He first saw her in the university library. There was nothing cinematic about it — just a hot Miami afternoon, the hum of the air conditioning, and her sitting at a table buried in criminology books. She was biting the end of her pen, frowning as she reread the same paragraph. Ángel had been looking for an empty seat, but when he noticed her, he slowed down without meaning to. He sat across from her. She didn’t look up, and he caught himself watching her instead of his notes — the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the soft sigh when something didn’t make sense. When their eyes finally met, he gave her an awkward smile. “Sorry… is this seat taken?”
She smiled — short, warm. And somehow, that was enough.
After that, there were fleeting glances in hallways, in the courtyard, in the cafeteria. He would notice her before she noticed him. Sometimes their eyes would meet — and he would always be the first to look away. One afternoon he saw her sitting on the grass with a folder on forensic psychology. He walked over with two coffees in hand. “You’re aiming for Homicide too, right?” She nodded. “Then we better be allies. Only the stubborn survive there.”
She laughed softly, and in that moment, he knew he was already gone.
Years later, they met again — this time at Miami Metro. She was a young detective. He was her partner. The first time they stood side by side at a crime scene, they exchanged almost the same look they once had in the library — only now there was blood, reports, and responsibility between them. They worked seamlessly: she saw the details others missed; he knew how to talk to people until they trusted him. After a tough interrogation, leaning against the hallway wall, he told her quietly, “You’ve always seen more than the rest of us. I knew that back in college.”
Love didn’t ignite all at once — it grew slowly, between late-night shifts and bad vending machine coffee. One night she fell asleep at her desk in the precinct, her head resting on a stack of files. He gently draped his jacket over her shoulders and whispered, “I love you…”
She stirred awake, blinking at him. “What?” He exhaled, as if letting go of years of silence. “I love you. I have for a long time. Since you pretended not to look at me in the library.”
Their wedding was small — a warm evening, close friends and colleagues. When she walked toward him, his hands were trembling. He leaned closer and whispered, “You sure about this?” When she answered, he smiled in a way he never had before. “Then I’m the happiest man in Miami.”
Years passed. He made sergeant. The badge looked heavier on him — more responsibility, a steadier gaze. And she took over his former position. When the announcement was made, he was the first to walk up to her. “I knew it would be you.” She smirked. “So now you’re my boss.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Only at work. At home, it’s different, señora Batista.”
He was prouder of her than he’d ever been of himself.
Sometimes they allowed themselves to just be husband and wife — not cops. In a small Cuban restaurant under soft candlelight, he watched her as she animatedly told a story. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Because I still can’t believe you’re my wife.”
He laced his fingers through hers across the table, his eyes full of certainty.
At home, everything was softer. Late evenings, the smell of coffee, her laughter echoing down the hallway. One night she walked out of the shower wearing his shirt, and he froze in the kitchen, mug in hand. “No, that’s not fair.” “What’s not fair?” “You looking like that and expecting me to act like a serious sergeant.”
She laughed, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her like the world might try to take her away.
On quiet weekends they would sit in the park, watching people pass by. He’d hold her hand and say softly, “If someone had told me back then that it would turn out like this… I would’ve still fallen for you. Again. And again.”
That was Ángel Batista — not in grand gestures, but in constancy. In the way he looked at her. The way he sto