Ximena's POV
When Anton finally walked through the front door, darkness had already settled outside our windows, casting long shadows across the living room where I sat curled up like a question mark on our worn couch.
The television flickered with some mindless reality drama that I wasn't really watching. On the kitchen counter, the pizza I'd ordered hours ago sat abandoned in its greasy cardboard box, probably stone cold by now.
The door clicked shut behind him. I heard his cleats hit the floor with two dull thuds, followed by that familiar exhale he always made when the weight of the day finally caught up with him.
His footsteps moved toward me with deliberate slowness, like he was carrying something heavy that wasn't just his equipment bag.
"You got pizza?" His voice cut through the artificial laughter from the TV.
