The reggaeton beat hit like a physical force as they pushed through the bar's entrance, sweat and perfume and something electric charging the air. Neon strips painted everything in violent pinks and blues, and the crowd moved like one organism, all hips and raised arms and abandon.
"This is more like it," Max shouted over the music, already pulling his shirt over his head. Lina grabbed his discarded top and tied it around her waist like a trophy.
Leo stood at the edge of the dance floor, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching the chaos with anthropological interest. Juno recognized the look—the same careful distance he maintained behind his camera.
"You promised no lurking tonight," she said, grabbing his wrist.
"I'm not lurking. I'm observing."
"Same thing." She tugged him toward the crowd. "Come on, Italy. Show me what Florence taught you about rhythm."
Leo let himself be pulled forward but moved like his joints had been recently assembled. "I think you're confusing Florence with Rio."
"Then make something up."
The bass dropped, and Juno let it pull her under, hips finding the beat like muscle memory. She'd forgotten this—the way music could dissolve thought, make the body smarter than the brain. She spun, scarf flying loose from her hair, and when she turned back Leo was watching her with something raw in his expression.
"Stop thinking," she said, placing her hands on his chest.
"I'm not—"
"Your forehead gets these little lines when you overthink. Right here." She traced the spot between his eyebrows, and Leo's careful composure cracked slightly.
The song shifted to something slower, more dangerous. Leo's hands found her waist, tentative at first, then surer as she moved closer. Heat radiated between them, turning the already warm air molten.
"Better?" she asked.
Leo spun her, pulling her back against his chest. His breath was warm against her ear when he spoke. "You're a mess. But the kind people want to get lost in."
Juno's pulse stuttered. She turned in his arms, close enough to count his eyelashes. "Then get lost already."
Something shifted in Leo's face—the careful walls dissolving. His thumb traced her jawline, eyes searching hers like he was trying to solve an equation.
"Careful what you ask for," he said.
"I never am."
The alley behind the hostel was blessedly quiet after the assault of the club. Juno's ears rang in the sudden absence of bass, and she could hear her own heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Leo walked beside her, close enough that their arms brushed with each step.
"That was..." she started.
"Loud."
"I was going to say perfect."
Leo laughed, the sound rough and genuine. "You have low standards for perfection."
"Or you have high standards for everything else."
They'd reached the narrow space between buildings where someone had tagged the walls with elaborate graffiti—faces and flowers and words in languages Juno couldn't read. A single streetlight cast everything in amber, making the art look like cave paintings.
Leo stopped walking. "Juno."
The way he said her name made her turn, and suddenly they were facing each other in the golden light, close enough that she could see the flecks of green in his brown eyes.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm about to do something stupid."
"Good," she said, and kissed him.
It was nothing like the almost-kiss in the Mediterranean—no gentle exploration, no tentative testing of boundaries. This was urgent and desperate, like they'd been drowning and had just found air. Leo's hands tangled in her hair, and Juno pressed closer, tasting salt and something indefinably him.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Leo rested his forehead against hers.
"That was definitely stupid," he said.
"The best kind."
He kissed her again, softer this time, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth. Juno felt something crack open in her chest—the same reckless feeling that had made her quit her job and book a one-way ticket, but deeper, more dangerous.
"We should go inside," Leo said, though he made no move to step away.
"Should we?"
"Yes. Before I do something even stupider."
"Like what?"
Instead of answering, Leo took her hand and led her toward the hostel's back entrance, and Juno followed, heart racing with the promise of whatever came next.
Leo's bunk was a narrow twin mattress pressed against the dormitory wall, barely wide enough for one person, definitely not designed for two. Neither of them cared.
Clothes scattered to the floor with urgent efficiency—his battered t-shirt, her vintage tee, the silk scarf that had somehow survived the night's adventures. Leo's hands were everywhere, mapping territory he'd been too careful to explore before.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice rough against her throat.
"God, yes."
What followed erased every careful boundary they'd constructed over the past week. Leo moved like he was afraid she might disappear, urgent and thorough and surprisingly gentle. Juno responded with a desperation that scared her—this feeling of coming home to a person instead of a place.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the narrow space, skin cooling in the dormitory's recycled air. Leo traced patterns on her shoulder—the same absent sketching motion she'd seen him make in sand and notebook margins.
"What are you drawing?" she whispered.
"Nothing. Everything." His fingers stilled. "I don't usually—"
"Do this?"
"Feel this."
The admission hung between them, weighted with meaning Juno wasn't sure she was ready to unpack. She pressed her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow toward normal.
"What does it feel like?" she asked.
Leo was quiet for so long she thought he'd fallen asleep. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"Terrifying."
Juno woke to sunlight streaming through the dormitory's grimy windows, painting everything in forgiving gold. Leo's arm was still around her waist, his breathing deep and even against her hair. She lay still for a moment, memorizing the weight of him, the way their bodies had arranged themselves in sleep.
Something had shifted last night—not just physically, but fundamentally. Like tectonic plates realigning beneath the surface of things.
She slipped carefully from the bunk, pulling on Leo's discarded t-shirt. It was soft with wear and smelled like him—leather and something clean she couldn't identify. In her bag, she found her travel journal and wrote quickly:
October 15 - Barcelona
It was real. Maybe it still is.
Question: What happens when you find something worth staying for in a place you can't stay?
"Hey."
Leo's voice made her look up. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk, hair sticking up at impossible angles, looking at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"Hey yourself." She closed the journal, suddenly self-conscious. "Good morning."
Leo rubbed his face, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. Morning."
Something in his tone made her stomach clench. This was the withdrawal she'd been afraid of—the careful distance reasserting itself like armor.
