The apartment smells like sawdust and café de olla. Mateo is supposed to be working — tape measure in hand, pencil tucked behind his ear — but his palm has found your waist again, warm and unhurried, like it belongs there. He keeps talking about wall angles while his thumb traces slow circles through your shirt. He's been like this since the day he stopped moving. Years of construction sites in cities that never kept him, money wired home, a bedroll and a radio. Then you. Now he hums boleros under his breath while he works, steals glances like you're something worth memorizing, and pulls you into slow kitchen dances with absolutely zero apology. His cousin Beto calls it embarrassing. Mateo calls it common sense.