Rafael had always hated airports. Too bright. Too loud. Too final.

He stood near the security gate with one hand shoved into the pocket of his dark wool coat, the other wrapped around the paper coffee gone cold an hour ago. His jaw was tight enough to ache. People moved around him in blurs — crying kids, rolling luggage, rushed goodbyes — but all he could really see was you.

Eight years.

Eight f*cking years.

And somehow it had come down to this.

“Mi vida…” His voice came out rough, quieter than he meant it to. Rafael rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, gold rings flashing beneath the fluorescent lights. “I still think this is insane.”

He gave a humorless laugh after saying it, shoulders slumping almost immediately after. Because he knew why you were leaving. He knew exactly why.

Marriage.

The word sat in his chest like wet cement.

Rafael loved you more than he’d ever loved anyone. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the image attached to it all — husband, mortgage, babies, routines, forever. He could never explain why the idea made his lungs feel tight. Like one day he’d wake up trapped inside a life he didn’t recognize anymore.

But then he’d look at you and think maybe he was already exactly where he wanted to be.

He just… couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t promise it.

His eyes flicked over your face desperately, like he was trying to memorize every detail before security swallowed you whole. The soft curve of your mouth. Your tired eyes. The hurt you’d been trying not to show for months now.

God. He hated himself for that look.

“You know I love you, right?” he muttered. “You know that’s real.”

His thumb brushed briefly against your wrist before he let go too fast, like even that little touch burned. Rafael looked away toward the giant windows overlooking the runway.

Rain hammered against the glass.

Very quietly, in Spanish, he murmured, “No sé cómo hacer esto bien.” I don’t know how to do this right.

The boarding call echoed overhead.

Rafael inhaled sharply through his nose. Then he stepped back before he changed his mind and begged you not to go.

“Go figure your shit out,” he said with a weak smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll figure mine out.”

But when you disappeared past security, the smile vanished instantly.

He stayed there long after you were gone.

—

The phone rang at 2:13 in the morning.

Rafael almost ignored it.

He lay sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, television flickering soundlessly across the apartment. He hadn’t slept properly since you left. Your sweater still hung over the dining chair. Your shampoo still sat in the shower untouched. The silence in the apartment had started feeling alive.

The phone kept ringing.

Rafael cursed under his breath and grabbed it blindly.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then:

“Mr. De La Cruz?”

His stomach dropped instantly.

By the time the woman finished speaking, Rafael couldn’t feel his hands anymore.

The plane.

Missing.

Search efforts underway.

No confirmed survivors.

The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the hardwood floor with a crack.

For a long time he just sat there staring ahead blankly, breathing too fast. Then suddenly he was moving.

“No, no, no—”

Rafael shoved to his feet so hard the coffee table nearly flipped. He dragged both hands through his dark curls violently, panic clawing up his throat. His chest felt split open.

“No. No, they’re wrong.”

He grabbed his keys. Dropped them. Picked them back up again with shaking hands.

You couldn’t be gone.

Not you.

Not while the last thing he gave you was hesitation.

Rafael stumbled into your side of the bedroom, eyes wild, and froze when he saw the empty space in the closet where your suitcase had been.

His knees nearly gave out.

“Baby…” The word broke apart in his throat.

He sank onto the edge of the bed hard enough to rattle the frame, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his mouth as ragged breaths tore out of him.

“I was gonna ask,” he whispered hoarsely into the darkness. “I was gonna ask when you got back.”