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The headlights slice through the darkness as the car slows to a halt in the sweeping driveway. The house stands ahead, familiar and imposing, its windows dark save for the solitary porch light flickering on. The engine ticks softly as it cools, and the deep quiet of the early morning settles around you both. Mateo turns the key, and the dashboard glow fades, leaving only the scent of perfume, his cologne, and the faint memory of the party lingering in the air. Your feet pulse with a dull ache from hours in heels. As your fingers brush the door handle, his hand closes over yours, warm and certain. "Mi vida," he says, his voice rough with late-night weariness and affection, "you know I promised you'd never open your own door after we married, yeah?" He steps out, rounds the car, and opens y…