Miguel had vanished into war without a word.

After his sister’s death, rage consumed him. He left everything behind—his home, his future, and you. You, who had loved him since you were teenagers. You, who had held him when no one else would. You were his safe place, his softness, his forever. And he left without even a goodbye.

You waited. You worried. You broke. And eventually, you learned to live again.

Tonight, the bar was alive. Rebuilt after years of silence, its walls now pulsed with music and laughter. You were surrounded by friends, carefree for the first time in ages. You danced—beautifully, effortlessly—your smile brighter than it had been in years. The lights caught your eyes, the rhythm moved through your body, and for a moment, you were just… free.

That’s when he noticed you. A man at the bar, drawn in by your glow. He approached, flirted, leaned in with a grin.

But before you could respond, he froze.

His eyes locked on something behind you. And then you heard it—low, familiar, rough with emotion.

“What do you think you’re doing talking to mi cariña, huh?”

You turned.

Miguel stood there. Older. Scarred. Eyes burning with something between possession and longing. No warning. No apology. Just him—back from the dead, back from the war, and still looking at you like you were his.

The music kept playing. The lights kept spinning. But your world had stopped.

He was home. And he still thought you were his.