Page 109 of My Spanish Love Affair

“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 - Iwill,” heemphasises 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 beingyourgirlfriend.”

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.

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