The sun is low, spilling molten gold across the Puerto Rican shoreline, the sky painted in soft oranges and fading pinks that melt into the horizon. Waves roll in gently, warm and rhythmic, the ocean reflecting the last light of the day like liquid fire. The sand beneath your feet is still warm from the afternoon heat, soft enough to sink into with every step, and somewhere behind you, laughter breaks through the sound of the tide.

“Cariño... you really think you’re faster than me?”

Santiago’s voice carries easily over the breeze, smooth and teasing, threaded with that unmistakable accent that always seems to wrap around his words like a promise. There’s amusement in it, but something else too—something low, warm, focused—the kind of attention that’s always locked onto you.

You don’t even have to turn around to know he’s already moving.

He gives you a head start anyway. Of course he does. Always playing fair... until he decides not to.

The sound of his footsteps hitting the sand comes quick—heavier than yours, faster than yours—and there’s something about the way he moves that makes it impossible not to feel it. Confident. Effortless. Like he already knows how this ends.

Like he already knows he’s going to catch you.

The breeze shifts, carrying his scent with it—salt, warmth, and something expensive lingering faintly against sun-warmed skin—and then suddenly he’s closer. Too close. Close enough that you can hear the quiet, breathy laugh that slips out of him when he gains on you.

“C’mere...” he calls, voice dropping just enough to send a subtle shiver down your spine, playful but edged with that familiar authority he never quite turns off. “Don’t run now, princesa—you started this.”

And then his hand catches your wrist.

Not rough—never rough—but firm. Certain.

The momentum pulls you back into him, your bodies colliding just enough to steal the air from your lungs, and before you can even fully recover, his other arm wraps around your waist, steadying you effortlessly against him. Sand shifts under your feet, the ocean rushing closer, the world narrowing down to the warmth of his body and the way he holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like it’s where you belong.

A quiet laugh escapes him again, softer this time, breath brushing near your ear as he leans in just slightly. “Got you...” he murmurs, almost under his breath, like he’s savoring it—not the chase, but the ending.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest behind you, still a little uneven from running, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to be gentle, but never enough to let you slip away completely. His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your side, slow, grounding, like he’s reminding himself you’re really there.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

The teasing quiets. The playfulness softens.

And when he finally turns you slightly in his hold, just enough so he can look at you, there’s something deeper in his expression now—something warm, steady, real. The kind of look he only gives you when everything else fades out.

The sun hits his face just right, catching in his dark hair, tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, glinting faintly off the chain resting against his chest. His eyes linger on yours, heavy-lidded but focused, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Y’know...” he starts, voice quieter now, smoother, still carrying that playful edge but softened by something more intimate, “I used to chase a lot of things.”

His hand slides a little higher along your waist, settling more securely, thumb brushing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

“But nothing ever felt like this.”

There’s no arrogance in it. No teasing punchline waiting at the end. Just honesty—raw and simple in a way that doesn’t come easy to him, but comes naturally when it’s about you.

A small smirk tugs at his lips again, though, because he can’t help himself.

“But don’t get it twisted,” he adds, voice dipping just enough to bring that familiar heat back, playful and low, “I still like chasing you.”

His gaze flickers briefly down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, that slow, deliberate look that always lingers just a second too long.

“Question is...” he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening, grip on you tightening just a little as if daring you, “you gonna let me catch you again... or you gonna make me work for it this time?”

The streets are alive in a way only Puerto Rico can be: color spilling from every corner, music drifting through the humid air, the faint rhythm of reggaeton echoing somewhere down the block while laughter and conversation blend into a warm, constant hum. The sun sits high and golden, casting everything in a soft glow, heat clinging to your skin as the ocean breeze weaves through narrow streets and open sidewalks lined with vendors, murals, and life.

And Santiago walks beside you like he owns the moment.

Not in an arrogant way—no, it’s quieter than that. It’s in the way his arm is wrapped securely around your waist, fingers resting firm and familiar against your side, keeping you close without even thinking about it. Like it’s instinct. Like it’s where you’re meant to be.

His thumb moves slowly against you as you walk, absentminded, grounding. Protective.

But he’s not really paying attention to the crowd.

He’s looking at you.

There’s something almost unfair about the way his gaze lingers—heavy-lidded, focused, soft in a way that only ever shows when it’s you. The world could be loud, chaotic, overwhelming—and still, somehow, he narrows it down to just this. Just you.

His eyes flicker downward for a second, catching the way your hand moves as you walk, your fingers brushing lightly against his... and then he sees it.

The ring.

Sunlight hits it just right, making it glint—subtle, but impossible to miss.

And for a moment, Santiago slows.

It’s small. Almost unnoticeable. But there’s a shift in him—his jaw tightening slightly, his thumb pausing against your waist before resuming its slow movement, a little firmer this time. His gaze lingers on your hand longer than it should, something deeper settling behind his eyes.

Pride.

Not loud. Not boastful.

Just... real.

Because he remembers everything it took to put that ring there. The long nights, the deals, the pressure, the quiet determination to build something solid enough to give you more than just promises. He worked for that. For you.

And it was worth every second.

A soft exhale leaves him through his nose, almost like he’s grounding himself again, and when his attention lifts back to your face, that familiar smirk starts to return—slow, warm, teasing.

That is, until he notices something else.

His eyes narrow slightly, amused.

“...you serious right now?”

His voice dips low, laced with quiet laughter as he tilts his head, gaze fixed on your lips.

There’s a small smear of melted ice cream at the corner—barely there, but enough.

And just like that, the softness shifts into something playful.

He stops walking, gently tugging you with him by your waist until you’re facing him more fully, his hand sliding just slightly higher along your side to steady you. The street keeps moving around you—people passing, music playing—but he doesn’t seem to notice any of it anymore.

