47. Mariana
Mariana
T he morning light spills through the windows of my bakery, warm and golden, casting soft shadows along the floors. It catches on the flour-dusted countertops, glints off the glass display case, and stretches lazily across the wooden tables.
The air is thick with the scent of honeyed almonds, caramelized sugar, and warm butter, curling around me in a way that feels like home.
It’s an hurried morning, the soft rhythm of dawn settling into the space before the world stirs to life. The scent of fresh espresso drifts in from the back, mingling with the sweetness in the air.
The low hum of the oven fills the space, punctuated by the soft clatter of trays being set down, the rustling of parchment paper, the quiet scrape of a spatula against metal. I breathe it all in, letting the warmth settle deep in my chest.
This place, my place, my sanctuary—a space where my hands know exactly what to do, where every scent, every sound, every flicker of morning light belongs.
The best part of it all is that Sebastian is here.
He’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour, looking like he’s belonged in this space all along. My chest tightens at the sight, my heart stumbling over itself, caught between the sheer familiarity of him and the quiet wonder of seeing him here, in my world.
His brows knit together in concentration, his hands working the dough with an ease that shouldn’t make sense—but somehow, it does. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing.
His fingers press, fold, and knead with a rhythm so natural it feels like he’s done this a thousand times before. I don’t even think he realizes it—like muscle memory, like second nature.
It’s effortless, unthinking, as if this kitchen, this moment, this us , is exactly where he’s meant to be.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, watching him work, “for someone who swears he doesn’t bake, you sure look like you know what you’re doing.”
He glances up, his mouth twitching into that half-smile that always gets me. “I grew up with you, Mariana. I absorbed some things by osmosis.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through my chest. This. This is what I never thought I’d have again—this easy rhythm, this laughter woven into the everyday moments, this quiet kind of love that doesn’t have to ask for permission to exist.
Sebastian wipes his hands on a towel, walking toward me, his gaze soft, searching. “You okay?”
I nod, but I know he sees through me. He always has.
He leans against the counter beside me, his body close enough that I can feel his warmth, even with the space between us. “You’ve been quieter today.”
I exhale, rolling a loose thread on my apron between my fingers. “I think I’m just… taking it all in. This place, us, how different everything feels.”
Sebastian studies me for a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It does feel different.”
Different, because I’m here. I’m present. I’m not stuck in my head, waiting for the worst. I’m standing in my dream bakery, beside the man I love, in the life I chose. And it’s not just something I let happen—it’s something I fought for.
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering. “Do you regret it?”
I shake my head without hesitation. “Not for a second.”
His throat bobs slightly, his fingers ghosting over mine. "The letter… I know it wasn’t easy to read."
A lump forms in my throat, but I nod. “It wasn’t. But I needed it. I think…” I pause, finding the right words. “I think she knew I wouldn’t let myself face certain things unless she forced me to.”
Sebastian watches me carefully, his brows drawn. “Like letting yourself be taken care of?”
I huff out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Like learning how to stop running.”
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I see every ounce of hurt I caused him. He doesn’t throw it in my face, doesn’t weaponize it—but it’s there, unspoken, lingering in the space between us.
“I can’t do this again, Mari,” he says quietly, his voice steady, sure. “I love you. I always will. But if you ever decide to run again, if you ever decide to push me away instead of letting me in…” He swallows hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the counter. “I won’t chase you.”
My chest aches, but I understand.
“I don’t want to be that person anymore,” I whisper. “And I won’t promise you that I’m perfect, or that I won’t have moments where I falter. But I will promise you that I’m done running. I’m here. I choose you, Sebastian.”
His exhale is slow, measured, but his eyes soften, the steel in them easing just slightly. “I choose you too. But, Mari… if you ever need space, if you ever feel like you need to leave—just talk to me first, okay?”
I nod, my throat tight. “Okay.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s pressing his flour-dusted fingers against my cheek.
I gasp, jerking back. “Sebastian!”
His grin is unrepentant. “What? You looked too clean.”
I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “You did not just?—”
He lifts a brow, daring me.
Challenge accepted.
Without thinking, I grab a handful of flour from the counter and toss it straight at him. It lands square on his chest, a puff of white exploding between us.
For a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then, he lunges.
I shriek, trying to escape, but I have no chance. He’s faster, stronger, and entirely too smug about it. His arms wrap around my waist as he lifts me onto the counter, trapping me between his body and the shelves of ingredients behind me.
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, my hands bracing against his shoulders as he grins up at me, his face inches from mine.
“That was a mistake, princesa,” he warns, voice full of teasing threat.
I giggle, squirming, but he tightens his hold. “Let me go!”
“Never,” he says easily, his fingers sneaking to my waist, squeezing just enough to make me squeal. “You start a war, Mariana, you gotta be ready to finish it.”
I twist, half-heartedly trying to break free, but he only lifts me higher, holding me like I weigh nothing.
A breathless laugh escapes before my legs instinctively tighten around his waist, my fingers curling into his shoulders for balance.
His hold is firm, unyielding, a silent promise that he has no intention of letting me go—not now, not ever.
The laughter fades, replaced by something deeper, something that hums in the space between us. Our breaths come slow and measured, the heat of his body sinking into mine, wrapping around me like a second skin. His eyes drop to my lips, lingering, knowing, and my pulse stutters.
If I move even an inch closer, if I let the pull between us win, we’ll be kissing.
“I love you,” he murmurs, like a vow, like a promise.
I close my eyes, my hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I love you too.”
Now, saying it isn’t a risk—it’s a certainty.