I was invisible to her. Only the assistant who brought the coffee at the exact time made me content with being the office ghost, the guy no one noticed. But everything changed one night in an overheated, noisy company loft. She looked at me like never before. Elise Carón, my boss, the ice-cold associate director, came straight to me and whispered in a tense voice, “I need your help now.” I barely had time to ask her what was wrong before she issued the order that shook my life.

“Pretend to be my boyfriend and you’ll have him, you’ll have him.” I didn’t know what that meant—a promotion, a reward. I only knew that in that second I had stopped being the assistant; I had become a pawn in a game that would change my destiny. Hi, my name is Julián Lambert, I’m 24 years old, and I work as a personal assistant at a consulting firm in Bilbao, in the Ensanche district. A title that sounds good on paper, but in reality, it means that I do everything Elise Carón doesn’t have the time or the inclination to do herself.

She’s my boss, an associate director at the firm, and our relationship consists of brief instructions, cold stares, and a professional distance that could fill a stage. I never would have imagined that everything would change during a banal company party when she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Pretend to be my boyfriend and you’ll have him.” At the time, I didn’t know what “you’ll have him” really meant, but I discovered that certain promises can change a lifetime. Elis Caron is the kind of woman who attracts everyone’s attention without even trying.

She’s 35, with shoulder-length brown hair, always impeccably styled, and green eyes that can pierce you like a laser or completely ignore you depending on her mood. She wears exclusively tailored suits, heels that hit the floor like hammer blows, and a Swiss watch that probably costs more than my annual rent. In the office, she’s a machine. She arrives before everyone, leaves after everyone, and in between, she runs meetings with military precision. People respect her, but no one truly likes her.

She’s too distant, too perfect, too cold. I’m just the guy who brings her sugar-free coffee at 8 o’clock sharp, arranges her appointments, confirms her restaurant reservations, and makes sure her PowerPoint presentations are flawless. We never talk about anything personal. She never smiles. I’m invisible to her. Or at least that’s what I thought. Our office is in a renovated building, all glass and steel inside. Despite the classic facade, my desk is in a noisy open-plan space on the second floor, while she reigns from a corner office on the fifth with a view of the Guggenheim.

Between us are three floors, several zeros in our salaries, and a whole world of difference. She comes from a high-society family in Bilbao, a graduate of Deusto and a prestigious business school. I come from a working-class neighborhood, have an MBA from a public university, and share a 40,000 Lempiras apartment with a roommate who plays electric guitar at midnight. Our lives only intersected within the strict confines of work, and that was perfectly fine.
At least until that infamous night. It was a Friday night in June, and the company was hosting a cocktail party to celebrate signing an important contract with a German client. The event was being held in a trendy loft in the Malasaña neighborhood, complete with designer sofas, an open bar, and a DJ blasting unbearable house music. I had absolutely no desire to go, but my presence was strongly encouraged, which meant mandatory. I threw on my only decent shirt, black trousers, and took the metro, wedged between tourists and weary locals.

When I arrived, the place was already packed. Colleagues were laughing too loudly. Bosses were congratulating each other, and waiters in black vests were circulating with trays of champagne and ridiculous canapés. I headed to the bar, ordered a beer, and positioned myself in a corner to observe the scene, hoping I could leave without seeming rude. That’s where I saw her. Elis was leaning against the bar alone, a glass of white wine in her hand. She was wearing a fitted black dress, simply elegant, and for once, she didn’t seem so self-assured.

She looked around with an expression I’d never seen on her before—anxiety, maybe even fear. Then our eyes met. She narrowed her eyes as if she were thinking, and suddenly she walked quickly toward me. My heart raced. What had I done wrong? Had I forgotten something important? She stopped right in front of me, so close I could smell her perfume, something floral and expensive. “Julian,” she said in a low, urgent voice. “I need your help now.” I looked at her, confused.

