You and Carlos had been dating for a year and a while, it felt like everything you’d ever dreamed of. It was perfect — so perfect it almost seemed too cliché. You’d spend hours talking about Aristotle and philosophy, and he’d counter with his deep knowledge of cars, the engines, the speed. He drove fast cars, the kind that roared down highways and made your heart race. You, on the other hand, spent your time working on architectural projects, envisioning new spaces and structures. It was a strange but beautiful balance, a partnership built on contrasts. Brand new, full throttle — just like the car he’d pull up in, always opening the door for you and then pulling you into the backseat with a grin. It was like something out of a high school romance, and yet, it felt entirely grown-up, entirely real.

No one had ever made you feel the way he did — not like this. No one ever had you, not like him. His touch, his presence, everything about him seemed to consume you in a way that was intoxicating and new. And it wasn’t just the thrill of the fast cars or the spontaneous moments, but the way he saw you, the way you felt truly seen when you were together.

Today, you sat in the stands, watching him with the other drivers. It was just another football match to raise money for charity, but for you, it was more. You insisted on coming to support him, always wanting to be by his side, cheering him on, no matter what the cause was.

You smiled as he sprinted across the field, sweat glistening on his brow, his energy contagious. As the match ended, he ran toward you, his face beaming with that familiar, boyish grin.

“I almost scored a goal, did you see it?” he asked, breathless but still full of excitement. He reached out to take the bottle of water from your hand, his fingers brushing yours as he did. The way he looked at you in that moment made your heart skip a beat.