The hum of the fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, and the distant sound of traffic filters in from the street outside.
I’m bent over my bike, my hands covered in grease, my dark curls tied back in a messy bun.
I’ve been here for four years now.
Four years since I arrived in Málaga, broken and homeless.
Four Years since Sergio saved me from the streets.
Four years since I started rebuilding my life from scratch.
Fours years now, since i turned twenty two.
It’s strange how quickly you can get used to a place.
The way the morning light streams through the garage windows.
The way the coffee tastes from the old machine in the corner.
The way the other mechanics nod at me when I walk past, their eyes filled with respect.
I’ve earned my place here.
I’ve proven myself.
I’ve built my bike from scrap, turned it into something beautiful and fierce.
I’ve become someone they can’t ignore.
But there’s something else.
Something I can’t ignore.
Sergio.
I feel his eyes on me even when I’m not looking.
He’s always there, watching, observing, making sure I’m safe.
He brings me coffee in the morning, even when I don’t ask.
He stays late to work beside me, finding excuses to be near me.
He touches my arm when he talks to me, his fingers lingering just a moment too long.
I see it.
I see all of it.
But I pretend not to.
Because Sergio is safe.
He makes me feel safe.
He makes me feel like I matter.
He gives me a home, a job, a purpose.
He doesn’t mock me or taunt me or push me away.
He’s everything I needed when I was broken.
But he doesn’t make my heart race like Leo did.
I hate that I think about him.
I hate that his face haunts me in my dreams.
I hate that I still feel that pull, that ache, that desperate longing for someone who never fought for me.
“Hey, Aitana.” I look up.
Sergio is standing in the doorway, his warm hazel eyes fixed on me.
He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans, his sun-lightened brown hair slightly messy.
He’s holding two cups of coffee.
“Thought you might need this,” he says, walking toward me.
“You’ve been working on that bike all morning.
Take a break.” I wipe my hands on a rag and take the coffee.
“Thanks, Sergio.” He smiles, and it’s warm and genuine.
“Don’t mention it.” He leans against the workbench beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.
I feel the heat of his body, the closeness of his presence.
“How’s she coming along?” he asks, nodding at the bike.
“Good,” I say.
“She’s almost ready.
Just a few more adjustments.” He studies the bike, his eyes tracing the sleek lines of the frame.
“She’s beautiful.
You’ve done an amazing job.” “She’s La Venganza,” I say, my voice soft.
“The Revenge.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Revenge?
That’s a heavy name for a bike.” I look away.
“It’s fitting.” He’s quiet for a moment.
Then he speaks, his voice low and careful.
“Someone hurt you, didn’t they?” I don’t answer.
I can’t.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says quickly.
“I’m not trying to pry.
I just…
I see it in your eyes sometimes.
The pain.
The anger.
The way you close yourself off.” I feel my jaw tighten.
“I’m fine.” “You’re not fine,” he says, his voice soft but firm.
“But that’s okay.
You don’t have to be fine.
You just have to be here.” I look at him.
His eyes are filled with warmth, with understanding, with something that looks almost like love.
I push the thought away.
I can’t let myself go there.
Not again.
“Thank you, Sergio,” I say quietly.
“For everything.
For saving me.
For giving me a chance.” He reaches out and touches my cheek, his fingers warm and gentle.
“You don’t have to thank me.
I’d do it all over again.
A hundred times over.” I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
I want to pull away.
I want to lean into his touch.
But something stops me.
Because even though Sergio is kind, even though he makes me feel safe, he doesn’t make me feel alive.
Not like Leo.
I think about Leo.
About the way he used to taunt me, push me, challenge me.
The way he looked at me like I was the most annoying person in the world.
The way he made my heart race even when I hated him.
I think about the last time I saw him.
The way he watched me break and said nothing.
The way he let me walk away.
I feel the familiar ache in my chest, sharp and painful.
Why do I still miss him?
Why do I still feel this pull toward someone who never fought for me?
He never came after me.
He never tried to find me.
He never even tried to stop me.
I was nothing to him.
I was always nothing to him.
But still, I feel the pain.
Still, I feel the longing.
It’s like a wound that never heals.
Like a scar that throbs every time I think about him.
I think about his amber eyes.
His cocky grin.
The way he used to call me chunk chunk and make me want to slap him.
I hate that I miss him.
I hate that I still love him.
But I can’t stop the pain.
I can’t stop the longing.
It’s like there’s a thread connecting us, something that pulls me toward him even when I try to run.
I feel it now.
A sharp ache in my chest, like something is wrong.
Like he’s in danger.
I shake my head, trying to push the thought away.
But the pain lingers.
And I can’t escape it.