Camilla and I get home just after sunset, backpacks dropped by the door like we are shedding the day instead of unpacking it. The apartment smells faintly of coffee and detergent, familiar and comforting—our little one-bedroom world tucked above the city.
I kick off my shoes and stretch. "I swear, university drains my soul."
Camilla laughs, already pulling her hair into a messy bun. "Please. You love it."
"I love surviving it," I correct.
We change into pajamas, soft cotton and oversize shirts, the kind that belong only to evenings like this. Music goes on loud—too loud—but Pilar is not home, and that alone feels like permission.
In the kitchen, we move around each other easily, years of friendship turning the small space into something bigger. I pull out ingredients while Camilla hums along to the music, hips swaying.
"Arepas tonight?" she asks.
"Of course," I say. "With queso. And eggs." Colombian comfort food. Warm. Simple. Something that tastes like home even when home is an ocean away.
We cook barefoot, flour on the counter, oil popping softly in the pan. Camilla steals cheese. I smack her hand away. We laugh too loudly, the city outside fading into shadows.
When we eat, we sit on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, talking over each other about professors, assignments, people we pretend not to care about. Afterward, Camilla disappears into the bedroom with her laptop and study glasses, muttering about deadlines. I clean up slowly, not in a hurry to be alone with my thoughts, though I know they will find me anyway.
I take out my journal. The page is blank. I stare at it for a long moment before finally writing one word at the top.
LOVE.
I do not write anything else. The pen rests there, heavy and accusing. I close the journal gently, like I might hurt it if I don't.
I move to the window. The air outside is cool, carrying the distant noise of traffic and voices. I rest my arms on the sill and breathe, letting the night brush against my skin. I wonder, not for the first time, what love is supposed to feel like. Calm. Loud. Terrifying. All of it at once.
Then I see him.
Gael stands across the street near his car, hands in his pockets like he does not know what to do with them. He is looking up, not searching wildly, just… waiting.
My heart stumbles.
For a second, I freeze, unsure if this is real or something my mind has conjured because it wants him there. Then he lifts his head slightly, and our eyes meet.
The moment stretches thin.
I panic. I pull back, close the window too fast, and draw the curtains like I am hiding from something dangerous. My back presses against the wall, breath uneven.
What is he doing here?
I wait. Silence.
I step closer and peek through the smallest gap in the curtain. He has not moved.
A quiet laugh escapes me. Nervous, breathless. I stay there longer than I should, watching him watch nothing, until my eyelids grow heavy.
Halfway to sleep, Camilla appears behind me, laptop tucked under her arm, glasses sliding down her nose.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Nothing," I say too quickly. "Just… spying on an insect."
She squints at me. "Oh yeah? As if I'm dumb. You probably spotted some hot guy down there and now you're peeping."
I roll my eyes. "You're impossible."
"Come on," she says, already walking toward the bedroom. "Let's sleep. I'm done with today."
I take one last look through the curtain. Then I turn off the light.
In bed, we talk until our voices grow lazy. Camilla tells me about Juan, about something stupid he said that made her laugh. I listen, smiling, pretending there is not a small ache of envy tucked somewhere deep inside me.
Her voice fades. My thoughts do not. Gael's face drifts in uninvited. The way he looks when he is quiet. The way he says my name like it matters. I imagine his fingers brushing mine. His laugh low and warm, meant only for me. Just for a moment, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if things were simpler.
Sleep takes me before I can stop it.
Morning spills softly through the blinds, golden light brushing the edges of my room. I stir beneath the blanket, eyes fluttering open, letting the quiet hum of the city settle into my first breath of the day.
"Mm," Camilla murmurs. "You were snoring."
I open one eye and glare at her. She is already halfway back to sleep, mouth open, completely unbothered.
"It's the weekend," I mumble, pulling the blanket higher.
My phone buzzes. A notification waits. Good night, princessa.
My lips curve before I can stop them. I glance at Camilla. Still asleep. "So much for someone who said I was snoring," I whisper, smirking.
I type quickly: Good morning, sleepy head.
