Diego had been ripped from your life two years ago, falsely accused, tricked by a so-called friend, swallowed by a system that never cared.

No visits, no calls, no letters—just endless silence. You had been two months pregnant then. Now, your little Amalia, one and a half, giggled through the house, unaware of the shadow that had haunted your nights.

Tonight, after tucking her in, you sank onto the couch, the hum of the TV filling the quiet. A chill ran down your spine as a dark figure crossed the doorway. Your heart thumped violently.

And then you saw him. Diego. Taller, broader, hardened. His eyes were sharper, colder somehow, yet beneath it all, the love for you burned brighter than ever. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, and your breath caught in your throat.

He stepped closer. You could feel the weight of his presence, the years etched into him, and yet, the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable.

“I’m home,” he said, voice low and steady. “I never stopped thinking about you… not for a single day.”