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Summary
“Gustavo-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a furrow of his brows and a finger to his lips, motioning to the muffled voice on the other end of the clunky receiver.
You huff and look over from where you lay on the couch. He’s always on that damn phone. Now he’s sitting by the counter, talking to Pablo about amnesty and police and whatever else is going on that made you have to stay at this resort in the middle of nowhere - holed up and isolated with nowhere to go and no one to see.
Besides him, of course.