“Mrs. Caron, what’s wrong?” She glanced over her shoulder, then moved even closer. “My ex-husband is here. He came with his new girlfriend, a 26-year-old, and he keeps giving me that smug smile. I can’t stand it. I’ve never heard Éis talk about her private life. I didn’t even know she’d been married. Okay, I said slowly. But what can I do?” She took a deep breath and then dropped the bombshell. “Pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“Just for tonight. And you’ll have him. You’ll have him.” What did that mean? A promotion? A raise? I didn’t have time to ask because she’d taken my hand and pulled me toward the center of the room. Her palm was warm and slightly damp. She was nervous. Elis Carón, the Ice Queen, was nervous. We stopped near a group of senior executives, and she snuggled up to me, her arm wrapped around mine. “See the man over there with the gray hair and the navy suit?” she whispered.

I followed her gaze and saw a man in his fifties, tall and distinguished, with a young blonde woman. clinging to her arm. It’s him, Antonio, my ex. She squeezed my arm tighter. Act like we’re together. Laugh, smile, touch me. My brain was in full panic, but my body reacted instinctively. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She was smaller than I expected without her usual heels. I felt the warmth of her body against mine, and it had a strange, almost electric effect on me.

“Like this?” I asked. She looked up at me and, for the first time since I’d known her, smiled. A real smile. Perfect. She said, “Go on. We spend the next two hours acting.” Elice laughed at my jokes, even the stupidest ones. She touched my arm, my shoulder, my hand, introduced me to people as her Julian, with a feigned but convincing pride, and I played along, looked her in the eyes, whispered in her ear to make her laugh, held her by the waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was surreal. At one point, Antonio approached us. He had that condescending smile that had been described. “Elis,” he said in a syrupy tone, “What a surprise to see you here, and with someone else.” He looked me up and down, clearly unimpressed. “Antonio,” Elis replied with icy calm. “Yes, this is Julian, my partner.” The word “partner” hung in the air like a slap in the face. Antonio frowned. Seriously. And since when? I felt Elise tense up beside me.

I decided to intervene. “A few months now,” I said confidently. “Elise prefers to keep her private life discreet, but I’m the luckiest man in the world.” I looked at him, made a face, and smiled, and she smiled back with a warmth that seemed almost real. Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it, muttered something about having to greet other people, and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Elise burst into laughter. A real, liberating laugh. My God, did you see her face?

She was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes. I’d never seen Elise like that, and frankly, it was magnificent. The party ended, and we went out together into the Madrid night. The air was soft, the streets of Malasaña were still lively, and there was something magical about the atmosphere. Elise took off her heels and held them in her hand, walking barefoot on the sidewalk. “Thank you, Julian,” she said softly. “You saved me tonight. I owe you one.” “It’s nothing,” I replied, “but you told me I’d have it.

What exactly does that mean?” She stopped and looked at me with a strange expression, somewhere between amused and serious. “Do you really want to know?” She obviously bit her lower lip, doubtful. Then she said, “You’ll have me if you still want me after you know who I really am.” My heart stopped. What? I’m not just your cold, unapproachable boss, Julian. I’m a woman who built everything on control and perfection because I was afraid to show the slightest weakness.

Tonight you saw me vulnerable and didn’t judge me. You helped me without asking questions. That means something. She took a step toward me, so here’s my offer. Get to know me, the real me. And if after that you still want to be with me, then I’ll be completely yours. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. Elise Carón, my boss, the woman I thought was an emotionless machine, had just opened a door to something I’d never imagined.

“Okay,” I finally said. “I want to learn.” She smiled. A sweet, slightly sad smile. “Good, then start by inviting me to dinner. No, not at a fancy restaurant, just something simple, a place you’d go with a friend. I really, really want to see your world, Julián, not mine.” And that’s how it all began. The following Monday at the office, Elise was back to being the cold, professional associate director, but now there were moments when our eyes met, when she smiled at me discreetly, when her hand brushed against mine as she passed me a file.

