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I scan the menu, throat tightening a little at the familiarity of all the foods I grew up around. Many of the items listed remind me of home. It wasn't until this moment that I realized how much I miss San Diego.

“I’m still debating what I want to order.”

“Then I choose,” she declares in English.

Ollie’s brows lift. “Maria⁠—”

“She will thank me later,” the woman insists. “You trust me?” I nod as an answer and she claps once, satisfied. “Good. I’ll bring you something you will dream about for weeks.”

She walks off, talking to Santiago about our food in rapid Spanish. Ollie watches her go, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “They’re intense.”

“Hush, I love them,” I tell him.

“Eli’s going to be unbearable when he finds out you enjoyed his favorite place.”

“He’s already unbearable most days.”

Ollie’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Fair. He brought Rose here on their first date.”

Maria drops off chips and salsa. “Eat,” she commands, pointing at Ollie. “You’re too skinny.”

He snorts. “I’m not, but thanks for caring.”

Maria gives him a pointed look that says she has known him long enough to call out his bullshit. She then turns to me and pats my shoulder. “If you need anything, mija, you tell me.”

I smile up at her. “I will.”

Maria walks away, satisfied with her work. Our conversation is only interrupted when our food is served. The second the plates hit the table, the air fills with the smell of grilled meat, cheese and spices, making my stomach growl despite the chips we demolished. Steam curls upward from Ollie’s enchiladas while my tostadas are straight out of my childhood Sundays back home. I take a bite of the crunchy toasted tortilla and it’s so good that I make a sound I absolutely shouldn’t make in public.

Ollie’s grin turns smug. “That good?”

“Shut up. It’s perfect.”

The flavors hit all at once. The dish tastes like family time and warm California evenings and being fourteen while my mom dances around the kitchen singing along to old Mexican songs her childhood neighbors played during block parties.

“I knew you were going to love this place when you said how much you loved Mexican food.”

“You sound very confident,” I say, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with the napkin. “Especially for someone who can’t understand half of what the owners are saying about him.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re enjoying that too much.”

“Immensely.”

He leans forward, candlelight catching in his eyes. “So, you speak fluent Spanish and have impeccable taste in music. And you trust people who bring you good food.”

I tilt my head. “What’s your point?”

“I’m just stating things I have noticed about you.”

“Are you making a list or something?”

“Maybe.”

The way he says it sends warmth skating down my spine. Like he cares enough to want to look for all the things that make up me. “Should I be concerned?”

“That depends. Do you usually make it this easy for people to be impressed?”

“You’re not that impressed by me.”