Chapter 163: CHAPTER 163 - REUNION AT THE BEACH HOUSE

POV: Mateo

I drove like a madman from the restaurant where I had just learned that Valentina had been exposed and that Sofía was in Miami, my brain barely processing red lights as I navigated streets I knew by heart toward her apartment.

Three months.

Three months since she had left for Boston with the promise of “just six months to restart my career,” which we both knew was a lie—six months was code for “I don’t know if I can do this and I need indefinite space to decide.”

And I had let her go because what other choice did I have? Begging would only have made her feel more guilty, fighting would only have confirmed her fears that our relationship was too difficult.

So I waited.

The way my father had waited eleven years for my mother.

Except every day of those three months felt like a full year.

I got to her apartment, knocking frantically until a neighbor came out of the unit next door.

—If you’re looking for Dr. Ramos, she’s not here. I saw her leave hours ago with a suitcase.

—Did she say where she was going?

—No, but she looked in a hurry.

Damn.

I called Sofía, but it went straight to voicemail like it had been doing for weeks whenever she “accidentally” forgot to charge her phone.

I called my father.

—Where is Sofía? Lucia said she’s in Miami, but she’s not at her apartment.

—I don’t know, son. Your grandmother is the one who spoke to her.

—Give me Grandma’s number.

—Mateo, it’s almost midnight…

—I don’t care. Give me her number.

He gave it to me, and I dialed immediately.

Grandma Luciana answered on the third ring, sounding fully awake despite the hour.

—Mateo, what a surprise.

—Grandma, where is Sofía?

—Shouldn’t you be asking her that?

—I would if she answered her phone. Lucia said you told her you were dying to bring her back from Boston.

—I technically exaggerated my frailty, I didn’t exactly lie.

—Grandma, please. I need to know where she is.

—Why? What would you do if you knew?

—I’d go find her immediately and tell her these three months were worse than any social media scandal, that I don’t care if she needs more time or space because I’ll wait for her as long as she needs.

—That’s very romantic.

—Grandma.

—She’s at the beach house.

My heart stopped.

—Why is she there?

—Because I told her you’d meet her here after our conversation. She assumed you’d be at your apartment, so she came to wait for you where we usually meet for family events.

—How long has she been waiting?

—About two hours. She’s probably thinking you rejected her for not showing up.

—I’m going there now.

—Mateo, before you go, you need to understand something.

—What?

—Sofía is scared. She spent three months in Boston convincing herself she made the right choice by leaving, and coming back means admitting she was wrong.

—I don’t care if she was wrong. I only care that she came back.

—That’s exactly the kind of love she needs to hear. Now go, before she loses her courage and runs again.

I hung up and turned the car toward the beach house, breaking every traffic law between point A and point B.

The house was dark except for the terrace lights we always left on, and for one terrible moment I thought maybe I was wrong—that Sofía wasn’t here after all.

But then I saw a solitary figure sitting at the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the water, her silhouette lit by the full moon that made the ocean glow silver.

I walked toward her slowly, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it.

She didn’t turn when I approached, probably lost in thought—or maybe she knew it was me without needing to look.

—Hi —I said, stopping a meter away because I didn’t know if I had permission to be any closer.

—Hi —she replied without turning—. I thought you wouldn’t come.

—I was at a family dinner when I found out you were in Miami. I came as fast as I could.

—Two hours is a long time to think.

—Think about what?

—About whether I made a mistake coming, whether three months of silence is too much to forgive.

I sat beside her, leaving careful space between us.

—There’s nothing to forgive.

—I ran away to Boston and basically ghosted you for three months while I figured out if I could handle the pressure of being with you.

—I know.

—I was a coward.

—You were scared. There’s a difference.

Sofía finally looked at me, and in the moonlight I could see tears shining on her cheeks.

—I missed you every second of every day. I woke up reaching for you, spent hospital shifts trying not to think about you, went to bed crying because I chose my career over love—and we both knew it was a stupid choice.

—Then why did you stay so long?

—Because I was afraid that if I came back and it still didn’t work, I wouldn’t have an excuse this time. I wouldn’t be able to blame the scandal or social pressure—it would just be me not being strong enough.

—You’re the strongest person I know.

—I don’t feel strong. I feel like a failure who can’t handle complicated love without running away.