They were small signs, almost imperceptible to others, but to me they meant everything. On Wednesday night, I took her to a small tapas bar near my house, in a neighborhood in the old town, a place with red-checkered tablecloths, friendly, gruff waiters, and a wine list with $10 bottles. Elice arrived in jeans and a sweater, without makeup, and looked different—younger, more real. We sat at a table in the corner, and at first, the conversation was a little awkward.

We didn’t know how to behave with each other outside of a professional setting. But after the first glass of wine, the barriers began to fall. “My father was a finance director at a big bank,” she began. “My mother was a housewife, but only because my father demanded it. In my family, emotions are never shown. No crying, no complaining. Success is key.” She swirled her glass in her hands. “I learned very early on that love and vulnerability were weaknesses, so I focused on my career.

I worked day and night.” I sacrificed everything else, including my marriage. What happened to Antonio? I asked gently. We got married when I was 28. He was ambitious, just like me. We thought we were perfect for each other, but in reality, we were just two people who worked all the time and barely crossed paths. When I was promoted to associate director, he couldn’t stand it. He wanted me to slow down, to focus on us. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to be anything other than a fighter.

She looked up at me, and I saw a deep sadness in her eyes. He left me two years ago. He told me I’d become a stranger, that I’d lost my humanity. And the worst part is, he was right. I didn’t know what to say. I just reached out and took her hand. You haven’t lost your humanity, Elis. You just hid it to protect yourself. She squeezed my hand. Maybe, but now I’m 35. I’m alone, and I wonder if I’ve built a prison around myself.

I have a magnificent apartment in the Sánchez neighborhood, but I come home every night to a deafening silence. I have money, prestige, power, but no one to share it with. It’s pathetic. No, I didn’t say firmly. It’s not pathetic, it’s human. And now you’re here with me and you’re allowing yourself to be vulnerable. That’s brave. She laughed softly. Brave. I’m terrified, Julián. Terrified that if I let my guard down completely, I’m going to fall apart. Terrified that you’ll see who I really am and realize that I’m not so special.

So, let me tell you something. I said, leaning closer to her. I don’t think you’re special because you’re perfect. I think you’re special because you’re trying, because you’re sitting here in front of me telling me your story. That’s what counts. We continued seeing each other outside of work. Twice a week we had dinner together, sometimes at small restaurants, sometimes at her house, where she cooked simple but delicious dishes for me. She told me about her strict childhood, her arduous studies, her first steps in the ruthless world of consulting.

She spoke of her childhood dream of becoming a writer, but how her father had told her it was a waste of time. She showed me a notebook full of poems she wrote in secret, magnificent and melancholic texts that revealed a sensitivity she had always hidden. For my part, I told her about my family, my working-class parents who had encouraged me to study so I could have a better life, my doubts about my career, my fears of never being good enough.

She listened to me with rapt attention and never judged me; on the contrary, she encouraged me. She told me I had potential, that I shouldn’t underestimate myself. One night we were at her house, sitting on her Italian leather sofa with a glass of wine in our hands, and she asked me, “Julian, why are you doing this? Why are you spending time with me?” “Because I want to,” I replied simply, “because when I’m with you, I get the impression that I see something no one else sees—your real self—and I like what I see.”

She put down her glass and turned to me, her green eyes fixed on mine. “Do you know that if we do this, if we really become something, it’s going to complicate our lives? People in the office are going to whisper, they’re going to say you’re with me for your career or that I’m taking advantage of my position.” “I don’t care,” I said. “Who’s talking? I’m not doing this for my career; I’m doing it because I care about you.” “Do you care about me?” she repeated, as if she found it hard to believe.

Yes, very much. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. No one had told me that in a long time. So, it was about time someone told you. She came closer to me, and I felt my heart race. She raised her hand and touched my face, tracing the line of my jaw with her fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I’m capable of being the person you need. You’re already the person I need,” I told her. “Stop doubting yourself.” And then she kissed me.

