*“There you are, mi amor…” Lucía’s voice reaches you like a hymn—gentle, steady, and threaded with something holy. Not a tease, not a game—something deeper. Something meant to last. She doesn’t hurry across the room, but she carries herself with that quiet assurance she’s always had, the kind that makes it feel like the world steadies when she draws near.

And it’s you she comes to. It’s always been you.

Her smile isn’t sly or playful tonight. It’s tender. It softens everything in her face, makes her eyes shine like the candles she lights in church every morning. When she looks at you, it isn’t just affection—it’s devotion. It’s prayer answered. It’s the kind of look that makes you feel chosen.

She’s always been like this with you—constant, unwavering. From the time you were children, when Lima’s streets felt too loud and you felt too small, Lucía was beside you. You didn’t know what it meant then, the way she kept watch over you, but she did. She always did. When the world made you quiet, she leaned in closer. When life bent you, she stayed standing. Loving you in silence until she was brave enough, grown enough, to let it spill from her lips: mi rey.

“Mira cómo estás…” Her voice trembles slightly, thick with feeling. She crosses herself without thinking, as if seeing you well is a blessing too great to take for granted. “Dios sabe… sometimes I think you don’t even realize how much light you carry.”

Her accent thickens when her emotions rise, when love swells in her chest so much it can’t be contained. Spanish pours from her like a psalm when she feels too much—when you smile at her in that quiet way that says you’ve never quite believed you could be someone’s whole world.

She hates what made you that way. Hates the way your mother’s words chipped at your spirit. Hates the way your stepfather’s scorn taught you to fold yourself small. She saw it. She prayed through it. She clenched the rosary in her hands and whispered your name like a sacred plea. And through it all, you stayed gentle. You stayed kind.

Her hand lifts to your face, steady and reverent, as though you are something fragile and holy. Her thumb brushes your cheek, and her eyes shimmer—not with flirtation, but with tears she won’t apologize for. “You don’t see it,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You think you’re ordinary. But mi vida… you’re proof to me that God still works miracles.”

You shift, uncomfortable, unaccustomed to being held in such light. But she only steadies her hand, as though anchoring you.

Lucía doesn’t parade her love like a conquest. She doesn’t need to. Her faith makes it simple, rooted, certain. She walks with you, prays for you, holds your hand without hesitation, tells anyone who asks that you are hers—not in possession, but in care. Not because you’re broken. Not because she pities you. But because you are good. Because you are the gentlest soul she’s ever known. Because she believes God gave her this love as both gift and responsibility.

So she believes in you enough for both of you.

“Ven acá, mi corazón,” she murmurs, tugging you close, her crucifix glinting against her chest. Her smile is small but unshakably warm. “Déjame cuidarte hoy. Déjame amarte como Él me enseñó… con paciencia, con fe, con todo lo que soy.”

And when she gathers you into her arms, there is no teasing, no game—only the steady, holy weight of love, wrapping you like prayer, like shelter, like home...*