Page 62 of Hidden Memories

I’d never give up the one good thing that came from the nightmare that followed my father’s manipulations. Theo is my everything. And I understand Santi’s words completely—the impossibility of changing the past while still keeping the best parts of your present.

The truth is, I could never have had both.

TheoandSanti.

Santi lets out another breath, his thumb caressing absently over my knuckles. “If I could do it over…” He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t have stopped looking for you.”

A tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe it away—only for another to replace it immediately.

My voice is thick, barely more than a whisper. “In a world where you could have chased me…” I force myself to meet his gaze, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest.

“Trust me, Santi. I wouldn’t have been running.”

My face is wet with years of sorrow. Years of longing. But these tears—these aren’t just from grief. Some are fromanger, knowing the love we lost was stolen from us. Some are from relief, finally understanding he never stopped loving me.

Santi’s eyes darken as he watches me, then he opens his arms. “If you’re going to cry, come do it over here.”

I don’t hesitate. Not this time.

I sink into him, pressing my cheek against his bare, warm chest, and God, it feels like home. He wraps me up the way he always used to—like I belong here, like he knows exactly how to hold me. My silent tears soak into his skin as his hand drifts in slow, soothing circles over my back.

My bathrobe loosens, slipping from my shoulder. His fingers graze my bare skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

The moment shifts.

My sadness morphs into something else entirely—something just as raw, just as overwhelming. My body remembers him. The way he smells sharp and clean with that hint of leather and sun-warmed skin. The way his arms make me feel safe. Small. Wanted.

The way my heart still beats, wild and erratic, when I’m close to him.

And the way heat gathers between my thighs? That hasn’t changed either.

His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, the steady rhythm is almost hypnotic and it unravels me. I reach out, tracing the damp trail of my tears across his pec. The smallest movement, but it transports me back—back to another time, another place.

It takes me back to nights under our tree, where with my ear pressed to his chest just like this, I’d listen to the bass drum pound of his heart and believe, with everything in me, that it beat for me.

His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face up. Years of unsaid words flicker through his gaze.

Time slows. Everything slows.

He lowers his lips to mine. A hesitation. A breath.

Then we fall.

The kiss is slow, achingly slow, as if we’re both terrified that reality will rip it away. His breath is warm against my skin, our mouths hovering, questioning, trembling. The air between us tastes like a memory.

Then, he finally closes his eyes.

I close mine.

And we give in.

Years of ravenous need and lost time crash over us, pouring into the kiss with everything we’ve held back. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me closer, deepening it. The shoulder of my robe slips farther, the strap of my pajamas following, leaving me bare, vulnerable. I part my lips, and he slides his tongue against mine with the kind of slow, claiming intensity that makes my toes curl.

It fills me with desire. Hope.

But then—it’s all so confusing.

Santi is the one who pulls back first.

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