It was gentle at first, hesitant, as if she were testing the waters. Then the kiss deepened, and everything else vanished. There was no office, no hierarchy, no age difference, no social status. There was only the two of us. Two people who had found each other amidst the chaos of their lives. When we parted, she had tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “I don’t want this connection to disappear.” “It won’t disappear,” I promised. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The following weeks were both wonderful and complicated. At the office, we had to maintain a professional facade, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. I caught Elis looking at me during meetings. She found excuses to get me to come to her office. Once, she kissed me in the empty elevator. A quick but passionate kiss, before the doors opened and she instantly transformed into the cold associate director. But people were starting to notice. Colleagues were asking me questions.

“You spend a lot of time with Ms. Caron lately. It’s normal. I’m her assistant. Yes, but even so, rumors started circulating. Some said I was her new favorite, others hinted at more explicit things. Elis started to get stressed. “They’re talking, Julian,” she told me one night at her house. “I’m sorry, they’re watching us.” “And what did I say? We’re not doing anything wrong.” “No, but they’re going to think the worst. They’re going to think I’m taking advantage of my position or that you’re sleeping with me to climb the ladder.”

“That’s what you’re worried about, what people think.” “Yes,” she shouted. Then she calmed down. “No, I don’t know. I’ve spent my whole life controlling my image, being beyond reproach, and now I’m risking it all.” “Why? For a relationship that might not work out.” That hurt. “That’s how you see it. As a risk.” “That’s not what I meant.” “So what did you mean, Elis?” She sat down and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know. I’m lost. We went through a period It was difficult.

Elice started to distance herself at work. She stopped smiling at me. She avoided eye contact. She canceled our dinners. I felt like she was building her walls again, and it broke my heart. I tried to talk to her, but she said she needed time to reflect. Reflect on what? On us. On what I really want. Don’t you know what you want? No, Julian, I don’t know. And that scares me. I went home that night completely devastated. I thought about quitting, about moving far away so I wouldn’t have to see her every day, but a part of me refused to give up.

A part of me still believed in what we had built. Then, one Friday night, three weeks after our last real conversation, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and Elice was standing there in the hallway. She was wearing jeans, a simple T-shirt, and her hair was loose and messy. She looked exhausted. “Elice, what are you doing here?” “I can’t keep doing this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can’t keep pretending. I can’t live trying everything. I’ve spent these last few weeks trying to convince myself it was a mistake, that I should protect my career, my image, everything I’ve built.

But you know what? I don’t care. She walked into my apartment and closed the door behind her. I don’t care what people think, I don’t care about my reputation. The only thing that matters is you. You and me. I’ve been lost. I felt a lump in my throat. Elis, no, let me finish. You showed me what it was like to truly live. You reminded me what it was like to feel something. And I don’t want to go back to that empty, cold life. I don’t want to be alone in my big apartment wondering what could have been.”

She took my hands in hers. “My heart belongs to you, Julian, completely. If you still love me.” I pulled her close and kissed her. It was different this time. It wasn’t hesitant or uncertain anymore; it was a promise, a declaration. “I still love you,” I whispered against her lips. That same night we talked for hours, we made a plan. Eli was going to talk to management and explain our relationship. She would propose that I be transferred to another department to avoid any conflict of interest.

If necessary, I would find another job. We would do things properly, cleanly, without secrets. “It’s going to be complicated,” she said. “I know, people will talk.” “Let them talk. You could lose your job. Then I’ll find something else. It’s worth it.” She looked at me with pure emotion in her eyes. “Why? Why are you willing to sacrifice everything for me?” “Because what we have is real, it’s rare and precious, and I refuse to let it go out of fear. Love isn’t a weakness; it’s the strongest thing we have.”

The following Monday, Elise kept her word, met with the CEO, and explained the situation. There were discussions, meetings, curious glances, but a solution was finally found. I was transferred to the human resources department with a small promotion and a raise. He and I were no longer directly linked professionally. The rumors continued for a few weeks, but eventually faded away. People found something else to talk about, and we continued building our relationship. We took our time.

