Mike stared at his bank statement one last time, then closed his laptop with a decisive click. He'd borrowed enough from friends, scrimped every spare dollar, and booked the earliest flight to Madrid. Two sleepless nights later, he landed bleary‑eyed in Spain—jet‑lagged, anxious, but brimming with hope.
On the train to Sevilla, he FaceTimed Sarah. Her smile lit the carriage more than the morning sun. "Only an hour," she whispered, and Mike could almost feel her warmth through the screen.
When he stepped onto the platform, Sarah was there—her arms outstretched, tears shining in her eyes. He dropped his bags and ran to her. Their first embrace was everything he'd imagined and more: hearts pounding in unison, the world narrowing to that single moment.
Minutes later, they arrived at her family home. In the living room sat her father, leaning on a cane but alert, his eyes cautious as he stood to greet Mike. The handshake was firm but reserved. Mike offered a tentative smile and spoke in broken Spanish: "Gracias por recibirme." Sarah's father nodded, impressed, then welcomed him to dinner.
Over paella and red wine, they talked of law school and literature, of Sevilla's winding streets and New York's skyscrapers. Halfway through the meal, Sarah's father excused himself—his face pale. Mike caught Sarah's hand as she helped her father to a chair. Heart pounding, he fetched water, called the doctor, and stayed by their side until the crisis passed. In those tense hours, he proved his promise: to stand with Sarah, no matter how frightening the moment.
Late that night, on the terrace overlooking the Guadalquivir River, Sarah slipped her hand into his. "Thank you," she breathed. "For coming. For staying."
Mike kissed her fingers. "Always."
Under the Spanish stars, separated by distance no longer, their love felt stronger than ever.