Chapter Thirty-Three
"O livia? You have a visitor."
My mother’s voice carries up the stairs, and I grumble in complaint, pulling the pillow over my face.
My head is pounding; a not-so-gentle reminder of last night’s wine-fueled heart-to-heart with Laura, and my body feels like it’s been weighed down with bricks.
The idea of leaving the cocoon of my bed is about as appealing as tackling a Monday morning exam unprepared.
“Olivia!” Mum calls again, her tone sharper this time.
“Coming,” I croak, my voice muffled by the pillow.
I push myself upright, wincing as the light streaming through the window hits me square in the face. Still dressed in the oversized pyjama shirt I borrowed from Mum - one of Dad’s old ones, soft from years of wear - I shuffle over to the door, tugging my hair into a haphazard bun as I go.
Who on earth would be visiting me here?
I trudge downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the cool wood floors. The smell of brewing tea wafts through the air, and for a brief moment, I wonder if Mum’s making me a cup. It will certainly help with the hangover.
But when I round the corner into the hallway, my heart nearly stops.
Santi .
He looks... well, he looks like him .
Perfectly put together in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms just right. His green eyes are sharper than ever, their intensity softened slightly by the small, tentative smile on his lips. His dark hair is tousled as though he’s run his hand through it a few too many times, and he’s holding a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“Hi,” he says, his voice warm but cautious.
I freeze in place, every thought I had evaporating instantly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your mother let me in,” he replies, glancing toward the kitchen.
Mum steps into the hallway, her hands dusted with flour.
“He’s very polite,” she says, her voice lilting with approval. “Brought coffee and pastries. You might want to let him explain, love.”
“Mum...” I hiss, my cheeks heating as I shoot her a look.
She just gives me a knowing smile and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Santi in the hallway.
“I had a feeling you would be here,” he says.
“Oh?” I respond, arching a brow. “Just like you had a feeling I’d be at the coffee shop? Or my workplace? Or my apartment building?”
“I needed to see you,” he says simply, his tone steady but layered with something I can’t quite place. “I know you said you needed space, and I will give you that - I will ,” he emphasises at the dubious look on my face. “But I just needed to see for myself that you were alright.”
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of how I must look: disheveled, red-eyed, and still in my pyjamas. My hair is pulled into a messy bun that’s already half falling apart, and the hem of the oversized shirt I’m wearing brushes just above my knees. I’m a far cry from the polished, put-together woman I wish I could pretend to be right now.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, though my voice is softer than I intend.
He takes a step closer, setting the coffee and bag on the small table in the hallway with deliberate care. The way he moves—calm, steady—only makes my nerves more frayed.
“Maybe not,” he admits, his deep green eyes searching mine. “But I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing, Olivia. Your phone was turned off, and you’d disappeared. I was so worried about you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. I glance toward the kitchen - unsure if my mum is listening in - before sighing and gesturing towards the living room.
“We can talk in here,” I say, turning and walking toward the familiar space that suddenly feels too small.
He follows close behind, his presence filling the room the moment he steps in.
I settle on the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me and pulling the blanket over my lap like a shield. Santi hesitates for a moment, his broad shoulders seeming even wider against the backdrop of my mother’s floral wallpaper before lowering himself into the armchair opposite me.
His knees spread slightly, his elbows resting on them as he leans forward, hands clasped together .
He looks so out of place here, so impossibly large in my mother’s cosy little living room and yet so effortlessly composed. His fitted black T-shirt stretches across his chest, and his usual air of confidence is dimmed by an undercurrent of worry etched into his features.
“Olivia,” he begins, his voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
I look down at my hands, twisting the edge of the blanket between my fingers.
I can’t meet his eyes, not when they’re so full of concern and questions I don’t have the answers to.
“I didn’t know how to,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Everything was just too much. The article, the attention, the pressure... I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t want to bring it all to you. I didn’t want to be a burden, or… or add more problems to your life.”
“You didn’t want to bring it to me?” he repeats, his brows knitting together as confusion flickers across his face. “Olivia, that’s exactly what I’m here for. I’m your boyfriend. It’s my job to share the weight with you, to help you through it.”
I glance up at him then, my chest tightening further at the frustration in his tone - not anger, but something deeper, rawer.
“You say that like it’s easy,” I murmur.
“It’s not,” he says, shaking his head. “Of course it’s not easy. But that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone.”
I let out a shaky breath, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don’t want to cry in front of him, though - don’t want to show a sign of weakness now .
“You make it look so simple, Santi. You’ve been dealing with this your whole career, and you’re so good at it. I’m not like you. I can’t just brush it off or pretend it doesn’t affect me. I’m not built for this.”
His expression softens, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back in the chair.
“You think I don’t struggle with it? That I don’t have moments where I want to shut it all out?” He pauses, running a hand through his dark hair. “I used to have a normal life too, you know. I wasn’t always Santiago Ortiz, rugby player. For twenty years, I was just… just Santi. But I’ve had years to learn how to handle this, Olivia. Years of making mistakes and figuring out how to protect myself. I don’t expect you to have it all figured out overnight. Hell, nobody does.”
