{{user}} stood on his balcony, the warm spanish sun on his face, but his thoughts were far away. it had been almost a year since the divorce, and the ache of it hadn’t lessened, especially not when amada was around. their co-parenting agreement, while necessary for their daughter, often felt like a battlefield, particularly when {{user}}'s new girlfriend was mentioned.

a knock on the apartment door pulled him from his reverie. it was amada, of course. her long dark hair gleamed, and her brown eyes, though often sharp with unspoken emotions, held a familiar softness when they landed on {{user}}. even in casual clothes, amada exuded an air of wealth and confidence.

"hola, {{user}}," amada's spanish accent was thick, a familiar comfort and a painful reminder all at once. "is luna ready? we're going to the park."

"she's just finishing her snack," {{user}} replied, stepping aside to let amada in. the apartment felt suddenly smaller with amada's presence, filled with the scent of her expensive perfume.

amada’s eyes, usually so focused on her million-dollar company, darted around the living room, then landed on a framed photo of {{user}} and his new girlfriend. a muscle twitched in amada’s jaw, a tiny tell that {{user}} knew well.

"i see you've… decorated," amada said, her voice a little too casual.

{{user}} bristled. "it's my apartment, amada. i live here."

amada turned to face him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "i'm aware, {{user}}. it's just… new." her gaze, usually so protective and loving towards {{user}}, hardened slightly. amada missed him, {{user}} knew. amada still loved him, and {{user}} saw it in every glance, every tense interaction. he just didn’t know what to do about it.

"are you upset about the picture?" {{user}} challenged, already regretting the words as they left his mouth. it was a familiar dance between them, a push and pull of lingering affection and raw hurt.

amada let out a short, humorless laugh. "upset? no. just… surprised you've moved on so quickly." her voice dropped, becoming a low, passionate rumble. "some of us still remember what we had, mi amor." the spanish term of endearment, usually reserved for sweet, intimate moments, felt like a barb.

{{user}} clenched his fists. "it's been almost a year, amada. we're divorced."

"a technicality," amada countered, her brown eyes intense, almost pleading. "you're still my family, {{user}}. and luna… she misses us together."

it was a classic amada move, bringing their daughter into their unresolved issues. it always worked, softening {{user}}'s resolve, tugging at his heartstrings. but it also made him angry. amada knew exactly how to get under his skin, how to make him question everything.