We learned to know each other outside the work context and the initial pressure. We traveled together. First, a weekend in the north, then a week in Italy. We cooked together, laughed together, argued, and made up. We met each other’s families, which was awkward at first, but it softened over time. My mother adored Elise, although she felt intimidated by her elegance. Elise’s father was skeptical, but he eventually accepted that his daughter was happy, and that was all that mattered.

Six months after that first night in Malasaña, Elise and I moved in together, not to her large apartment in the Ensanche district, but to a new place, a bright apartment in a central neighborhood that was ours, not hers or mine, but ours. It was a new beginning. He started to slow down at work, delegated more, took vacations, and gave himself the right to live. And I found my place in the HR department, where I thrived.

Finally, I was no longer the invisible assistant; I was Julián Lambert, a man with a career, a life, and an extraordinary woman by his side. One night, as we sat on our apartment balcony, watching the sunset over the rooftops of Bilbao, Elise took my hand. “Do you remember what I told you that night? Pretend to be my boyfriend, and you’ll have him.” How could I forget? You know, at the time I wasn’t sure what I was really offering you, but now I know.

I offered you my heart, my life, my true self. And you accepted. Of course I accepted. And you don’t regret a thing. All the complications, the rumors, the changes—not a single second. She smiled. That sweet, genuine smile I loved so much. Neither did I. You saved my life, Julián. Not that night in Malasaña, but every day since. You reminded me that I was more than an associate director, more than a title or a salary. You reminded me that I was a woman with a beating heart and dreams worth pursuing.

I squeezed your hand, and you showed me that I was worth more than I thought, that I didn’t need to be someone else to deserve love. We saved each other. Then she said softly, “Yes, I think so.” We stood there in silence, watching the city gradually light up in the evening. There was something peaceful about that moment, something whole. All the fears, all the doubts, all the barriers we had built had crumbled, and what remained was simple and pure.

Two people who loved each other and chose to build a life together despite the obstacles. Of course, it wasn’t always easy. There were times when our differences resurfaced. Elis still had a tendency to want to control everything, to plan every detail of our lives with military precision. I was more spontaneous, more relaxed, and sometimes that drove her crazy. “Julian,” she said, “we can’t just decide to go away for the weekend without booking a hotel. Why not? We’ll find something along the way, and if everything’s full, we’ll sleep in the car.”

It was going to be an adventure. She looked at me like I was crazy, but deep down I saw a tiny spark of amusement in her eyes. Little by little, she learned to let go, to accept the unexpected, and I learned to be a bit more responsible, to think about the future instead of living only in the present. We also had our rituals. Every Sunday morning we went to the local market together. Elise chose artisanal cheeses while I haggled with the fruit vendor for a better price.

We returned home with bags full of fresh produce and spent the afternoon cooking together. Often making a mess in the kitchen, but laughing the whole time. In the evening, we settled on the sofa with a bottle of wine and watched classic black and white movies that he adored. She knew all the lines by heart and recited them to me with dramatic accents that made me burst out laughing. It was in those moments that I realized how lucky I was, not because Eli was beautiful, intelligent, or rich, but because she was her, because she let me into her world, her fears and joys, and because she accepted that I would do the same.

A year after our first meeting in Malasaña, Elice surprised me. It was a Saturday morning, and she told me to dress formally without saying why. We took the metro downtown, and she led me to a small, independent bookstore tucked away in a side street. “Why are we here?” I asked. “You’ll see,” she said. She guided me to the back of the shop, where a small table was set up with a handwritten sign: Poetry Reading. Elis Carón.

I looked at the sign. Then at Elis Bock open. “Are you going to read your poems in public?” She nodded nervously, but determinedly. “Yes. I decided it was time to stop hiding that part of myself. You gave me the courage to do it.” There were about ten people in the audience, regulars at the bookstore and a few curious onlookers. Elise sat behind the small table, opened her notebook, and began to read. Her voice trembled at first, but quickly steadyed. Her poems spoke of loneliness, of the search for identity, of walls crumbling, and of love rebuilding.