—You’re not a failure. You survived being publicly crucified—that takes immense strength.

—But I ran instead of fighting.

—And you came back. That’s what matters.

We sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the waves filling the space between us.

—Your grandmother manipulated me into coming —she said finally—. She told me she was dying.

—She did the same thing to me years ago when she wanted to force a conversation with my father. Seems to be her favorite tactic.

—Are you mad at me? For leaving, for staying so long, for not communicating better?

—I’m not mad. I was terrified you’d never come back. I was devastated every day not knowing if this was a temporary pause or a permanent ending—but never mad.

—How can you not be mad?

—Because I understand you. I spent my whole life watching my parents navigate judgment for their relationship. I knew exactly how brutal it could be, and I don’t blame you for needing space to process it.

—I should have been stronger.

—Or maybe I should have fought harder to make you stay.

—No. If you had fought, I would’ve resented you eventually. I needed to reach the decision on my own.

—And what decision did you reach?

Sofía turned to face me completely.

—That three months in Boston being miserable but professionally respected aren’t worth a single day in Miami being happy with you—even if it means being judged.

—That a brilliant medical career without love is just an empty career.

—And that if I’m going to make a mistake, I’d rather it be loving too much than not loving enough.

My breath caught.

—Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

—I’m saying I want to try again. I want to be with you without hiding in Boston. I want to fight for us this time instead of running.

—Are you sure? Because, Sofía, I can’t do this again. I can’t watch you leave again.

—I’m sure. Terrified, but sure. And I promise that this time, when things get hard—because they will get hard—I’m going to stay and fight instead of buying a plane ticket.

I kissed her then, pulling her into me with three months of pain and unresolved love pouring into that kiss that tasted like tears and promises and second chances.

When we pulled apart, both of us crying, I rested my forehead against hers.

—I love you. I loved you all through Boston. I’ll love you no matter what.

—I love you too. I’m so sorry I left.

—No more apologies. Just promises to stay.

—I promise to stay.

—Even when it gets hard?

—Especially when it gets hard.

We kissed again, softer this time, savoring the reunion after three months that felt like eternity.

—So —she said when we finally pulled apart—. What do we do now?

—Now we start again. Officially. No secrets, no hiding, no fear of judgment.

—And Boston?

—Do you want to stay there?

—No. I want to come back to Miami, where I belong. My hospital job here is still waiting.

—Are you sure? I don’t want you to sacrifice your career for me.

—It’s not a sacrifice if it’s the choice I want to make. And I want to be here with you more than I want to be alone in Boston.

—Okay. Then we stay in Miami.

—Together.

—Together.

I heard slow clapping behind us, and we both turned to see Grandma Luciana in her wheelchair at the terrace entrance with a satisfied smile.

—How long have you been there? —I asked.

—Long enough to know mission accomplished. You two finally stopped being dramatic and admitted you love each other.

—Grandma, this is private.

—Nothing is private in this family. You should know that by now.

Sofía laughed through her tears.

—Thank you for lying about dying.

—It worked, didn’t it? Now come inside, it’s almost one in the morning and these old bones need sleep.

—I thought you weren’t dying —I said.

—I’m not, but I’m still eighty-three years old and I need my eight hours.

We helped her inside, and after leaving her in her room with the night nurse, Sofía and I stayed in the living room, looking at the house that had witnessed so many important moments in our family.

—Do you think we can do it? —Sofía asked—. Really make this work this time?

—I think if my parents could after eleven years of waiting, we can after three months apart.

—Three months were enough for me. I don’t want to wait eleven years.

—We don’t have to. We have family support from day one. We have the lessons from the previous generation. We have love we know is real.

—And when people judge?

—We let them judge. Their opinion doesn’t change who we are.

Sofía curled up against me on the couch.

—I can’t believe your grandmother manipulated both of us.

—Apparently it’s a family tactic. It worked on my parents too.

—Do you think she does it with every generation?

—Probably. It’s a strange kind of legacy—but effective.

We stayed like that until dawn began to break, talking about everything and nothing, filling three months of silence with the conversation we should have had weeks ago.

And when the sun finally rose over the ocean, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I knew this was a new beginning.

Not perfect.

Not without challenges.

But ours.