“Messy girl...” he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue with effortless affection, his accent curling around the words in a way that makes them linger.

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate.

His thumb brushes lightly against the corner of your lips, wiping away the faint smear of sweetness, his touch gentle—almost careful. There’s no rush in the way he does it. No hesitation either. Just quiet attention.

His eyes stay on your lips a second longer than necessary.

Then flick back up to yours.

A faint smirk pulls at his mouth again, but it’s softer now. Warmer.

He brings his thumb back, glancing at it briefly before letting out a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head just slightly.

“ Y tú, con ese aspecto...(And you, looking like that...) “ he mutters under his breath, half teasing, half fond, before his hand finds your waist again like it never left.

His grip settles there naturally, pulling you just a little closer into his side as he leans in—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to lower his voice so it feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Good thing I’m here to take care of you, yeah?”

There’s that confidence again. That quiet, steady dominance.

But it’s wrapped in something softer—something that shows in the way his thumb starts tracing slow, absent patterns against your hip again, the way his body angles slightly toward yours as if shielding you from the crowd without even thinking about it.

His gaze lingers, searching your face for a reaction, that teasing spark returning fully now.

“Or...” he tilts his head, brow lifting just slightly, smirk deepening, “you planning on making a habit out of this, cariño? Walkin’ around lookin’ too sweet for your own good?”

There’s a pause—brief, intentional.

His eyes drop to your lips again, then back up, slower this time.

“‘Cause if you are...” his voice lowers just a fraction, quieter, more focused, “I might have to keep a closer eye on you.”

The late afternoon sun filters through the windshield in soft, golden streaks, warming the interior of the car as it hums steadily down the winding Puerto Rican roads. Palm trees blur past in flashes of green, the ocean occasionally peeking through in glimmers of blue, and the air feels thick with heat, music, and something quieter—something more personal. The bass of DtMF by Bad Bunny pulses through the speakers, low and rhythmic, filling the space without overpowering it, the kind of song that settles into your bones rather than demanding attention.

Santiago drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the center console, his posture relaxed but controlled, like he’s always been meant to be in charge of wherever he’s going. His sunglasses sit low on his nose, just enough to shield his eyes from the sun but not enough to hide the way they flick toward you every so often—quick glances, subtle, but frequent. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it anymore.

There’s a moment, brief and almost absent-minded, where he reaches for his phone at a red light, unlocking it with practiced ease. His thumb pauses as soon as the screen lights up.

The picture.

It’s the two of you—frozen in that perfect moment from your wedding day. You in his arms, lifted effortlessly, your dress spilling around you while his mouth is pressed to yours in a kiss that looks just as intense in stillness as it felt in motion. It’s not posed. It’s not polished. It’s real.

And it hits him every time.

His expression shifts—just slightly. The confident ease softens, something quieter settling in behind it. His thumb brushes lightly across the screen, not enough to change anything, just... lingering. Like he’s grounding himself in it. Like he still can’t believe it’s real.

A small smile pulls at his lips. Not the teasing one. Not the smirk.

Something softer.

Something proud.

The light changes, and he locks the phone without hesitation, setting it back down as his attention returns fully to the road—but that feeling doesn’t leave. It lingers in the way his shoulders relax, in the quiet exhale that slips from him, in the way his hand shifts from the console to your thigh without thinking, resting there like it belongs.

Because it does.

His thumb moves slowly, brushing once, twice—absent, grounding, affectionate.

He glances at you again, this time a little longer, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s taking you in all over again, like he did back then, like he still does now.

“You good?” he asks, voice smooth, low, carrying that natural warmth wrapped in his accent. There’s something reassuring in it, steady and calm, the kind of tone that doesn’t just ask—it checks. Makes sure.

His hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, not demanding, just there.

“Mi familia can be a lot,” he adds after a second, a quiet huff of amusement leaving him as he shakes his head slightly, though there’s nothing but fondness behind it. “Loud, always in your business... my mamá especially.”

Another glance. This one softer.

“But they love you,” he continues, more certain now, his thumb brushing lightly again. “They’ve loved you since the first time I brought you around. You remember that, yeah?”

There’s a brief pause, like he’s letting that settle, before his lips curve again—this time something a little more playful returning.

“And if they don’t behave...” he murmurs, voice dipping just slightly as he leans back into his seat, relaxed but confident, “I’ll handle it.”

The car slows as the neighborhood comes into view—familiar streets, colorful houses, life spilling out onto porches and sidewalks. Kids playing, music drifting, someone calling out from across the street. It’s alive in a way that feels deeply rooted, deeply his.

And then he turns into the driveway.

The house isn’t extravagant, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s warm. Lived-in. Full of history. The kind of place that holds memories in its walls.

He parks, the engine cutting off, but for a moment... he doesn’t move.

Instead, his hand shifts, sliding from your thigh to your hand, fingers threading through yours slowly, deliberately. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once, then again, his gaze dropping briefly—just long enough to catch the ring on your finger.

That same look crosses his face again.

Pride. Quiet. Steady.

His grip tightens just slightly—not possessive, not overwhelming. Just... certain.

Then he lifts your hand just a little, bringing it closer, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles—quick, warm, instinctive.

“Stay close to me, yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer now, more intimate, his forehead almost brushing yours for a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you properly.

That familiar smirk returns, but it’s gentler this time.

“Not ‘cause you need it...” he adds, low and teasing, eyes holding yours, “but ‘cause I like it.”

He finally lets go, just enough to open his door, stepping out into the warm air, already moving around the car toward your side like it’s second nature.

And just before he opens your door, his hand rests briefly against the top of it, his voice dropping slightly as he leans down just enough for you to hear him clearly when the door swings open.

“You ready, cariño... or you need me to hold your hand the whole time?”