My pounding headache is undoubtedly the worst I have ever experienced, and as expected, the brightness peeping through my eyelids does not help either.

Carefully opening my eyes, I scan my surroundings; the familiar salamander orange walls and brown decor belongs to no other person but Damìan. I steadily sit in bed and turn to him. The sun shining from the window shadows his face, so I shade him with the palm of my hand. He rests thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he exhales.

Damìan has the kind of face that stops people in their tracks; smooth-warm beige skin distinguished by a chiselled jawline, and when he smiles, his left cheek has a dimple that brings out deep-set hazel eyes defined by thick long lashes. His dark curly hair is tousled around the pillow. I'm compelled to fix a strand behind his ears, but recoil as his eyes begin to flutter open.

He yawns when his eyes land on me; he's silent a moment, looking at me curiously.

"Morning," he murmurs.

I smile softly, "hey."

Why is it so awkward? It's not the first time we've fallen asleep in the same bed.

Wait...why am I even in his room? And how did we get home?

I have two homes.

My first home is a charming four-bedroom cottage in Mar Vista, west of Los Angeles. My second home is in Pasadena, northeast of downtown Los Angeles.

The Pasadena Estate, or Moreno-Jones Estate, sits over an acre of land that Damìan's parents have carefully taken time to love. Yes, Damìan lives in a mansion, and it's a beautiful one too. It's a gated home with spiral stone driveways, an organic vegetable garden, a stream and pond, a greenhouse, a tennis and basketball court, and a pool.

The Mediterranean architectural home is a special place; it's like my version of a secret garden—without the racist and depressing element, of course.

I notice a bottle of water and ibuprofen pills on his nightstand beside the bed. "The night is a blur, but I know Carmen must've taken great care because she left us a gift."

He follows my line of sight, "mi corazón de melón (my melon heart), always the caretaker." He sits up and grabs the bottle of water and ibuprofen from the side table, and hands it to me. "You go first. I'm still waking up."

I oblige, "so...what happened last night? You have the best memory." I lay back in bed and snuggle into his creme white pillows expectantly.

He glances at me quizzically for a moment before clearing his throat

"We drank, got high, swam. Before we left Shrau's place, you did karaoke...I forgot how extroverted you get when drunk," he chuckles softly.

I embarrassingly covered my face.

"Please, tell me you're lying," I plead, peaking through my fingers. "That did not happen."

He shakes his head amusingly.

"Well, I guess it's great that I don't remember it," I joke.

A serious expression takes over his face, and he sits up to look at me.

"You don't remember anything from last night, like nothing at all?"

My head begins to throb again, "everything after the screen room is blank. I haven't drank since last year, and this is one of the reasons why," I groan.

He turns, raking fingers through his hair. "There's something I need to know," he murmurs.

I urge him to continue, and he looks at me again. His eyes soften, but he seems nervous. The picking of a nonexistent thread off his sheets proves so.

"Well, we went swimming, and—"

Abruptly, the bedroom door opens, and in walks Carmen, holding a glass of white liquid that I recognise as her famous coconut smoothie. She's in a checkered onesie looking as fresh as a daisy; the girl started her night off with Whiskey, so how does she look so well-rested?

"De mañana (morning), children!" She declares.

I wince; the loudness of her voice might as well be nails scratching chalkboard.

"Not so loud, Cami. It's throbbing in here." I whisper, pointing to my head.

"And I've come to rectify that." She hands me her drink, "for the hangover soon to follow."

"It's already started," I mumble. I sip from the metal straw she inserted in my glass, moaning as thick tasty coconut fills my mouth. "You're godsent amore mio (my love), thank you."

"¿Dónde está el mío (where's mine)?" Damìan refers to the coconut smoothie in my hand.

Carmen shrugs, "I only made one. Do I look like your maid?"

"But...you gave one to her?"

"Yeah. Ella es mi hermana (she is my sister)."

"I love you too, hermana (sister)," I coo, hugging her tightly. She pecks my forehead—Damìan huffs.

"Pero yo soy tu primo (but I'm your cousin)." He feigns offence by placing his hand over his heart.

She raises an eyebrow at his statement, "su punto es (your point is)...."

He shuffles out of bed, "I'll remember this day."

"You can have some of mine," I insist, but he waves me off, annoyed, and exits the room.

"Think about that again before you enter the kitchen!" She shouts after him.

Carmen suppresses a laugh and counts slowly on her fingers to five, pointing candidly to the door, and chuckles when Damìan suddenly appears again with a smile on his face.

"Do I smell," he sniffs the air, "asopao de pollo?"

She faces him, "mmm...¿que decías (you were saying)?" She said with raised eyebrows.

He grins and goes to leave again, but I stop him.

"You were telling me something earlier? What did you want to know?"

"I was going to say that, um," he scratches the back of his head. "You're such a lightweight. Maybe stay away from drinks for a while, amiga (friend). The whole point of a drinking buddy is to not worry about them."

I laugh, "seriously? I'll remember that next time you're drinking your weight in alcohol." He shrugs and quickly leaves the doorway.

"Ungrateful S.O.B," I muse.

"Next time, rub lemon under your armpits; ¡antes de la borrachera, primo (before the drunkenness, cousin)!" She yells to him.

I laugh.

"What are you laughing at? That goes for you, too." She playfully slaps my leg as I lean against the headboard.

"I still can't believe you think that rubbing it under your armpits helps with dehydration. Like how?"

She joins me in bed before responding, "mito o no (myth or not), I'm careful."