"Are we pretending this didn't happen?" she asked.
Leo finally looked at her, and she saw the walls going back up in real time. "No. Just... I don't do mornings well."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I need coffee and about twenty minutes to remember how to be human."
He was already reaching for his clothes, movements efficient and final. Juno watched him dress, recognizing the ritual of retreat.
"Right. Of course." She pulled her own clothes on with hands that shook slightly. "I'll give you space."
"Juno—"
But she was already heading for the door, Leo's shirt still warm against her skin, carrying the taste of disappointment like pennies on her tongue.
The communal kitchen smelled like burnt toast and instant coffee. Max stood at the counter in boxers and yesterday's tank top, buttering bread with aggressive concentration.
"Morning, sunshine," he said without looking up. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." Juno poured herself coffee from the communal pot, grimacing at its industrial strength.
Lina emerged from the women's dorm looking like she'd been electrocuted, curls defying gravity. "What time is it?"
"Too early," Max said, offering her half his toast. "But also too late to go back to sleep."
Juno leaned against the counter, cradling her mug, trying to look like someone whose entire emotional landscape hadn't been rearranged overnight. When Leo appeared in the doorway five minutes later, she kept her eyes on her coffee.
"Look who's alive," Max said. "Ready for another day of cultural enlightenment?"
Leo grabbed a piece of toast, making some joke about Spanish breakfast traditions that made Max laugh. His voice was easy, casual—the same tone he'd use with any hostel acquaintance.
Juno felt invisible.
"What's the plan?" Lina asked, still fighting her hair into submission.
"Park Güell," Max said. "Gotta see Gaudí's fever dream before we move on."
"Sounds good," Leo agreed, still not looking at Juno.
She finished her coffee in two scalding gulps. "I think I'll skip it. Need to catch up on some writing."
"Come on," Max protested. "It's your last day in Barcelona."
"Exactly. Time to document everything before I forget it."
Leo glanced at her then, something unreadable flickering in his expression. But he didn't argue, didn't insist she come along. Just nodded like her absence was perfectly reasonable.
"See you later then," he said.
Juno mumbled something that might have been agreement and escaped to the roof.
The hostel's rooftop terrace was a concrete platform decorated with dying plants and mismatched patio furniture. From here, Barcelona spread out in all directions—Gothic spires and modern towers and somewhere in the distance, the glitter of Mediterranean light.
Juno pulled out a postcard she'd bought on Las Ramblas but never sent. Carmen's address was written in careful script across the back, but the message space remained blank.
Having adventures, she wrote, then crossed it out.
Wish you were here, she tried next. Also crossed out.
Finally: He feels like a beginning. But what if I'm just another chapter?
She stared at the words, then flipped the postcard over. A gaudy image of Park Güell stared back—tourists posed in front of Gaudí's rainbow mosaics, all smiles and vacation enthusiasm.
Footsteps on the stairs made her look up. Leo appeared in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking uncertain.
"You disappeared," he said.
"You ghosted me and we're sharing a room."
Leo winced. "That's not—"
"What is it then?" Juno set the postcard aside, facing him fully. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you got what you wanted and now you're pretending I don't exist."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You made some joke with Max about Spanish breakfast traditions, but you couldn't even look at me."
Leo ran a hand through his hair, the careful styling finally giving up entirely. "I was trying to keep things normal."
"Normal?" Juno laughed, the sound bitter. "Leo, nothing about this trip has been normal. Nothing about us has been normal. Why start now?"
"Because—" He stopped, jaw working like he was chewing difficult words. "Because I don't know how to do this."
"Do what? Have a conversation?"
"Care about someone who's going to leave."
The admission hung between them, raw and honest. Juno felt her anger deflate slightly, replaced by something more complicated.
"I'm not leaving tomorrow."
"But you are leaving. Eventually. That's what this whole thing is, right? Your grand tour of self-discovery?"
"Is that what you think this is?"
Leo shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the gesture. "I think you're someone who runs when things get complicated. And I think I'm an idiot for forgetting that."
The words hit like a slap. Juno stood up, postcard fluttering to the concrete. "You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I? You quit your job without a plan. Bought a plane ticket to nowhere. You're collecting experiences like souvenirs, and when you get bored or scared, you'll move on to the next one."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what you're doing. And last night? That was just another experience to add to your collection."
Juno stared at him, chest tight with rage and hurt. "If that's what you think, then you're right. You are an idiot."
She pushed past him toward the stairs, then stopped. "For the record, I'm not some travel story you can romanticize and pack away when you're done. But apparently, neither are you."
"Juno—"
"Maybe you should sleep downstairs tonight."
She didn't wait for his response, just clattered down the stairs and away from the wreckage of whatever they'd been building.
The postcard was still on the rooftop when she returned an hour later, after walking Barcelona's streets until her feet ached and her anger cooled to something manageable. Leo was gone, but the evidence of their fight remained—her words scattered across the concrete like accusations.
Juno picked up the postcard, studying the cheerful tourists one more time. Then she took out her pen and wrote across Carmen's address:
Some beginnings are just endings in disguise.
She tore the postcard in half, then in half again, letting the pieces scatter in the afternoon breeze. They drifted over the edge of the terrace, spiraling down toward the street below.
One piece caught on a balcony two floors down. The others disappeared entirely, swallowed by Barcelona's indifferent sprawl.
Juno pulled out her journal and wrote:
Maybe he kissed me like he meant it. But he left like he didn't.
The words looked stark on the page, final as an epitaph. She closed the journal and went inside to pack for Prague, carrying the taste of regret like salt water in her mouth.