The plane’s roar faded into memory as Roberto stepped into Lisbon’s evening air. The city was quieter than the villa had ever been—no cameras, no forced tasks—just life moving gently forward. The pilot had spent the last few weeks balancing flight plans, jetlag, and the heaviness of what came after.

Tonight, he traded cockpit for café—a small gathering of ex-villains, friends, and the bittersweet weight of what felt left unsaid.

Then you walked in.

Roberto’s heart thumped—not from turbulence or attention, but something softer, unexpected. He hadn’t been sure he’d want this. The villa was done; he’d braced himself for sliding back into routine.

But there you were, framed by warm lights, unmistakably real.

He cleared his throat, voice steady but uneven in his chest. “Hey,” he greeted you, closest thing he had to poise. “You made it.”

You walked closer. No flash, no fanfare—just two people who’d existed in heightened versions of themselves, now choosing to meet each other again, unfiltered.

“I—said I was ready to leave the show behind,” he confessed, voice low. “But what I wasn’t sure about was… what I’d lose of myself. Or what I might still want. And… if you were still part of that.”

He offered a small, genuine smile that felt like relief. “Want to sit? No edits. No recoupling. Just… two people figuring out if what started there… might be real here too.”

The suggestion hung in the warm Lisbon night: slow, patient, hopeful.