Then I turn off the phone and place it on my desk, heart racing like I have just done something dangerous.
Another buzz. Gabriel. How are you doing? I do not reply. I set the phone down and fall back asleep, smiling at nothing.
Afternoon sunlight spills lazily into the apartment. I wake slowly, warmth on my face dragging me out of a dream I cannot remember. Camilla is curled under the blanket, chest rising and falling in rhythm, eyes shut tight. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant siren.
I stretch, feeling the stiffness of too many hours in bed, and glance at my phone on the desk. Dead. Of course.
I shuffle out of bed, careful not to wake Camilla. She murmurs something incoherent, probably dreaming, and buries her face in the pillow. I smile, a little envious of her ability to sleep so effortlessly.
The phone goes on charge while I tidy up. Plates from last night are still in the sink. I rinse them, wipe the counter, sweep crumbs from the floor. The small apartment smells faintly of yesterday's arepas, fried cheese and warm corn mingling with the faint citrus of soap. I feel grounded in it, in this small domesticity, a comfort I rarely give myself in the chaos of school and work.
By the time the apartment is orderly again, I head to the shower. Hot water hits like a balm. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, warm against my skin. I wash off the remnants of sleep and fatigue.
Stepping out, I wrap myself in a towel and let sunlight highlight the red-flecked skirt I bought last week. I pair it with a simple white top, soft and fitted. Not much, but it feels like me—careful, but willing to be seen. Camilla is still asleep; I tiptoe around her, careful not to disturb the delicate rhythm of her morning.
Phone in hand, I wander into the living room. Notifications flood in. Gael. Photos. Messages. My chest tightens, excitement and caution twisting together.
First photo: Gael, shirtless, arm draped across a pillow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. Text: Can't stop thinking about you.
Next: I'm sorry.
Then: Perdóname. Please… talk to me. (with a crying emoji)
I bite my lip. He's unraveling. I type carefully: Heyy Guapo…
A moment passes. Then: Okay, I forgive you.
I send a picture of myself in the red skirt and white top, sunlight catching my hair. Heart hammering, I wait.
Phone buzzes almost immediately. A call. It's him. But I can't answer—I'm opening Face Time with my family. Mateo, Mila, and my parents flash on the screen, chaotic and warm. Camilla snores softly behind me.
"Where did you go?" Gael texts. I type quickly: On Face Time with my family. Will call you later.
I tuck the phone beside me and let the family chaos sweep me up. Their laughter and arguments ground me. I feel… normal for the first time in days.
The call ends. I curl back on the couch. My phone buzzes again. Gael. "Okay… I'll wait".
Cheeks warm, I lean back, thoughts drifting to him. That photo. Those messages. His voice low, teasing, and somehow vulnerable beneath all that confidence and danger.
A small thrill curls through me. I swipe, tapping the call button. It rings twice before I hear him.
"Finally," he mutters, voice clipped, carrying that quiet edge of annoyance I secretly love.
"Finally," I echo, smirking.
"You've been ignoring me?" His tone teases, but I hear the undercurrent, the worry beneath.
"I've been… busy," I reply, glancing at Camilla, sprawled on the couch with her coffee.
"I don't buy it," he says immediately. "Busy with what? Family? Homework? Or avoiding me?"
I laugh softly. "Maybe a little of everything."
"You know," he says, leaning back—I can almost see the motion through the call—"I think you secretly enjoy making me wait."
"Maybe I do," I murmur. "Maybe I like knowing you'll call anyway."
A silence stretches, charged. I imagine him running a hand through his hair, brow quirking. My stomach warms.
"So," he says finally, "movie night. You free tonight?"
I glance at Camilla, then whisper, "Yes… I mean, I am."
"Good," he replies, almost too quickly. "I'll pick you up. Eight. No excuses."
"I'll hold you to it," I tease, tapping my finger against the edge of the couch.
"Princessa," he murmurs, voice dropping a notch. "Don't test me."
I grin, biting my lip. "I'm not testing you. Just… making sure you're serious."
"I'm always serious about you," he says. The words hit differently than before.
