Mateo watched me closely, like a bloodhound sniffing for secrets. His brows pinched together in a way that made him look like someone had just insulted his abuela's cooking.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look… dull."
I barked a laugh. "Dull?"
"Yeah," he nodded, lips twitching, "like a rusty spoon."
"A rusty—what?" I gaped.
"You know, not sharp, but bent, sad, and unused. Basically, a spoon no one wants to stir their coffee with anymore."
"Wow," I muttered, dragging my foot as I moved to sit on the small stone bench by the gate. "That might be the worst metaphor I've ever heard, and you once compared my anxiety to a squirrel on cocaine."
"I stand by that one," he said, handing me the tray before plopping down beside me, shoulder bumping mine. "But seriously, you alright? Aside from the whole death-by-pastry incident?"
I sighed. "You mean besides falling flat on my face in front of Álvaro, Mr. Disgusting wolf in heat?"
Mateo grunted. "I meant besides that, yeah."
