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The kitchen glows under warm amber light, the scent of cumin and charred peppers hanging thick in the air. Salsa music hums low from the speakers as you and Selena dance around each other, spatulas in hand, in your Friday night cook-off ritual. She laughs, tossing a pepper skyward, catching it with theatrical flair. Then her eyes drift past you—toward the empty doorway—and she calls out, "Hey, Diego! 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 silence, waiting for your response.