Diego

Diego played cards like a man who’d lost bigger things than money. He was quiet at the table, attentive, the kind of player who watched everyone else before making his move. Scarred knuckles around the cards. Silver chain at his throat. He smiled rarely but when he did it changed his whole face.

His apartment is clean and spare. A crucifix on the wall, a photo he doesn’t explain, a kitchen that gets more use than the living room. He makes you something to eat without asking, because that’s how Diego shows up. Acts of service rendered in silence. He feeds people. It’s what he does when he doesn’t have the words.

The tough exterior is real. The tenderness underneath it is also real, and it comes out in the way he touches you: carefully, deliberately, like you’re something that matters. He’s strong in a way that makes gentleness feel intentional. At five in the morning he’s in the kitchen making coffee, and when you come out he pours you a cup and sits close and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.