone against her ear, feeling the cool glass along her cheek. "Hey, did you mean to call me?"

"Um, no. Well, not exactly. Not... not really. It was a butt dial."

Gwen hummed, unsure if she actually believed him. "Right. Well..." She was going to leave it at that, put an end to the phone call and go back to her schoolwork. She really was!

"Do you... have anything fun planned this week?" he asked.

Her pencil, which had been steadily tapping against the hardcover of her book, slowed to a stop. At that point, she couldn't just not answer his question. Her lips twisted in thought, her eyes drifting up to the glow-in-the-dark stars taped to her ceiling. "My annoying ass, know-it-all, bitch cousin is coming to town. She's staying with my family for a couple nights," she answered, flopping back onto her pillow. "I don't think I'd classify that as 'fun', but it is happening this week."

Miguel's snort in reply could easily be heard through the phone. "Fun is subjective, I guess. You could try to bond with your... 'annoying ass, know-it-all, bitch cousin'."

"Sure, and I guess I could also try to take my bike down the 405 on a Friday at rush hour," she said, loaded with sarcasm.

"That'd be a fun bonding activity, for sure."

It was Gwen's turn to snort, then. "I bet seeing her wouldn't suck so bad if you were here," she drawled with raw honesty. She sucked in a sharp breath once she actually heard the words that left her own mouth. She had gotten far too comfortable behind the protection of their screens. She would have never said that if she had to look him in the eye.

"I can, if you want."

Gwen shot up straight in bed. "You can what?"

"Be there for support when your cousin comes. She might try to be on her best behavior if a stranger is around."

Gwen mulled it over, picturing a world with Mia and Miguel in the same room, and what something like that would look like. She couldn't imagine it making Mia any worse. She was going to be a loudmouth with a lot of stupid-ass opinions whether he was there or not. And Gwen really had meant what she said; just being around Miguel made everything seem a little bit less horrible. She knew she could always rely on him to whisper a joke in her ear or say something at the wrong time, effectively lightening the mood. Having him there would probably be good for her.

"Okay, yeah. That sounds fun," she said around a hesitant smile. "Maybe you can do dinner with us tomorrow night. And just 'cause you're helping me out, I'll make sure you've got something fancy to wear. I'll make sure Mia won't be able to say anything about your outfit."

"Would she have said something about my outfit before?"

Gwen tried to think of a nice way to phrase it, but came up short. "Miguel, maybe don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to, 'kay?"

"Wait, but what's wrong with my–?"

"Night, Miguel! Talk to you tomorrow!"

"Hey–"

All Miguel heard were the three, telltale beeps of an ended phone call.