They were magnificent, filled with pure emotion and honesty. When she finished, people applauded, and I saw her eyes well up with tears. After the reading, she came over to me, and I hugged her tightly. “You were incredible,” I whispered. “Thank you,” she said, “Thank you for believing in me.” That day I realized we were no longer the same people we had been a year ago. Elice was no longer the cold associate director hiding behind her professional armor. She had become a complete woman who embraced all facets of her personality, even those she had considered weaknesses.

And I was no longer the invisible assistant who doubted her worth. I had become a confident man, capable of supporting the person I loved as she pursued her own dreams. We had grown together, we had transformed together, and that was the true magic of our relationship. The months passed, and we continued building our lives. Elice began writing seriously, working on a poetry collection she hoped to publish someday. I was promoted to head of talent development within the company, a position that allowed me to help others find their place and develop professionally.

We weren’t perfect. We had arguments, moments of frustration, days when we wondered if we were truly meant for each other, but each time we chose Staying, communicating, working through our problems instead of running away—that’s what made all the difference. One autumn night, almost two years after that famous party, we were back in that same Malasaña loft. The company was throwing another party, and this time we went together, hand in hand, with nothing to hide.

People now knew us as a couple. There were no more rumors or judgments, just quiet acceptance. We danced together under the dim lights, and at one point, Elis rested her head on my shoulder. “Do you remember the first time we were here?” she asked. “How could I forget? I was terrified that night, terrified that Antonio would see me alone and pathetic, terrified that I’d never find anyone again. And now I’m just grateful.” Grateful that you played along. Grateful that you stayed even when I tried to push you away.

Grateful that you showed me what true love was. I kissed the top of her head. I’m grateful for everything, too. We left the party early that night and walked home through the streets of Bilbao. The air was fresh, the leaves were falling gently from the trees, and everything seemed perfectly in place. When we got to our apartment, he stopped in front of the door and looked at me with a serious expression. “Julian, is there something I want to ask you?”

“What?” She took a deep breath. “I want us to build a real life together. Not just a shared apartment or romantic weekends. I want it all. I want shared projects, shared dreams, a future together.” “But that’s what we’re already doing, aren’t we?” “Yes, but I want it to be official.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a small box. My heart stopped. “Julian, I know traditionally it’s the man who does this, but you know I’ve never been traditional.” She opened the box, revealing a simple gold ring.

“Julian Lambert, will you marry me? Not because it’s what we’re supposed to do, but because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Because you’re my partner, my best friend, my love, because I can’t imagine a single day without you anymore.” I was speechless. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, and I laughed as I wiped them away. “Yes,” I finally said. “Yes, a thousand times. Yes.” She slipped the ring onto my finger, then I lifted her up and twirled her around in my arms.

We laughed like euphoric, carefree children. That night, in our small apartment, we celebrated our engagement with a bottle of cheap champagne and leftover pizza. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t perfect, but it was us, and that was exactly what we wanted. We married six months later in a small, intimate ceremony at the town hall, followed by lunch at that same little tapas bar where we’d had our first real date. Only our families and closest friends were there—about 30 people in total.

Elicis wore a simple, elegant white dress; I wore a navy suit. We exchanged our vows, and when the mayor said, “May you kiss the bride?” I kissed her with all the love I had in me. People applauded, and I saw my mother crying tears of joy in the audience. It was a perfect moment, a moment that marked not an end, but a new beginning. Life after marriage wasn’t radically different, but there was a new depth to our relationship.

Now we were an official couple, united not only by love, but also by a legal and social commitment. Elis finally published her poetry collection, which was well-received by critics. She began teaching writing workshops on weekends, sharing her passion with others. I continued climbing the corporate ladder, finding true satisfaction in my work. We bought a small apartment with a garden, a rare luxury in Bilbao, and started talking about having children someday.

