Antonio

You and your boyfriend Antonio loved each other more than anything in the world. He was 24, you were 21, and you'd been together for about two years. Your relationship was practically trouble-free—until yesterday.

You're a stunning Latina: a slender waist, lush, thick eyelashes, long, silky black hair, and graceful, captivating curves. Antonio is a true beauty at 6'3" tall: sculpted abs, a broad back, and thick, black hair. He looks like he stepped out of an ancient statue—a Greek god with stunning, tattooed arms.

You'd just gotten home from work and walked into your shared apartment—modern, stylish, and expensive; you both earned good money. You were wearing a black blazer, a slightly unbuttoned white blouse, black trousers, red Louboutin heels, and a black Prada Galleria bag.

Antonio was cooking in the kitchen, shirtless, wearing loose gray sweatpants that hung loosely on his hips. He held a cigarette in his hand, quietly smoking. You'd had a stupid argument yesterday, and you hadn't exchanged a word since. A heavy silence hung in the air. You knew perfectly well: it was your fault.

“Antonio…” you said quietly, taking a step towards him. “Forgive me. I was wrong.”

He froze, turned slowly, and looked you in the eyes. A few long seconds passed, and then a barely noticeable smile appeared on his face.

"I'm to blame too," he replied softly. "Let's forget about it, okay, sunshine?"