Selene's POV
I didn't know what overwhelmed me more—the scent of familiar walls or the unexpected warmth of voices I hadn't heard in years. My childhood home hadn't changed much, but it felt different now… fuller somehow, as if echoes of our broken past were finally being rewritten into something softer.
Ayra sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her fingers tangled with mine like they never left. My mother kept blinking back tears as she served tea none of us were drinking. The silence wasn't awkward; it was reverent. Healing.
Antonio sat a little away from the circle—like a guest giving space to the family reunion he gently orchestrated. But he didn't need to stay distant.
I met his eyes across the room.
And in that instant, my father entered from the garden—still holding the hedge shears. His brows furrowed slightly at the crowd gathered in his house, especially Antonio, whom he hadn't formally met yet.
Ayra stood and took charge with a smile. "Uncle, it's been forever."
My father set the shears aside slowly, his eyes flickering from Ayra to Mom to me. "What's all this?"
I walked over and took his hand—something I hadn't done in years. "Dad… we're fixing things."
He looked at Antonio next, expression unreadable. "And who's he?"
I turned, walking back to where Antonio now stood. Without hesitation, his hand found mine, grounding me. I stepped closer into his space, resting my head against his shoulder as his other hand went to the small of my back. A second later, I felt his lips press gently to my forehead.
Gasps. From Mom. A sudden pause in Ayra's joyful chatter. Even Dad's breath caught.
Antonio lifted his head and looked directly at him. "Sir… I'm Antonio. And I love your daughter."
There it was. Out in the open. No games. No secrets. My heart pounded like thunder, but I stood taller.
My father's face remained hard for a beat too long. Then he exhaled slowly and muttered, "Well… at least you have good manners."
Ayra laughed, and Mom dabbed her eyes. "It was about time."
And just like that, the tension broke. Not entirely. But enough.
Antonio's fingers laced tighter with mine as the family accepted not only the lost pieces returning—but the new ones stepping in.
We weren't perfect. But we were finally, truly together.
Selene's POV
The air was warmer inside than I remembered it.
Maybe it was the kitchen, alive again with clinking dishes and chatter. Or maybe it was the people. My people. My family.
Ayra stood at my side, slipping her hand into mine like she used to when we were little. Antonio was just behind us, his hand brushing mine every now and then, as though grounding himself—grounding me. His touch made the chaos quiet in my head.
Dad was at the head of the table, silent for a while. But his presence, once sharp and commanding, had softened. He didn't ask many questions. He didn't lecture like I feared he would. He simply… observed. As though trying to read between all the silences I had carried for years.
Mom passed me a bowl of rice and pinched my arm with a look that said, "Breathe. You're safe."
And for the first time in a long time, I believed her.
Ayra and Antonio fell into easy conversation with my little cousin about cartoons and fashion trends, and I just sat there—watching. Soaking it in. The smells, the noise, the sound of laughter bouncing off old wooden cabinets. The tea kettle whistling. Antonio's quiet smile. Ayra's loud laughter.
I hadn't realized how deeply I missed this kind of mess.
Then Dad cleared his throat, and we all instinctively looked up.
He looked at me. Then at Antonio.
"You two… care for each other?"
Antonio didn't blink. "Very much, sir."
Dad nodded, his expression unreadable at first. Then he looked at me again, his gaze softening.
"I see her smiling again," he said, "and for that, I owe you a thank you."
My eyes burned instantly, but I blinked the tears back.
He turned to Mom, muttering, "Tell me if I need to worry."
"You don't," she said, smiling. "He's a good one."
We all laughed. Antonio blushed.
The rest of the dinner became a celebration without needing the label. We didn't raise glasses or cut cakes. But we passed stories. Shared memories. Argued over who made the worst cup of tea. And somewhere between Ayra telling childhood stories and Antonio poking fun at my old fashion sketches, I felt it.
The shift.
The healing.
The sense that maybe, just maybe, we weren't just trying to fix what was broken. We were building something new.
And it was beautiful.