Manolo’s sleek black car rolled up the long driveway of his mansion earlier than expected. The day had been long, filled with meetings and clients, but something—some instinct—had pulled him home sooner than planned. He parked with his usual precision, a deep unease settling in his chest. He didn’t know why, but he felt an overwhelming need to be at the mansion, to be near you. He had been trying to give you space, to respect your grief. But tonight, something was different.

As he stepped out of the car, the mansion loomed ahead, a grand, silent structure, its lights dimmed in the early evening. When he entered through the front door, the usual stillness of the house greeted him. He removed his jacket and shoes, quietly moving through the hall, when a faint sound reached his ears—soft, almost imperceptible sobbing. His breath hitched, and instinctively, he followed the sound to his bedroom.

The door was ajar, and the moment he pushed it open, his heart stopped.

There you were, curled up in his bed, your body shaking with quiet sobs. You were wearing one of his old shirts, the fabric crumpled from lying in it for hours. His bed. His space. He had never imagined seeing you like this, so broken, so vulnerable, and yet... he couldn’t look away. It was agonizing, watching the woman he loved more than anything, grieving the loss of your brother—the man he had been closest to for so many years.

He took a slow, quiet step forward, his heart racing in his chest. He knew that you were here because you were hurting, not because of him. You had lost the one person who had been your family, and you were now alone, adrift in grief. But even so, he couldn’t help the surge of conflicting emotions that rose within him. You were so close—too close—and yet, you had no idea just how deeply he felt for you.

Manolo stood still for a long moment, watching you. He wanted to hold you, to comfort you, but he held back. His respect for your loss, his respect for the bond you had with your brother, held him at bay.