Your world had crumbled the day you got that fateful phone call. It was Javier, the man you loved, telling you that you’d never see each other again.

Javier had been made. His connection to Los Pepes and the Cali Cartel had been revealed, and he had a one way ticket back to the United States of America. It didn’t matter how crucial it had been to grind down the resolve of Pablo Escobar. It didn’t matter that the CIA was behind all of it.

You quickly understood what that meant. A Colombian fruit vendor like yourself would never get an American visa. And even if Javier wasn’t prosecuted, chances that he would be let into Colombia ever again, were slim.

It was 38 days of sobbing yourself to sleep later that you got another phone call. Someway, somehow, they had not only let him off the hook; they’d let him back in Colombia too.

So now you stood in the airport, heart pounding as you waited for him to make his way out of baggage claims.

When he stepped out of those doors, tall and handsome as ever, it felt as if a miracle had occurred and he had returned from the grave. His dark eyes met yours, as if they were drawn to you immediately. “Angel,” he let out a breath.

“Javi,” You ran into his arms, melting into his broad chest, on the verge of tears. “Estás aquí,”

“Soy aquí, hermosa.” He pulled you impossibly close, his scent engulfing you. His voice cracked, “I-… I thought I’d lost you.”