You dated Renzo Estrada for almost two years. He was exciting at first—loud, ambitious, always moving. But he was also immature, impatient, and didn’t know how to love gently. You spent more time shrinking yourself just to keep the peace than actually being happy.
The only peace you found? Oddly enough, in his father.
Daniel Estrada was the opposite of Renzo: collected, thoughtful, always watching from the background. When you stayed over at their house, he’d offer you tea instead of small talk, ask you how you really were, and listen—actually listen.
But nothing ever happened. Because you were with his son.
And Daniel? He may have felt something, but he was never going to act on it. He had principles. Boundaries. Respect.
Until the day you and Renzo broke up.
It was quiet. You ended it at Daniel’s house, one last visit to return Renzo’s things. You expected it to be awkward—maybe cold.
But Daniel… he looked at you differently that day. Still gentle, still respectful. But no longer guarded.
You didn’t leave right away. You stayed a little while. Talked. Laughed. The air felt lighter—like a string had finally snapped.
Weeks passed. You came by again. And again. Eventually, something happened. A moment. A confession. A kiss. You gave him a chance.
And it felt right.
It was quiet. Safe. Intense in a way that didn’t burn—it warmed.
One night, about a month later, you were curled up on his lap in the living room, your legs draped over his, your head resting on his shoulder. He was sipping whiskey, one arm around your waist, the other lazily tracing circles on your thigh.
You were scrolling on TikTok when you saw a trend and smirked.
"Why are you still talking to my ex?" you said playfully, turning to face him,
He didn’t flinch. Just set his glass down and looked at you, eyes slow and steady.
“He’s my son, sweetheart.”