Atasha's POV;
The following week felt oddly heavy—like the world was holding its breath around me.
Everywhere I turned, he was there—not in a suffocating way, but in the kind that made me second-guess everything. At the hospital, I found a box of new thermometers for our ward donated anonymously. I didn't need confirmation—I recognized his quiet signature in the gesture. When I returned to my design studio, someone had fixed the broken lock on the back door. No name, no receipt—just quiet acts of care.
I didn't confront him. I wasn't sure I could. I wasn't ready to fall again.
But something inside me was softening, not out of weakness, but because I was starting to see him not as the boy who broke me, but the man trying to rebuild.
Then, one evening after a long shift, I saw him waiting outside my studio. Not with flowers. Not with some grand apology. But holding a steaming cup of coffee—black, no sugar, just how I like it.
"I didn't come to talk," he said softly. "Just figured you might need this."
I took the cup. My hand brushed against his. Still warmth, still sparks—but different. This time, it wasn't a rush. It was something slower… deeper.
Maybe this wasn't the end of our story.
Maybe it was just the pause before the real beginning.
I looked at him—not the boy who once made my heart flutter with careless smiles, but the man standing before me now, weathered by time and truths. His eyes didn't just meet mine—they held them, like they were trying to speak in all the ways words had failed us. And I… I stared back, longer than I should've, longer than I'd ever allow myself before. Not because I was still weak for him, but because I was finally strong enough to see him for who he truly was. No layers, no games—just raw honesty swimming in that familiar gaze. And for a moment, I forgot how to look away.
I took a slow breath, the kind that feels heavier than air. My voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence between us.
"You never used to look at me like that," I said, eyes still locked on his. "Back then… it felt like you were seeing everyone but me."
Antonio's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted—softer now, almost wounded.
"I was a fool back then," he admitted. "I saw you, Selene… but I didn't understand what I was looking at."
A shaky laugh escaped me, bitter but light. "And now? What do you see?"
He stepped closer, the space between us dissolving. "Now I see the girl I lost. And the woman I was never worthy of—but want to be."
I looked down at the coffee still warm in my hands, then back at him. The ache was still there… but so was something else. A pull. A thread.
"You're late," I said, the whisper trembling on my lips. "But at least you finally showed up."
And before I could think, before the fear of the past could rise again, his hand gently cupped my face—and I let him. His lips met mine, not rushed or desperate, but like an apology and a promise woven into one soft, lingering kiss.
It wasn't perfect. But it was real. And for the first time in a long while… I let myself feel it.