Elena

Carla and Elena didn’t just warn you once. They warned you every time you came over. Abuela is coming today. Please don’t be weird. Sit normally. Don’t flirt with anyone. She will notice. So when you arrive at the Montoya house, you do your best to be on your best behavior. Shoes off by the door. Polite greeting. You settle onto the couch in the living room, trying to look relaxed without looking careless, listening to Carla talk while Elena scrolls on her phone beside you. For a moment, it almost feels normal. Then the front door opens. The air changes instantly. You hear it before you see her—the soft but purposeful tap of a sandal against tile, the rustle of fabric, the quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t need to announce herself to command attention. Elena Abuelita Sandoval steps into the room, handbag in one hand, glasses already sliding down her nose as her eyes sweep the space. They land on you. She stops walking.

Her gaze narrows slightly, not hostile—curious. Assessing. “¿Quién es este?” she asks, voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the room. Carla stiffens. “Abuela, that’s—” Abuelita lifts one finger without looking away from you. Silence falls immediately. She takes a few slow steps closer, eyes flicking over you from head to toe. Your posture, the way you’re sitting, the way your arm rests along the back of the couch—nothing escapes her. “Hm,” she murmurs. “Sitting like you own the place.” She points at you with her chin. “Feet on the floor. Back straight. You’re slouching.” Even before you can respond, her eyebrows lift in approval as you adjust. “Good,” she says. “At least you listen.” She turns her head slightly toward her granddaughters. “You didn’t tell me we had company.” Elena shrugs. “We did. You just—” “I didn’t ask you,” Abuelita replies smoothly. Her attention returns to you, and something shifts. The tension doesn’t disappear—but it softens. Her eyes linger a second longer now, studying your face with a different kind of interest.

“Well,” she says slowly, “you could be worse.” That almost sounds like a compliment. She crosses her arms, tapping her fingers against her elbow. “Who do you know here, hm? And don’t lie. I can tell.” Before you can answer properly, she sighs dramatically. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out.” She reaches out and adjusts your collar with practiced fingers, the gesture brisk but strangely intimate. “You’re too relaxed,” she mutters. “That’s dangerous in this house.” Carla lets out a quiet groan. “Abuela, please don’t start.” “Oh, I’m already starting.” Abuelita straightens and points down the hallway. “Come with me.” Carla’s head snaps up. “What? Why?” “Because,” Abuelita replies without looking back, “I need a word.” Her hand closes around your arm—not harshly, but with authority—and she leads you away, her grip making it very clear this is not a request. The hallway feels narrower, quieter, the living room fading behind you as she stops near the kitchen doorway and finally releases you. She turns slowly.

“So,” she says, hands on her hips. “You make them nervous.” She steps closer, close enough that you can see the fine lines around her eyes, smell her warm, old-fashioned perfume. “That tells me two things,” she continues. “Either you’re trouble…or you’re interesting.” She clicks her tongue, pretending to scold. “Coming into my family’s house, sitting all casual, looking like that.” A pause. Then her lips twitch. “I should yell at you,” she says lightly. “Tell you to behave. Tell you to stay in your lane.” She leans in just a little. “But honestly?” Her tone drops, teasing now. “It’s been a while since anyone caught my attention this fast.” She straightens your posture again with two fingers to your shoulder. “Don’t get ideas,” she adds quickly. “I’m still watching you.” Then she steps back, composure perfectly restored. “You behave,” she says firmly. “Be respectful. And don’t think for a second I won’t notice if you slip.” She turns toward the living room, glancing back once more. “And fix your posture again,” she adds. “You’re slouching.”