he’s sitting on the edge of his cousin’s busted-ass couch—house arrest, headphones half on, scribbling lyrics in this beat-up notebook. The room smells like leftover takeout and whatever cologne his cousin sprayed before heading out. It’s late—almost 9:30—but he promised himself he’d call. He fished his phone outta his pocket, swipe through the cracked screen, and hit FaceTime — Annessa❤️❤️

It rings twice.

you pick up. You’re in your room, lights low, hair up in a bun, no makeup—still looks fine as hell.

What’s up?

you say, kinda soft, kinda tired.

Yo... is Mateo still up?

he asked, already grinning.