"On a serious note, let me recap; a lot of vodka, weed...as well as a session filled with karaoke—"

"And sing you did." She pulls her phone out of her onesie, "perfectly in tune with Duffy like a G. I have it on my stories, wanna see?" She teasingly waves her phone.

"Non fai scumbari (stop embarrassing me)! Please take them down." I smack her with my pillow, and she laughs.

I calm, knowing full well she won't budge because she lives vicariously through every embarrassing moment of mine.

"And I won't hold it against you, but it really hurt when I found out you both were getting lit without me. Like, what the hell, man." She scorns playfully.

"It wasn't my blunt." I shake my head. "Ìan also mentioned that we went swimming?"

"Oh, yeah. You guys were soaking, especially you. Jackie was the D.D to drive us home, and the moment we got in the car, you woke up out of Damìan's lap and insisted you needed to sing. So you escaped the car and ran back inside."

"What, I did? Ìan didn't tell me all of that."

"He probably was being modest." She laughs, "we had to chase you down and try to get you back in the car, but you refused to leave until you sang, so Damìan gave in and allowed you. You kissed him on the cheek in gratitude, by the way."

I blush, "I did?" I touch my lips, "I wish I could remember that."

"Yes, Ms Crush Bunny, lo hiciste (you did)." She muses.

I look down at myself and notice the oversized Frank Ocean sweatshirt that reads channel orange in white letters.

"Why am I wearing his sweatshirt?"

"You threw up on your clothes on the way home. Jackie wasn't happy that you did so in their car. They left earlier this morning to get it cleaned."

"Sorry," I say guiltily.

I touch Damìans sweatshirt thoughtfully. The fabric is soft against my skin. Without putting my nose to it, I can tell it smells like him. Hell, his bed smells like him, like cinnamon and Irish spring soap. He probably bathed before falling asleep. As for me, I can taste the stale bile in my mouth; he probably got an incredible whiff of it this morning.

And if he did, he didn't seem to care.

"I'm surprised Ìan let me wear this. Usually, he forbids me from touching his clothes since I used to borrow his sweatshirts in middle school."

"Well, it's what he handed to me. I guess he was too lazy to go to your room to get new ones."

"My room is down the hall," I deadpan, but Carmen shrugs.

After a moment, I dissociate into silence, contemplating the night before. My head continues to throb when I try to force a memory. But earlier events stick with me, especially Arlene.

I groan, "I can't get Livia's stupid words out of my head."

Carmen lays next to me, "I watched the fight on Snapchat. She was such a bitch for telling you that."

"Of course, that shit is online. Our generation needs to grow up. Does everything have to be recorded?"

"That's the zoomers for you, always needing to record shit, even if it means blood and broken body parts."

I chuckle, "says the Gen-Z herself. And did you say zoomer? No one calls us that."

"You'd be surprised by how many do," she states.

"But seriously...Ìan's heartbroken. He's resorted to science. Like, he's beginning to lie to himself that all those feelings he had for her weren't ever real. I feel bad for the guy." I sigh, "his beating heart is in broken pieces. How do I help him glue it together?" I mutter.

"Beating broken heart," she chuckles. "You've always had a way with words."

I groan, "I'm being serious."

"So am I. Damìan is a big boy. He can handle his heart."

I give her a worried look.

"Okay, Lulu, I get it. You're hurt that he's hurt. There isn't anything you can really do...other than support him. Healing is something he'll have to figure out. If he wants to be in denial, you can't stop him."

"The whole thing irks me, Cami, yet, deep down...I would be lying if I said I wasn't happy they're no longer together. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. Do I honestly care? No, because this break up means I have a chance."

"You feel what you feel, and you can't control that," Carmen hugs the pillow I hit her with earlier. "Bitcha (bitch). She should have never cheated on him. But Lulu, you know now is probably not the time to admit anything."

"Not instantly, but I plan to tell him before the summer ends."

"When did you make this decision?"

"Now."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Luena, he just got cheated on, broke up with his girlfriend and emotionally feels like shit right now. Based on what you told me, he isn't looking to get into the love game any time soon."

"I know."

"Yet, you still want to pursue him?"

"Yes."

"But that's unreasonable. You're setting yourself up for heartbreak if you do that."

"Isn't the whole point to being vulnerable meaning to risk it? I'm risking rejection and disappointment. The whole point of this is to open myself up to another person, and if there's any person I want to do that with, it's him. He's worth it."

"Even if that means risking your friendship?" I grow silent. "Even if that means crossing the line, you have spent years afraid of crossing?"

She looks at me thoughtfully, "I know you love him. And there isn't a greater stan than I am to see you both together. But now...is not the time. He isn't ready for this," she points at me, "he isn't ready for you. So, love...save yourself the heartbreak and be patient because he isn't going anywhere."

Deep down, I know she's right. I am being unreasonable; I should wait. But I don't want to wait anymore.

Seeing him like that last night reminded me that life and love aren't guaranteed. Shit happens, but also things happen for a reason. Maybe his break-up is what I needed to gain the courage, to be honest.

I know it sounds selfish, but I love him. I love him so much it hurts.

I want a chance with him. I want to be with him. But Carmen's right. If I risk it all, there's no coming back from it.

"Promise me you won't do it." She said sincerely. "Promise me you'll wait."

Looking at her, I know she's serious. I also know that she doesn't want to lose me because if he does break my heart, there's a possibility it will break all of us.

"I promise."

She gently smiles, clasping her pinky with mine.

"Come on; you should eat."

"I'll see if I can manage." I muse.

Honestly, no matter how much I want to run to him and confess, deep down, I know I'm not ready for us to break away. We're family and I'd never forgive myself if I was the cause for its ending.