You had just turned 28 and were coming out of a draining, messy breakup. Love wasn’t on your radar anymore—you were tired, guarded, and just trying to keep yourself together. You weren’t looking for someone new. You just wanted peace. Someone to talk to. Someone who made things feel a little less heavy.

Then came Luigi.

He was 24. Four years younger, which made you instantly cautious. Too young, you thought. Probably immature, not ready for someone like me. But Luigi was different. Despite his age, he carried himself like someone who had lived through storms. He wasn’t just charming—he was focused, composed. Already a CEO of his family’s growing business, he had responsibility on his shoulders and clarity in his eyes.

You started as friends. Just casual conversations, occasional coffee. He was easy to talk to. He listened when you vented about your ex. He didn’t offer quick-fix advice—he just stayed present.

“You sure I’m not boring you with all this?” you asked him once after going on and on about your past.

Luigi smiled, calm and steady. “I don’t think your past is boring. I think it explains your strength.”

Three or four months passed. You started to feel lighter. Happier. Luigi had a way of slipping into your life without forcing anything. And one night, caught off guard by your own feelings, you said it.

“I think I like you,” you admitted, half-laughing, trying to keep it casual.

He raised a brow. “You sure it’s me you like? Or just the comfort?”

You blinked. “Maybe both.”

He smiled but didn’t take it too seriously. And maybe that hurt a little more than you expected.

A few weeks later, he surprised you.

“I like you too, you know,” he said one evening while walking you to your car.

You paused. “Now you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he replied simply. “But I won’t push. I’ll wait if I have to.”

You didn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t feel the same, but because you were scared to admit you did.

By month six, things grew distant. The calls slowed. The jokes faded. Luigi thought you were still stuck in the past. He didn’t know the truth: you’d already let go. Because of him. He was the one who helped you heal, just by being there.

Then came month seven. Then eight. Somehow, you found your way back. The rhythm returned—playful teasing, long conversations, late-night check-ins. It felt familiar. Safe.

“You know,” you said one night, curled up beside him on the couch, “I used to think 24 was too young for me.”

Luigi glanced over, his voice low. “And now?”

“Now,” you said softly, “I think you’re exactly what I needed.”

He reached for your hand, giving it a quiet squeeze. “I’ve been here the whole time. Just waiting for you to see it.”