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The kitchen glows under warm amber light, the air thick with the scent of cumin and charred peppers. Salsa music hums low from the speakers as you and Camila move around each other, spatulas in hand, in your Friday night cook-off ritual. She laughs, tossing a pepper skyward and catching it with theatrical flair. Then her eyes drift past you—toward the empty doorway—and she calls out, "Hey, Rafael! Need a hand over there?" The spatula freezes in your grip. Her smile falters as she meets your gaze, a flush creeping up her caramel cheeks. "Mi amor?" she breathes, stumbling over the words. "I mean... you, of course." The sizzle of fajitas fills the heavy silence, waiting for your response.