Page 68 of Hate That Blooms

But Iamhere. And that means something.

I grab the eggs from the fridge and start cracking them into a bowl, moving through the motions without thinking too much about it. I can’t explain why I want to make sure she’s taken care of like this. Maybe it’s because she does the same for Mireya. Gabriela's always had to be the one to take care of everyone, to be the glue that holds everything together. I don’t want to be the one who’s only taking. I want to give, too.

The coffee machine finishes its brewing cycle, and I pour myself a cup. As I reach for the milk, I hear a soft shuffling sound from the hallway.

“Princesa?” I call out before I can stop myself.

She appears in the doorway, her wild hair a mess of curls that seem to defy gravity. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt, and she looks small standing in the frame of the door.

She doesn’t say anything at first—she just stares at me. Probably wondering what I’m doing in their house. Mireya never really says much, not unless she wants something. Or maybe that’s not fair. She talks, but only when it’s important. I’ve learned that about her. She’s just... quieter than most people. I forget how much I’m going to need to adjust myself to her.

I glance at her. She’s staring at me, her eyes focused on my movements. Her gaze is steady, intent.

“You want pancakes?” I ask, surprised at how easily the words come out of me.

She blinks once, and then slowly nods.

“Okay,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. “I can do that. Do you want to help?” I get a smile this time, along with another nod.

I move to the pantry and find the flour, measuring it out carefully. As I start mixing the batter, I hear the soft padding of footsteps behind me and then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as Mireya pulls it to the counter to watch me. She’s quiet, watching me work, her hands gripping the back of the chair.

For a moment, I freeze. I’m still not sure if I’m doing thisright. If I’m supposed to just carry on like this is normal—like it’s normal to be here with them, in this kitchen, making pancakes for a little girl who doesn’t say much but has more presence than anyone I’ve ever met.

But then I hear her voice again, soft and clear.

“Pancakes.”

“I know,” I say, almost too softly. “I’m making them.”

There’s something in the way she says it, though. Something in the way she holds her gaze makes me realize this is it. This is my life now.

This is my lifewith them.

I keep stirring, my movements slow but purposeful. A part of me feels like I’ve crossed some invisible line. That now—after everything that’s happened between Gabriela and me—there’s no going back. I’ve already stepped into this quiet world, and I’m going to have to learn how to move in it. Not just with Gabby, but with Mireya, too.

I think I’ve always known, deep down, that this was going to be my life if Gabriela wanted it. If she’d have me. But it’s one thing to know something and another toliveit. To wake up to it in the morning.

I hear her voice, soft and groggy, from the hallway.

“Joaquín?”

I glance toward the door just in time to see her appear in the doorway, tying her robe around her waist. Her hair is a mess of curls, just like Mireya’s, and she’s squinting against the soft light coming through the windows.

“Morning,” I say, turning back to the pancakes, flipping one with a practiced hand.

“Morning.” Gabriela steps into the kitchen, yawning and stretching as she walks over to the counter. She seems half asleep, but she smiles when she sees Mireya in the chair next to me.

“You’re up early,” she adds, her voice warm. She grabs a mug from the cabinet and fills it with coffee. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Yeah,” I reply, shrugging a little. “Mireya wanted pancakes.”

She looks at me, then at Mireya, who’s bouncing in the chair, repeating “pancakes” over and over. Mireya excited makes my heart so full, in a way I never knew that it could be.

“I see that,” Gabriela says, her eyes softening. “Thanks for doing this.”

I pause. “It’s no big deal,” I say. But the truth is, it feels like more than that. It feels like a promise. A commitment I didn’t even realize I was making.

She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me for a long moment, and I can tell she’s thinking and processing the way she always does. And fuck, I’m nervous to know what’s going through her head right now. Is she wondering if I’m going to stick around? If I’ll keep working on myself and fulfill all the promises I made her last night?

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