I write like I remember him...✧˖°

The buzz of overhead lights hummed low over the tarmac, flickering like a dying pulse. The airport was quiet, but never truly still. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A truck engine sputtered. The air was thick with diesel, heat, and the kind of silence that always came before bad news.

Peña leaned against the hood of the battered sedan, one boot crossed over the other, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, plastering the collar of his shirt to his skin. Murphy sat inside, window down, head tilted back and eyes closed, pretending not to be counting minutes.

They’d been waiting for over an hour on the sun-bleached tarmac of the José María Córdova International Airport. Long enough for the afternoon to die into something heavier, dusk dragging its knuckles across the horizon. The clouds hung low, swollen and waiting.

Peña flicked the last of his cigarette into the dust, grinding it under his heel with exaggerated boredom.

“When the fuck did we get demoted to chauffeurs?”

Murphy didn’t open his eyes. “Since Bogotá wants all their shiny imports delivered with a bow on top.”

Peña scoffed and shifted his weight. “Next they’ll have us carrying bags and handing out mints.”

Murphy snorted. “Might be easier than chasing coke labs through swamps.”

The glove compartment clicked open, and Peña reached for the manila folder inside. Thumbing through the pages, he squinted at the top sheet, reading aloud with a lazy drawl. “Special Agent Y/L/N, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Seattle Division.”

He paused, lips curling faintly. “Jesus. Even got a commendation from the Attorney General. Must be nice.”

Murphy finally opened one eye, glancing toward the folder. He stilled.

“Y/L/N?” he repeated. “No shit.”

Peña raised a brow. “You know him?”

Murphy sat up straighter and took the file from his partner, flipping pages with a furrowed brow. “Her,” he corrected.

Peña looked up at that, interest flickering to life.

Murphy kept reading. “Yeah… Y/N Y/L/N. We were in the academy at the same time. Not close, just… same year. She was the one everyone either hated or wanted to be.”

Peña smirked. “Which one were you?”

Murphy gave him a look. “The one who knew better.”

Peña tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he watched Murphy linger over the personnel photo. “She that good?”

“She’s a fucking monster,” Murphy said, not unkindly. “Languages, marksmanship, field tactics. They said she was recruited before she even graduated. Fluent Spanish. Got sent to Mexico straight out of Quantico. Cut her teeth chasing cartel lieutenants while we were still learning to tie ties.”

Peña took the file back, flipping through the reports. Arrests, commendations, undercover work, sealed attachments. He let out a low whistle. 

Murphy smacked him lightly with the back of the folder. “Don’t even think about it.”

Peña’s smirk widened. “You always this protective of people you barely know?”

“Just warning you,” Murphy said, lighting another cigarette. “She’s way, way out of your league, Peña.”

“We’ll see about that.”

They heard the jet before they saw it. The long, low rumble of engines sweeping down from the mountains, cutting through the dying light like a blade. The plane touched down hard, wheels screaming against the tarmac. It coasted to a halt, engines ticking as they wound down.

The door opened.

A few agents stepped out—two men, another woman—moving like people used to being deployed, not greeted.

And then her.

She descended the steps with an unhurried, deliberate grace. Tan slacks. Rolled sleeves. Aviators glinting against the last of the sun. Her duffel was slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Not even a glance around, just a straight line toward them—eyes locked, body relaxed, the kind of calm that spoke of training and bone-deep control.

Peña straightened instinctively. Murphy didn’t miss it. He grinned around his cigarette.

“Wipe that look off your face.”

She stopped in front of them. Pulled off her sunglasses. Sharp eyes.

“Agent Murphy,” she said, extending a hand. “Good to see you.”

Murphy took it. “Agent Y/L/N. Long flight?”

She gave the briefest of smiles. “Longer layover.”

He nodded, then gestured toward his partner. “This is my partner Agent Javier Peña.”

Peña stepped forward, dragging the cigarette from his mouth and offering his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Y/L/N.”

She looked him over once—no hurry, no nerves—and took his hand. Firm grip. Cool fingers. Eyes unreadable.

“Likewise.”

And just like that, something shifted. Something subtle, subterranean.

It wasn’t love. Wasn’t even interest—not yet.

It was recognition. Like a mirror held up between two wolves.

He looked good. Too good. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, his jawline more defined, and the suit he wore fit him like a second skin. But it wasn’t just the years that had refined him—it was the way he stood, confident and composed in a way that spoke of experience, of time lived.

Y/n forced herself to breathe, to look away, to remind herself that he was just another guest at this party, just another piece of her past. But when her gaze slipped back to him, he was already walking toward her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck

Her heart quickened, and she cursed herself for it.

“Y/n,” he said when he reached her, his voice low and familiar in a way that made her throat tighten.

She met his gaze, forcing herself to stay composed even as old wounds reopened. “Lucien.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything they’d never said, everything they’d left behind.

