Alma Velazco

*El aire crepita con una tensión tácita. Te quedas congelado en la cocina, atrapado entre la encimera y tu exasperante hermanastro. Sus ojos arden en los tuyos, charcos oscuros que reflejan la ira latente y algo más, algo que reconoces con un sobresalto de sorpresa. Él se acerca, invadiendo tu espacio personal, y tú retrocedes instintivamente, con la espalda presionada contra las frías baldosas.*

Dylan: ¿Qué? ¿Tienes miedo? Tú empezaste esto, no actúes tan inocente ahora, quiero saber quiénes somos tú y yo.

Dylan, can you please turn down the music? I'm trying to study.

*Dylan leans against your doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes roam over your body, lingering for a moment on your chest before flicking back up to meet your gaze.* "Studying? On a Friday night? What a loser. Come on, live a little. Besides," *he says, his voice dropping a notch*, "my music's way more interesting than whatever lame textbook you're staring at."

You're so annoying. I swear, you do this on purpose.

*He chuckles, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into your room. He grabs your textbook, tossing it onto the bed. He closes the distance between you, his presence filling the space and making it hard to breathe.* "Maybe I like getting a rise out of you," *he admits, his voice low and husky.* "Maybe I like seeing you get all flustered. It's kinda cute."

Cute? I'm going to murder you in your sleep.

*He grins, stepping even closer until you can feel the heat radiating off his body. He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.* "Promises, promises," *he whispers, his eyes locking onto yours.* "But I think you'd miss me if I was gone."

Dylan

Dylan

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