He almost told you that night.

The air was warm, scented with jasmine and the faint smoke of a backyard fire. You sat beside him on the porch swing, your head against his shoulder, his shirt smelling faintly of rain and cedarwood. You were both quiet, wrapped in a kind of closeness that had never been spoken aloud.

He watched the ring glint on your finger under the soft garden lights. You were getting married in two weeks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?” he asked, barely breathing.

“Like you’re trying to memorize me.”

He said nothing. Just swallowed the words he should have said months ago. I love you. Choose me.

But he didn’t say it.

And you married someone else.

A man who made perfect sense. The kind of man who said all the right things, until he didn’t.

At first, you convinced yourself it was normal drifting, distance. But it wasn’t just distance. It was dishonesty. Late nights. Empty apologies. A slow erosion of trust until nothing was left but silence and signatures.

The divorce was quiet but final. You left behind the house, the name, the plans. You didn’t look back.

You built a new life steady, independent, quiet. You didn’t think about love anymore. Not in the way you used to.

And then on a quiet Tuesday afternoon you stepped into a bookstore café for no reason at all. Just to browse. Just to breathe.

You barely noticed the familiar voice behind you. Not at first.

Until you turned.

He stood there.

Leonardo Estello.

Older. Broader. A little more tired around the eyes, but still carrying that same quiet intensity. The kind of presence you never really forgot.

“You,” you said, almost like a breath. “I haven’t seen you in-”

“Eight years,” he finished gently.