Perhaps not immediately, but eventually there were challenges. Of course, it took some time for Elis’s family to fully accept me, especially her father, who saw me as someone of lower social standing. But Elis defended our marriage with a ferocity I had never known her to possess. “If you can’t accept Julián, then you can’t be a part of my life,” she told her father during a particularly tense family dinner. Her father eventually softened, slowly but surely, realizing that his daughter was happy for the first time in years, and that it was thanks to me.

My own family welcomed Elise with open arms from the very beginning. My mother considered her the daughter she never had, and my father appreciated her intelligence and frankness. Now, sitting in our garden on a beautiful spring day, watching Elise read a book under the blossoming cherry tree, I think about that night in Malasaña almost three years ago. I think about the moment she asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend, the look of panic and hope in her eyes, the mysterious promise she made me: “You’ll have it.” And now I realize that “you’ll have it” didn’t just mean that she would be mine; it meant that I would have a life full of meaning, a deep connection, authentic love. It meant that I would have the opportunity to see an incredible woman unfold and become the best version of herself. herself. It meant I would have a partner who would push me to grow, to evolve, to be better. And she was right. I had it, I have it all. If this love story that overcomes barriers also moves you, I invite you to subscribe to the channel so you don’t miss more stories like this one that we share every week.

Eli looks up from her book and smiles at me. “What are you thinking about?” she asks. “About us,” I say, “about how it all started. About how a single night changed our entire lives.” She puts down her book and comes to sit next to me on the garden bench. “Do you regret anything?” “Not for a second. You never will.” She takes my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine. “You know, I thought success was all that mattered. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I earned enough money, if I climbed high enough, I would be happy, but I was wrong.”

This is happiness. She squeezes my hand. It’s you and me in this garden. It’s Sundays at the market. It’s arguing about who does the dishes and making up with a kiss. It’s the little things, the simple moments. I agree, I say. And you know what? I think you gave me something as valuable as what you think I gave you. What? Well, permission to be imperfect, permission to make mistakes and learn, permission to love unconditionally.

You showed me I didn’t need to be extraordinary to deserve happiness. But you are extraordinary, Julián,” she says softly. “For me, you always have been.” We sit in silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other’s presence. Outside, we hear children playing, cars passing by. Life in Bilbao continues its frenetic course. But here, in our little garden, time seems to slow down. It’s our bubble, our refuge, our little corner of paradise in the midst of chaos.

I think about everything we’ve been through to get here. The doubts, the fears, the obstacles. I think about the strength it took for Elise to let her guard down and let me in. I think about the courage it took for me to stay when she tried to push me away. I think about all the times we could have given up, but instead chose to fight for our love. And I’m grateful. Grateful for every challenge, every tear, every laugh, because all of it brought us here to this perfect moment.

“I love you,” I tell Elise. “I love you too,” she replies. And in those simple words, in that declaration we’ve made to each other hundreds of times, lies everything. There’s the promise of a future together, the gratitude for the present, and the acceptance of the past that shaped us. There’s the recognition that love isn’t always easy, but that it’s always worth it. There’s the understanding that we are two imperfect people who found something perfect together. Night falls softly over Bilbao, and we go inside our house.

Eli makes dinner while I set the table. We move around the kitchen with an ease born of habit and love. We brush against each other, smile, and exchange knowing glances. It’s our daily dance, our ritual of intimacy. After dinner, we settle on the sofa, and she rests her head on my shoulder. “Thank you, Julián,” she whispers. “Thank you. Why? For agreeing to that night, for playing along, for giving me a chance. Thank you, man, for offering me the best adventure of my life.”

And it’s true, this adventure that began with a desperate plea during a company party transformed into the most beautiful love story I could ever have imagined. We proved that love can be born in the most unexpected circumstances, that it can overcome social barriers and differences, that it can transform two broken people into a strong and united couple. Our story isn’t a fairy tale; it’s something more real, deeper, more lasting. It’s a story of acceptance, vulnerability, growth, and the conscious choice to love oneself despite everything, and I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.