" Say you hate me ,

it's okay boy ,  you're not the only one ! "

The golden hues of the late afternoon sun shimmered over the Mediterranean, casting long, glistening reflections across the rolling waves.

The coastal road curved ahead of Wemblyn like a ribbon, winding between rugged cliffs and the endless expanse of blue.

With the windows rolled down, the warm sea breeze tangled in her dark hair, carrying with it the scent of salt and citrus.

She gripped the wheel of her Mercedes loosely, letting the hum of the engine beneath her settle the thoughts swirling in her mind.

The meeting with Charles had been. . . unexpected. She hadn't planned on seeing him again, much less sitting across from him over coffee, listening to his apologies and the quiet ache in his voice.

But she had. And now, she wasn't sure what to do with it.

Could she trust him? More importantly, could she trust herself?

Her heart already knew the answer—it had always known.

Despite everything, despite the history, despite the heartbreak, she still loved him. And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.

The wind whipped through Wemblyn's hair as she drove along the winding Mediterranean coast, the salty air clinging to her skin.

The afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent, turning the sky into a blend of soft pastels, warm gold bleeding into delicate shades of pink and lavender.

The sea stretched endlessly beside her, shimmering under the light, waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below.

It was beautiful—breathtaking, even—but Wemblyn barely noticed.

Her thoughts were still elsewhere, tangled in the conversation she'd had with Charles.

She had spent years convincing herself that she had moved on. That whatever had once tethered them together had long since frayed.

But seeing him again, hearing his voice, watching the way he hesitated before speaking as if he were choosing his words carefully—it had unraveled her in a way she hadn't expected.

He had apologized. He had sat across from her, eyes tired, fingers curled around his coffee cup like he needed something to hold onto, and told her that he was sorry.

That he should have reached out sooner.

That he never wanted things to end the way they had.

And Wemblyn—who had spent so long building walls, so long pretending she was unaffected—had felt those walls crack.

She sighed, pressing her foot a little harder against the gas. The road ahead stretched endlessly, curving around the coastline like a lifeline.

She had always found clarity on drives like this, the motion of the sleek Mercedes grounding her, the hum of the tires on pavement giving her something to focus on. But today, there was no clarity. Only more questions.

What did she do now?

She loved him.

That was the one undeniable truth in all of this. No matter how much she tried to push it away, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that they were better off apart, that fact remained.

But love hadn't been enough before.

Would it be enough now?

Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat, pulling her from her thoughts.

She glanced over, hesitating before reaching for it at a red light. Sienna.

Wemblyn answered, holding the phone to her ear. "Hey."

"Where are you?" Sienna's voice came through, slightly muffled.

"Driving."

"By yourself?"

"Yeah."

A pause. Then, "You're thinking about him again." It wasn't a question.

Wemblyn exhaled, leaning her elbow against the door. "Maybe."

Sienna sighed. "Look, I know you want to figure this out on your own, but you don't have to do it alone."

Wemblyn didn't answer right away. She watched as the light turned green, easing the car forward again, the road curving toward the hills. "I don't even know what I'm trying to figure out."

"That's a lie," Sienna said. "You're trying to figure out if you should let him back in."

Wemblyn swallowed. "I'm not sure I have a choice."

"Of course you do." Sienna's voice softened. "Just because you love him doesn't mean you have to go back."

"But what if I want to?"

Silence.

And then, softly, "Then that's your choice too."

Wemblyn tightened her grip on the wheel. The thing was, loving Charles had never been the problem. It had always been everything else. The timing. The miscommunication.

The way they always seemed to crash into each other, too reckless, too stubborn, too unwilling to admit how much they needed one another until it was too late.

But this time—could it be different?

She pulled over at a small scenic overlook, cutting the engine and staring out at the horizon.

The sea was calm, the waves moving in steady rhythm.

She wished her thoughts could be as steady.

Sienna spoke again. "You have to ask yourself something. Do you love him enough to take the risk? And do you believe he loves you enough to make it worth it?"

Wemblyn closed her eyes, letting the words settle.

Sienna gave her that and then promptly hung up, leaving Wemblyn back alone with the sea and her very troubled mind.

She had spent so long convincing herself that love wasn't enough.

But what if it was?

And what if this time, they finally got it right?

Wemblyn picked up her phone again and selected a contact from her recents.

The air was cool against Wemblyn's skin as she stepped out of her car, her heartbeat an erratic rhythm against her ribs.

She had barely thought it through—just picked up the phone, called Charles, and asked if he was busy.

When he'd said no, his voice hesitant but open, she had told him she was coming over.

Now, standing in front of his apartment building, nerves clawed at her stomach.

This was it.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders back as if she could shake off the uncertainty pressing down on her.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she made her way inside, stepping into the sleek elevator that would take her up to his floor.

The mirrored walls reflected her restless energy, the way she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot.

The doors slid open, and she walked down the quiet hallway, stopping in front of his door. Before she could talk herself out of it, she knocked.

A few seconds passed, and then the door swung open.

Charles stood there, barefoot, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.

