The Manila air hit me like a wall.
Warm. Thick. Heavy with memories.
It was almost cruel, the way it wrapped itself around my lungs, the way it made everything ache the moment i stepped out of that plane. You can run from a place.
From a person.
Even from yourself.
But the air will always remember you.
Behind me, Lorenzo wheeled out our luggage, a duffel bag slung across his back like some kind of quiet soldier returning from war.
No driver met us at the arrival bay.
No personal assistant.
No polished welcome.
Just an old, dust-covered BMW parked at the far edge of the airport parking lot—its color dulled by the months it had been abandoned there.
He had left it when he followed me to Paris. Left it without thinking about what would happen to it or if it would get towed. Or vandalized.
He never cared.
Because all that mattered… was finding us.
I turned to look at him as he unlocked the car.
His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the keys.
But his eyes were steady.
He opened the passenger door for me, and i climbed in with Celestine, who was still half-asleep, her face pressed to my chest.
And if some of you are asking where is yaya minda? Her family pick her up, because she had been away from them, because of me.
The engine struggled for a second before starting.
He didn't speak. Just drove.
And for once, the silence wasn't cold.
It was sacred.
We pulled into the parking basement of his building an hour later.
Celestine had stirred just enough to yawn and rub her eyes, but not enough to complain.
The elevator ride was slow.
When we stepped into the condo, I noticed immediately that it was colder than i remembered.
Like a space frozen in time.
The furniture was untouched.
No signs of life.
No signs that someone had been living here at all.
It hit me.
He never moved on.
Not really.
Not even from the space we used to share in US.
He just… waited.
Like he believed one day, the door would open again.
Celestine squealed when she saw the size of the living room. "This house is BIG!" she shouted, running toward the couch with her bunny clutched tight.
Lorenzo smiled faintly, placing our luggage near the hallway.
I stood in the middle of the condo, unsure where to put myself.
"I had the guest room cleaned," he said gently. "You and Celestine can take it."
"What about you?"
He paused. "I'll take the pull-out in the study. Just until… you're comfortable."
I didn't say anything.
Not yet.
But later that night, when the lights were low and Celestine was already snuggled up in bed, I quietly entered the guest room again, where i found him pacing near the door, blanket in hand.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
He looked surprised. "The study."
"No," I said, stepping aside. "You're sleeping here. With us."
His eyes softened.
"Are you sure?"
I nodded. "This… this is your bed, too."
He didn't say anything else.
Just came in quietly and slipped beside us.
That night, for the second time in years, we all slept in the same bed.
A real bed.
Not a hotel room.
Not an apartment bed.
Not a hiding place.
But a bed where we were beginning again.
Celestine slept in the middle, arms spread wide like a starfish.
I curled up on one side, facing Lorenzo.
He shifted gently so he could lie facing me, his eyes tracing every curve of my face like he still didn't believe i was real.
Then slowly… his hand found its way to my stomach.
He rested it there, reverently, like it was something holy.
I smiled. "Still no kicks."
"That's okay," he whispered, brushing his thumb over the barely-there bump. "I'm not in a rush. I just… want to feel close."
"You keep touching it like you're waiting for it to speak."
He chuckled under his breath. "Maybe it is.
Just silently telling me, 'You better not screw this up, old man.'"
I laughed.
It was soft.
Easy. Healing.
For a moment, we both just laid there.
Breathing.
Listening to the distant hum of the city below.
I studied the lines on his face.
The tiredness under his eyes.
The sorrow he never said out loud.
And then, without thinking, I asked:
"So… what are we now?"
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" I shrugged lightly. "We've had a child. We're having another. We're sleeping in the same bed. You're obsessed with my belly. What are we, Lorenzo? Still FUBU?"
He blinked.
Then broke into quiet laughter.
"Gosh," he groaned. "Don't remind me."
I grinned. "Come on. You used to say it like it was a badge of honor."
"And you used to pretend you didn't care."
We laughed.
Loud enough that Celestine stirred a little.
Then he leaned over me, careful not to wake her.
"Not FUBU," he whispered.
"No?"
He reached for something under the side table drawer.
A small, velvet box.
My heart stopped.
He sat up a little, holding it in his hand like it weighed everything he couldn't say.
"I was going to wait until i had some stupid dinner planned or at least until we weren't in our pajamas," he said, smiling nervously. "But i don't want to wait anymore."
He opened the box.
A delicate ring sat inside.
Rose gold. Simple. Beautiful.
"I bought this the day i saw you walking in Paris. You were holding Celestine's hand and looking at the sky like you belonged to it."
I couldn't breathe.
He took my left hand.
"I'm going to marry you, Atasha. Not because i feel guilty. Not because we have kids. But because you're it. You've always been it. Even when i didn't deserve you."
He slipped the ring onto my finger.
"And from now on," he whispered, "I'm not your almost, or your maybe, or your mistake. I'm your fiancé."
I didn't speak.
I just wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
Not hard.
Not desperate.
Just real.
And when i pulled away, I whispered the only words that mattered:
"Welcome home."
That night, he fell asleep beside me, his hand still resting on my belly, like it was the anchor holding him to this world.
I stayed awake a little longer.
Watching the two people i loved most breathe in the dark.
I wasn't afraid of tomorrow.
Because he wasn't just staying in this house.
He was staying with us.