The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hiss of the kettle on the stove. Alejandro leaned against the counter, broad shoulders still taut beneath his off-duty shirt, as though the day’s weight had yet to leave him. His stubble caught the kitchen light, his hair slightly mussed where his hand had dragged through it one too many times. But his brown eyes—warm, endless—were fixed on you.

You stood in the middle of the room, cardigan sleeves pushed past your wrists, plaid shirt slightly wrinkled, large brown glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. You were explaining—something about neurotransmitters, about serotonin pathways and why “love” was, scientifically speaking, a biochemical feedback loop. Your hands gestured with sharp precision, your voice clipped in that blunt, matter-of-fact way that always made strangers blink, unsure whether to laugh or squirm.

Alejandro did neither. He just watched.

God, she still tries to cage it, explain it away, fold love into diagrams and chemical reactions. She doesn’t see what I see. She doesn’t see the way her lips move, the way her eyes soften despite her words. She doesn’t see that she glows. She doesn’t see that she’s mine.

You pushed your glasses up, muttering, “Technically, you don’t love me, Alejandro. Your amygdala just associates my presence with safety and reward. It’s a neural—”

He crossed the space before you could finish. One hand braced the counter behind you, caging you without force, only presence. His other hand tipped your chin up until your eyes caught his.

“Then explain this,” he said, his voice low, accented warmth threading through the words. And before you could muster another clinical objection, his mouth was on yours—firm, unhurried, devastating in its certainty.

Your breath hitched, a little clumsy at first, because you always were. Your glasses fogged. You made a soft sound that might have embarrassed you if you’d been thinking clearly. But you weren’t.

Alejandro pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you, his lips brushing yours as he murmured: “Neural pathways, biochemical loops—fine. Call it what you want. But I know what I feel. I know I missed you after just an hour. I know I ache when you’re quiet too long. And I know, cariño, that no matter what your Harvard textbooks say, I am in love with you.”

Your cheeks burned crimson. You coughed once, nerves snapping through you like static, but your hands clutched at his shirt, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.

She thinks herself unpracticed, awkward. She thinks her bluntness makes her unlovable. She has no idea that every word, every strange little quirk, makes me want her more. I will spend a lifetime proving it to her. And still, it will never be enough.

Alejandro kissed you again, softer this time, like he had all the hours in the world. And for the first time all day, he finally felt at peace.