His eyes, a color all too familiar that had once held so much warmth for her, flickered with something unreadable.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she echoed.

A beat of silence. Then, he stepped aside, letting her in.

She walked into his apartment, the space achingly familiar. The last time she had been here, things had been different.

They had been different.

Charles closed the door behind her, watching her carefully. "I wasn't expecting you to call."

"I wasn't expecting to call either." She crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. "But I couldn't keep avoiding this."

He nodded, gesturing toward the couch. "Do you want to sit?"

She hesitated before sinking into the cushions. Charles sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance, but she could feel the weight of his attention on her.

She exhaled slowly. "I don't know where to start."

"Start anywhere." His voice was quiet, patient.

Wemblyn swallowed hard. "I saw you at the party that night, and I felt like I was seeing a stranger. And that scared me."

Charles stiffened slightly but didn't interrupt.

The Austrian podcaster continued, her words coming faster now. "I spent so long hating you after what happened. And I thought I was over it—I really did. But then I saw you again, and it hit me like a punch to the stomach. I never stopped loving you, Charles."

Her voice broke slightly at the end, but she didn't care.

Charles exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. "Wemblyn. . ."

She shook her head. "Let me finish."

He nodded, jaw tightening.

She pressed on. "I told myself that it wasn't worth it. That we were too messy, too broken, too wrong for each other. But when I walked away, I realized something."

She turned to him fully now, her gaze locking onto his. "It didn't feel like freedom. It felt like losing a part of myself."

Charles let out a shaky breath, running a hand over his face. "I don't deserve you," he murmured.

Wemblyn blinked. "What?"

He turned to face her, his expression raw. "I was a coward. I let my own fears, my own insecurities, ruin us. And when you needed me the most, I pushed you away. I told myself it was for the best, that I was protecting you—but all I did was hurt you."

She inhaled sharply, his words cutting through her like glass.

Charles reached for her hand but hesitated before making contact. "I can't bear to live without you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I've tried. I've tried moving on, tried pretending like I don't still wake up thinking about you, like I don't see you in every damn thing I do—but it's impossible."

His grip tightened, desperate now. "I love you, Wemblyn. I never stopped."

Her heart clenched, the weight of his confession settling over her like a blanket.

There it was. The truth they had both been dancing around for so long.

She squeezed his hand, her throat tight. "So what do we do now?"

Charles swallowed, his eyes searching hers. "We try again. And this time, we don't let go."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he reached up, brushing it away gently.

She leaned into his touch, exhaling a shaky breath.

Maybe love hadn't been enough before.

But maybe, just maybe, it could be now.

The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside Charles's apartment.

Wemblyn could hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, the muted hum of life beyond these walls—but inside, it was just the two of them.

Charles still held her hand, his fingers tracing slow, nervous circles against her skin. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of hesitation and something deeper, something vulnerable.

"Wemblyn," he started, his voice low but steady. "I don't want to keep running in circles with you. I don't want us to keep hurting each other, pushing each other away only to end up back here."

Her breath hitched, but she said nothing, letting him continue.

"I want us to do this properly," he said, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. "No more half-measures. No more pretending we don't care. I want to be with you—for real, for good this time."

She swallowed, her heart pounding so hard she thought he might hear it. "You're asking me out?" she teased lightly, trying to break the tension.

A small, breathless chuckle escaped him. "Yes," he admitted. "I'm asking you out. Officially."

Wemblyn searched his eyes, looking for any trace of doubt, but there was none. Only quiet certainty.

She exhaled, a slow, trembling breath. And then, with a small smile, she said, "Okay."

His brows lifted slightly. "Okay?"

"Okay," she repeated, firmer this time. "Let's do this. Let's try for real this time."

Relief flooded his face, followed closely by something else—something intense.

Before she could say anything else, Charles cupped her face, his fingers threading through her dark hair, and pulled her toward him.

And then, finally, after everything, he kissed her.

It was slow at first, almost hesitant, like they were both testing the waters, afraid of moving too fast. But the second she melted into him, the second her hands found his shoulders, all restraint shattered.

Charles kissed her like he had been holding it in for months—maybe years.

Like he had been waiting for this moment, terrified it would never come.

Wemblyn responded in kind, her fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

It was desperate and deep and all-consuming, a silent promise of everything they had been too afraid to say before.

By the time they finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, Charles rested his forehead against hers, a lopsided grin spreading across his lips.

"Well," he murmured, voice hoarse. "That was. . ."

"About time?" Wemblyn offered, still catching her breath.

He chuckled, his nose brushing against hers. "Yeah. That."

She laughed softly, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.

"God," he groaned dramatically, leaning back against the couch. "You really do have a thing for dramatic, messy love stories, don't you?"

She smirked. "I think we are the dramatic, messy love story, Charles."

He sighed playfully, shaking his head. "I can already see the headlines."

"Oh, absolutely." She leaned against his side, letting herself relax into him. "But honestly? Let them talk."

Charles hummed, wrapping an arm around her, holding her close. "Let them talk," he echoed.

And for the first time in a long time, Wemblyn truly believed that nothing else mattered.

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