When I woke up the next morning in the living room, Manolo was nowhere in sight. Partially out of hope and partially because of delusion, I thought that maybe last night didn't actually occur. Maybe he hadn't broken into my house; maybe—

"Oh, you're finally awake," a familiar voice cut through my thoughts, and I looked up to see Manolo leaning casually against the kitchen counter, a steaming mug in his hand. He looked remarkably at ease like he hadn't spent the night bleeding on my couch or barged into my life uninvited. My eyes shifted to the cup in his hand and noticing my gaze, he said, "I made coffee."

I just stared at him. How could he be so relaxed? It was unnatural.

I pushed myself up, still groggy and sore from sleeping on the couch, and ran a hand over my face. "Coffee," I echoed as if trying to make sense of the word. "You break into my house, looking like you're one step away from your deathbed, and the first thing you do in the morning is... make coffee?"

Manolo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. "A man's got to have his morning coffee, no?" He replied, taking a slow sip as if this were the most normal morning routine in the world.

It was the audacity of it all, really. Here he was, bleeding all over my place one minute, then casually sipping coffee the next, like he hadn't turned my entire night upside down. And now he was acting like this was just a casual morning hangout, like we were roommates instead of... whatever this was.

I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my frustration in check. "You act like this is normal."

"What's the point of freaking out when it won't change anything?" He raised an eyebrow, expression slightly more serious than before. Leaning against the counter as if he belonged there, Manolo added, "You're wound pretty tight, you know that?"

I shot him a glare over my shoulder. "Gee, I wonder why."

"Hey," he said, holding up his hands, "I'm just saying. Maybe take a breath. Things aren't as bad as you're making them out to be."

I let out a bitter laugh, turning to face him. "Oh, sure. It's not bad. Just a typical Tuesday night—some guy breaks in, bleeds all over my stuff, and sticks around to critique my stress levels. Totally fine."

Manolo tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a laugh. "It's Wednesday, actually."

I stared at him, utterly unamused. "You're unbelievable."

"That's what they tell me," he said with a shrug, his smirk finally breaking into a full grin. "You're far less mousy than yesterday."

"Mousy?" I repeated, my tone sharp enough to cut. "You barge into my house, bleed all over my couch, and now you're calling me mousy?"

He sipped his coffee leisurely as if my indignation was the entertainment he'd been waiting for. "You weren't exactly exuding confidence last night. Just calling it like I see it."

I clenched my jaw. "Yeah, well, forgive me for not being at my best when a stranger broke into my home. I'll try to be more welcoming next time."

He chuckled, low and easy, as though this were all a game to him. "Relax. It's not an insult. Just an observation. You've got more fight in you today—that's a good thing."

I didn't know what annoyed me more: his casual attitude or the fact that I was letting him get under my skin. I paused, took a deep breath, and asked, "How's your wound?"

Manolo glanced down at his side, then back up at me, entirely unbothered. "Better," he said, as if that was a sufficient answer. He set his mug down on the counter and stretched, wincing slightly but quickly masking it. "Your couch makes for a decent hospital bed, by the way."

I frowned. "That wasn't what I asked."

"Ah, but I figured you'd appreciate the feedback. Interior decorating and emergency triage—it's versatile," he joked.

I folded my arms. "You're avoiding the question."

Manolo gave a dramatic sigh, tugging up his shirt slightly to reveal the bandage. "It's fine. See? No excessive bleeding. No drama. You patched me up good, Nurse."

I ignored the jab and studied the bandage instead. It wasn't soaking through, but I wasn't entirely convinced. "You need to change that soon. And probably clean the wound again."

"Already ahead of you," he said, leaning back against the counter like he had all the time in the world. "Used some of your supplies while you were snoring. Hope you don't mind."

My hands tightened into fists at my sides. "Snoring? I do not—never mind." I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to compose myself. "How long do you plan on staying? You can't stay here for too long."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. "Why not? I'm pretty low-maintenance."

"You broke in," I reminded slowly. "You can't just decide to squat in my house like it's a hotel."

"One, I'm not squatting. I'm recovering," he corrected smoothly. "Two, I can decide that and already did, but I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

He didn't elaborate, but if our previous conversations had told me anything, he never would and maybe that was for the best.

I studied him carefully, trying to piece together the puzzle he'd thrown into my life. Manolo had this infuriating way of speaking in half-truths, dodging any real answers like it was a sport. And somehow, that just made me more curious.

But curiosity was a dangerous thing.

Curiosity got people killed.

Manolo must have noticed the way I tensed, the way my gaze flickered away for just a second too long. His easy smile faltered, just barely, before settling into something unreadable.

"Relax, Wes," he said, his voice softer now, lacking its usual teasing lilt. "I'm not here to cause trouble for you."

The way he said it—so casually, so deliberately—made me feel like trouble was already knocking at my door. I crossed my arms, squaring my shoulders as if that could ward off whatever mess he was bringing with him. "You're already in my house. Trouble's kind of implied at this point."

He smirked again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm not the kind of trouble you're thinking."

"And what kind is that?" I asked, not sure if I wanted the answer.

Manolo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter as his gaze pinned me in place. "The survivable kind."

The room suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. My stomach twisted, and a thousand unspoken warnings flashed through my head. Get him out now. Don't get involved. This isn't your fight.

But that damn curiosity whispered louder than my common sense: What was he running from?

Instead of asking, I swallowed the question.

Manolo didn't seem to notice my inner turmoil. He was too busy giving me that same devil-may-care look, as though everything was perfectly fine and this was just another stop on his road of unpredictable decisions. His smile returned, but it was sharp like he was daring me to ask more.

The silence stretched between us, thick and awkward, until the sound of my phone ringing filled the silence. I instinctively started patting down my pockets to try and find the small device but stopped when I saw Manolo dangling it in his hands. I might've been annoyed by the action if I hadn't seen the name on the screen, clear as day.

Boreal.