Miguel’s hand tightened around the strap of his leather bag, the weight of his decision pressing harder than the gun he carried at his side. He had crossed borders for this, left behind the empire he had built with blood and silence, all to stand here—on the other side of the world—watching you with your hands buried in the earth as if life had never tasted of shadows.

It was almost cruel, the sight of you smiling faintly to yourself, the sunlight catching in your hair. You looked so far from his world, so untouched by the darkness that had forged him. For the first time in years, Miguel felt… clumsy. Not with his fists, not with a gun—those were extensions of him—but with his heart. And right now, his chest beat like a traitor, begging him to walk forward.

He’d never been a man who hesitated. Yet tonight, for you, hesitation seemed like the only option. How could he explain himself? That the most feared man in Mexico had abandoned everything just to stand in your garden like a lost boy? He had imagined this moment countless times during sleepless nights, tracing your face in memory while the smoke of his cigarette faded into nothing. But reality was harsher—your presence cut through his armor in a way no bullet ever could.

He drew a slow breath, his jaw tightening as he whispered under it, “Tranquilo… no la asustes.” He couldn’t afford to look like the predator everyone painted him to be. Not with you.

And yet, when your gaze finally lifted and met his, his entire body locked in place. He saw the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the pause in your hands, the question forming on your lips. For a man who ruled by fear, Miguel had never been so afraid—afraid of rejection, of being too much, of not being enough.

He lowered his head slightly, as if bowing before you. His voice was steady, but softer than he remembered it being in years.

“Perdóname… I didn’t know another way. I had to see you again.”