“I wasn’t sure it was you at first,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But then I thought, who else could stop a room like that?”

Y/n swallowed hard, refusing to let his words affect her. “Still good at flattery, I see,” she said lightly, though her voice was tighter than she intended.

“And you’re still good at pretending it doesn’t work,” he replied, his eyes softening.

She hated how easily he could disarm her, even now. Hated the way her pulse raced at the sound of his voice, the way his presence brought to the surface emotions she thought she’d buried long ago.

---

Fifteen years ago, they’d been too young and too reckless to understand what they’d found in each other. They had met at Alisson and Brian’s engagement party, just a pair of twenty-something year old's trying to figure out who they were and where they fit in the world. 

Lucien had been charming, infuriating, and utterly irresistible, and Y/n had fallen for him before she even realized what was happening.

For six months, they’d been inseparable. Passionate. Wild. But it wasn’t enough. Lucien had been restless, always chasing the next thrill, and Y/n had been too afraid to ask for more, too afraid he wouldn’t stay if she did. So, when he left—no big fight, no dramatic goodbye, just a quiet slip out of her life—she’d told herself it was for the best.

Except it hadn’t been.

---

They both looked at Alisson and Jason that were slowdancing in the middle of the venue.

“Fifteen years,” Lucien said now, breaking the silence. “It feels like another lifetime.”

“Does it?” Y/n asked, the words sharper than she intended. “Because some days, it feels like yesterday.”

Lucien’s expression shifted, guilt flashing in his eyes, and Y/n hated herself for letting it show. She didn’t want him to know how deeply he’d affected her, how long it had taken to stop measuring every other man against him.

“I was an idiot,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Y/n blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I was an idiot,” he repeated, his eyes locking onto hers. “Back then. With you. With us.I didn’t realize what I had until it was too late.”

Her chest tightened, and she forced herself to look away, to keep her composure. “We were young,” she said, her voice brittle. “Neither of us knew what we were doing.”

“I did,” Lucien said softly, his words stopping her cold. “At least, part of me did. I just… I didn’t know how to hold onto it. Hold onto you.”

Y/n stared at him, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. She wanted to say something, to tell him he had no right to bring this up now, not after all these years. But the words wouldn’t come.

“Y/n,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low and rough. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

She shook her head, forcing herself to take a step back, to put distance between them. “Don’t do this,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not here. Not now.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, taking a step back himself. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But this isn’t over. We're not over”

-----

Y/n escaped to the far side of the tent, where the open bar and a few scattered tables provided a semblance of distraction. She set her half-empty glass on a nearby table, her hand trembling slightly as she exhaled. The air outside was cooler, the breeze carrying the faint scent of grapes from the surrounding vineyard, but it did little to soothe the storm inside her.

Fifteen years. It had been fifteen years, and somehow, in the span of five minutes, Lucien had undone every wall she’d carefully built since then.

“Y/n?”

Alisson’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. Her best friend appeared beside her, her cheeks flushed from dancing, the unmistakable glow of happiness radiating from her.

“Hey,” Y/n said, forcing a smile that she hoped looked convincing.

“I saw you talking to Lucien,” Alisson said, her grin widening. “I knew you’d run into each other eventually. Small world, huh?”

Y/n laughed weakly, trying to match Alisson’s lighthearted tone. “Yeah. Small world.”

Alisson tilted her head, her expression softening. “You okay? I know things were… complicated back then.”

Y/n hesitated, then nodded. “It’s fine. We’re fine. It’s ancient history.”

Alisson studied her for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but before she could say anything else, Brian called her over to the dance floor, and she waved apologetically before hurrying away.

---

Y/n didn’t know how long she stayed there, staring out at the rows of grapevines stretching into the darkness. She was trying to compose herself, to will her mind back to the present, when a voice broke the quiet.

“You always did need time to breathe after a crowd.”

She turned, and there he was again. 

Lucien.

He wasn’t smiling now. His expression was guarded, almost hesitant, and Y/n hated how it made him look even more human, more real. She wanted to be angry at him for following her, for not letting her slip away like he had all those years ago. But the anger didn’t come.

“What do you want, Lucien?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

He didn’t flinch. “Just to talk.”

“About what?” Y/n crossed her arms, trying to put up some kind of shield between them. “We’ve had fifteen years to talk, and you didn’t seem interested before.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked down for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “I didn’t know how,” he admitted finally. “I was young, selfish, and stupid. I told myself walking away was better than messing up what we had.”

Y/n’s laugh was bitter. “What we had? Lucien, you didn’t even let us figure out what we could have been. You just left.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet, heavy with regret. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Y/n blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone. She had imagined this conversation countless times over the years, but she had never expected him to say that.

“Why now?” she asked, her voice softening despite herself. “Why say any of this now?”

