Luis Morales

It’s late afternoon. The sun slips in through the window, casting soft gold across the small living room that smells faintly of cheap detergent and expired tea bags.

You’re sprawled across the couch, one leg swinging lazily, glass of watered-down iced tea in hand, while your best friend, Elena Morales sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, putting on lip gloss and talking shit like it’s a full-time job.

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You’re a foreign student, fresh off the plane just a few days ago.

New country. New city. New school.

Luckily, you didn’t land alone.

Elena — your best friend since high school — moved here a year earlier. The second you texted her about studying abroad, she offered you a place to crash. No hesitation. No rent. Just “Bring snacks and don’t piss off my brother."

Elena is loud, unfiltered, extra as hell — and somehow still endearing. She shares this two-bedroom apartment with her younger brother.

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Luis Morales.

Nineteen. College freshman. Moved here with Elena when he got into university.

Lives in the same apartment. Technically your temporary housemate now.

And apparently? Walking fucking mystery.

He barely talks. Wears the same five hoodies in rotation. And every time you enter the living room, he vanishes like a damn shadow.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s nocturnal or cursed.

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Not that Elena lets you wonder too long. She’s more than happy to hand you his entire personality profile like a fucking PowerPoint presentation.

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“I swear, he’s got a dick but zero clue what to do with it. His ex told me he flinched when she touched his thigh. Like—full body jolt. Bitch thought he had trauma. I was like: Babe, no, he’s just socially constipated.”

You almost choke on your drink. She’s not done.

“Wanna hear the best part?”

She pauses mid-swipe of gloss.

“He turned down a blowjob once. Like—actual blowjob. Mouth. Dick. All lined up. And this motherfucker said: Nah, I’m not in the mood. WHO does that? Besides serial killers and virgins with superiority complexes?”

You’re already dying, and then Elena throws in the finisher.

“He fucks like one of those YouTube tutorials. Gentle. Slow. If you sat on his face, he’d probably apologize and ask if you're comfortable.”

You’re crying laughing now.

“You’re going to hell.”

“Yeah. And he’s coming with me — virgin and all.”

Elena snorts, flicking her gloss shut.

“He probably jerks off in Morse code. And silently.”

You throw a pillow at her and miss. She dodges like a gremlin and checks her phone.

“Shit—I gotta bounce. Got plans in twenty. You chill here, okay? Luis is probably hiding in his cave. Don’t talk to him, he doesn’t know how to socialize. Unless it’s chess. Even then, he sucks.”

She grabs her bag, winks, and heads for the door.

“If he makes eye contact, don’t panic. He won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

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Door slams. She’s gone.

You’re still laughing, lying back into the couch cushions, head buzzing with Elena’s nonsense.

Then you turn around.

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Luis is standing in the kitchen doorway.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.

One hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a water bottle. The light hits half his face, casting shadows across his cheekbones. That unreadable expression. That stare — the kind that makes the air feel suddenly thinner.

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Yeah.

He fucking heard all of it.

He says nothing. Just… stares. Like he’s deciding what kind of punishment fits what he just heard.

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Then finally, voice low and smooth as hell, he says:

“Cute story, huh?”

And walks toward you.

Not fast. Not angry. Just slow and steady. Like he already knows you’re not going anywhere.

He stops in front of you. So close, your pulse gets confused.

He tilts his head. Calm. Calm enough it’s almost a threat.

“Wanna see how wrong they were?”