I bite my lip, the weight of his words sinking in.
“But it’s not just about me dealing with the media, Santi. Don’t you get it? They’ve dragged my students, my school, into this mess. I’ve worked so hard to build something meaningful, and now it’s all overshadowed by... by us. My professionalism has been slaughtered by me being your girlfriend . ”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. His jaw tightens for a moment before he leans forward again, his voice low and steady.
“You’re more than just my girlfriend, Olivia. You know that, right?”
I don’t respond, and he frowns, though his frustration is giving way to something gentler.
“I hate that this has hurt you,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I hate that I can’t shield you from it. But you are the love of my life, and running away from me isn’t the answer.”
My breath catches, and I look up at him, stunned .
Love of his life?
My chest tightens at the sheer certainty in his words, at the way he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Santi,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You don’t mean that -”
“Yes, I do,” he cuts in, his voice firm but gentle. He shifts closer, leaning forward in the chair until he’s practically at the edge of it. “I’ve known it for a long time now. You’re not just someone I want in my life, Olivia. You’re the person I want to build a life with. And I know this is hard. I know it feels impossible right now. But the thought of you running away from me... it breaks me.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I swipe at them with the back of my hand, overwhelmed by the raw emotion in his voice.
“Santi, I feel like I’m ruining everything. Your life, your career -”
“Stop,” he says firmly, cutting me off. He reaches out, his tanned hand brushing against mine. “You’re not ruining anything. Do you hear me? Nothing. My life is better with you in it, Olivia. Not because you’re perfect or because you have it all figured out, but because you’re you . And that’s enough.”
My chest aches at his words, at the sheer conviction in his tone.
“I don’t feel like enough,” I admit, my voice breaking.
He moves from the chair to sit beside me on the sofa, his knee brushing against mine. He takes my hand in his, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over my skin.
“You don’t have to feel like enough right now,” he says gently. “But you are. You always have been. And you always will be to me.”
I let out a shaky breath, the tears I’ve been holding back spilling over. “I just don’t know how to do this, Santi. I feel like I’m drowning in it all. The media, the pressure, the way people look at me. And now my school, my students... I didn’t sign up for any of this.”
His hand tightens around mine, and when I look up at him, his green eyes are filled with a mix of empathy and determination.
“I know you didn’t,” he says softly. “But you don’t have to face it alone. We’ll figure it out together, step by step. And if you ever feel like it’s too much, I’ll be there to carry as much of it as I can. Because that’s what you do when you love someone.”
I stare at him, his words wrapping around me like a lifeline. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes - an openness I’ve rarely seen in anyone - and it’s enough to chip away at the walls I’ve been building around myself.
“I’m scared,” I admit, my voice trembling.
“I know,” he says, his thumb brushing away the tear that rolls down my cheek. “But no matter how scary it gets, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll fight for us - for you - every single day. I swear.”
My heart feels like it’s breaking and healing all at once, the weight of his love pressing against the doubts I’ve been carrying for weeks.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of everything I’m feeling.
The guilt, the fear, the overwhelming sense of being so small in a world that feels too big for me- - it all comes rushing out in those four words.
“Maybe not,” Santi replies, his lips curving into a small, teasing smile. But the warmth in his tone, the softness in his eyes, takes the sting out of his words.
He shifts closer, his presence solid, strong and secure .
“Or maybe I don’t deserve you. Either way, I don’t care.” His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin, and his gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “You’re mine, Olivia. And I’m yours. Always.”
The certainty in his voice is enough to undo me. My chest tightens, my throat constricting as tears blur my vision.
I want to argue, to push back against the overwhelming love he’s offering, but I can’t.
Because part of me - who am I trying to kid, all of me - wants to believe him.
Before I can respond or begin to think of the right words to say, he leans in. His lips press softly against my forehead, lingering there as if he’s trying to kiss away every doubt, every fear that’s taken root in my mind.
The chaos in my mind quiets, the storm of emotions I’ve been battling replaced by the steady rhythm of his presence. His breath is warm against my skin, his hand gently cradling my face, and for a moment, the world feels still.
Santi pulls back. His light eyes search mine, his expression open and vulnerable.
“You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he says gently. “You don’t have to figure everything out today or tomorrow. Just let me be here for you. Let me love you, Olivia. That’s all I’m asking.”
The lump in my throat grows, and I nod, unable to speak.
His words, his touch, the way he’s looking at me… it’s almost too much.
But instead of feeling suffocated, I feel safe. Anchored.
Loved .
He shifts closer again, his forehead resting lightly against mine as his fingers tangle with mine on the blanket.
“You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be anything other than yourself. That’s enough for me, Liv.”
Liv. It’s the first time he’s called me that, and my heart skips a beat.
The raw honesty in his voice, the unwavering conviction behind his words, makes my tears spill over.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice trembling as the tears finally fall.
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he promises, his grip on my hand tightening just slightly. “One step at a time. No pressure, no rush. Just us.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. For the first time, I truly allow myself to believe that maybe - just maybe - I don’t have to have everything figured out right now.
Maybe it’s okay to just... be .