Lucien stepped closer, his hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for her. “Because seeing you tonight, it hit me all over again. How much I screwed up. How much I—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “How much I miss you.”

Her breath caught, and she looked away, staring out at the vineyard. “You don’t even know me anymore, Lucien.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re still the smartest, most frustratingly stubborn person I’ve ever met. I know you still tilt your head a little when you’re trying to hold back an argument. And I know I’ve never met anyone who made me feel the way you did.”

Y/n shook her head, tears prickling at the edges of her vision. “It’s too late, Lucien. You can’t just show up after fifteen years and say these things. It’s not fair.”

“I know it’s not fair,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I couldn’t leave this time without telling you the truth.”

She turned to face him, and for the first time, she saw it—the weight he carried, the years of regret etched into his features. He looked older, yes, but he also looked… different. Like he had spent the last fifteen years trying to find something he’d lost and was only now realizing where he’d left it.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “It is too late.”

Lucien's shoulders sagged slightly, but he nodded, accepting her words. “I get it,” he said, stepping back. “I just… I needed you to know.”

Y/n watched him walk away, her heart aching in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She told herself it was better this way, that the past was better left buried.

But as she stood there, the cool breeze brushing against her skin, she realized she wasn’t as sure as she wanted to be.

------

The music from the party had quieted to a soft background hum, but Y/n could still feel the tension from her conversation with Lucien, lingering in the air like smoke. She moved toward the edge of the reception, seeking solitude again, but a part of her wanted him to follow. Wanted him to say more, to explain the ache she could hear in his voice. She knew it was foolish. She had already heard it—the apology, the regret—but it didn't change anything.

Not really.

She leaned against the stone pillar, her hand pressed against the cool surface as she closed her eyes. The weight of the night was beginning to sink into her bones, but what weighed on her most were the years they’d lost—the years she’d spent pretending she hadn’t cared when she’d never really stopped.

The night had been a blur of laughter, music, and stolen moments. She hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t expected him to be so—there. So magnetic. 

The reception hall was far behind them now, its lights and laughter fading into the cool night. Y/n walked a few steps ahead, her heels dangling from her fingertips, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound. Lucien followed at a distance, his footsteps steady but slower, as though he were giving her space—or waiting for her to make the first move.

When she reached the small iron gate at the edge of the vineyard, she stopped, resting her hand against the cool metal. For a moment, she just stood there, staring out at the moonlit path ahead, her chest tightening with every breath.

Lucien came to a halt a few steps behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

“It’s late,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” Lucien replied, his tone unreadable.

She turned then, her heart pounding as her gaze met his. He was standing there, his face half-lit by the faint glow of the lanterns lining the path, his expression caught somewhere between hope and hesitation.

“I’m staying at the inn just up the road,” she said, her voice carefully casual. “It’s a nice place. Quiet. A good spot to think.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his silence saying more than words ever could.

They stood there for a moment, the space between them humming with possibility. Lucien’s hand reached out, tentative, brushing against hers. “You don’t have to do this, Y/n. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“I’m not doing this for you,” she interrupted, her voice firm but soft. “I’m doing it because I want to. Because…” She took a deep breath, her chest tightening with the weight of her confession. “Because I’ve spent too long wondering what it would be like to have this back. To have you back.”

Her words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, and for a moment, Lucien didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer, closing the space between them until their hands brushed again.

“You don’t have to wonder anymore,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart racing as she looked up at him. “So don’t make me regret this,” she whispered.

Lucien's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, and without another word, he reached for her hand, his fingers threading through hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Y/n turned, pushing the gate open and stepping onto the cobblestone path that led to the inn. She didn’t look back to see if he was following. She didn’t have to. His footsteps fell in line with hers, steady and deliberate, and for the first time in years, she felt a flicker of certainty in her chest.

---

The room was warm and inviting, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Y/n set her heels down carefully by the door, her movements slow and deliberate as she tried to calm the storm of nerves swirling inside her.

Lucien stood just inside the doorway, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly as she turned to face him. “If this doesn’t feel—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently, his voice low but steady. “I’m here because I want to be.”

She let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding as he stepped closer, his presence filling the small room.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Lucien” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He reached for her then, his hand brushing against her arm before sliding down to take her hand. “Neither do I,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “But I know I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she squeezed his hand, grounding herself in the warmth of his touch.

Lucien’s free hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Y/n nodded, her throat tight with unspoken emotion. “I’m sure,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Lucien leaned in then, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when she responded—when her hands slid up to curl into his shirt, pulling him closer—the kiss deepened into something fiercer, something that spoke of all the years they’d lost and everything they still wanted.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his hands still framing her face.

“This is real,” he murmured, his voice trembling with emotion. “This is us.”

Y/n closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him. “It always has been,” she whispered.

And as the night unfolded, the years of distance between them seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet certainty that they had found their way back to each other at last.

__________