A soft click behind me. Camilla, now fully awake, rubbing her eyes, hair messy, yawning.
The knock comes just as the sunlight fades, shadows stretching across the apartment floor.
I freeze, heart stuttering. Not because I did not expect him, because I did, but because even now, even knowing, it still feels like lightning striking twice in the same place.
"Coming," I call, smoothing my skirt, trying to look casual, though my hands betray me, trembling just slightly.
Gael is at the door before I can make it all the way. His presence fills the narrow hallway, taller than I remember, the scent of something sharp and familiar clinging to him. His eyes find mine immediately, low and unreadable, and the faint curl of a smirk teases the edges of his mouth. "Hola, princessa," he murmurs, leaning just slightly against the frame, not moving in, not yet.
I bite my lip. "Hola," I whisper back, because I am not ready to give more.
He tilts his head, studying me like he wants to memorize the way the light hits my face, the faint pink of my cheeks. "You look dangerous," he says, voice soft but edged with something dark.
"Maybe I am," I reply, shrugging and stepping aside to let him in, though my pulse spikes at the thought of him in my apartment.
Camilla peeks from the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. "Uh, you guys going to stare at each other all night or…"
I shoot her a warning glance. "Camilla."
She smirks and disappears, muttering something about deadlines.
Gael steps fully inside, scanning the apartment. "I like your place," he says, voice quieter now. "It feels warm. Dangerous in a soft way."
I laugh softly. "Dangerous? I do not know if that is a compliment."
"Everything about you is," he mutters, and I cannot tell if he is teasing or serious. The way he watches me makes my chest tighten.
We settle on the couch, plates of snacks between us, the television silent while he waits for me to start the movie. I glance at him, daring a smile. "You sure you can handle scary movies?"
"I can handle you," he says, not even looking at the screen.
The words slide past playful into something sharper. Heat crawls up my spine.
I shove him lightly. "Careful, or I will start thinking you are flustered."
He leans closer, the smallest deliberate movement, eyes dark, voice low. "You think I get flustered?"
"Maybe," I tease, heart hammering. "Maybe I know you too well."
He smiles then, slow and dangerous, a flash of teeth and mischief. "And maybe I like that."
The movie starts, though neither of us is paying attention. I feel his arm brush mine. I do not pull away. I feel him inch just a little closer. I let it happen, dangerous and thrilling, knowing the moment could tip sideways at any second.
A sudden jump in the movie makes me squeak, and he laughs, low and soft, shaking his head at me. "You really are terrified," he says. "Cute."
I poke him in the arm. "Not cute. Alert. And perfectly capable of self preservation."
He laughs again, leaning closer until our shoulders touch. The air between us feels charged, like static before a storm. I can feel the tension in every inch of his presence.
"You should not be here," I murmur, though my voice betrays me, soft and drawn out.
"Why not?" he asks, eyes locking on mine. His hand moves slightly, brushing the edge of mine, almost accidental, almost deliberate. My stomach tightens.
"Because," I start, then swallow, "I do not want to want you like this."
He tilts his head, smirk returning, and whispers, "Then why do you?"
I have no answer.
We sit like that, side by side, flirting and daring each other, the movie forgotten. Every brush of his fingers, every low murmur, every laugh stretches the tension tighter. Dangerous. Electric. The kind of night that feels like it could unravel everything and nothing all at once.
And somewhere deep down, I know nothing about this is going to end gently.
Camilla reappears from the hallway with her laptop tucked under her arm, glasses perched low on her nose, fingers still tapping at the screen like her brain has not caught up with the room yet.
"I forgot my charger," she mutters.
She looks up.
Her typing stops.
Her eyes move from Gael to me. To the way I am sitting too close. To the pause hanging between us like a held breath.
"Oh," she says slowly. "Okay. This feels illegal to witness."
"Camilla," I warn.
She lifts one hand, already backing away. "Not judging. Just acknowledging the very obvious situation." She squints at Gael. "You look like trouble."
Gael smiles politely. It does not soften him. "That is a fair assessment."
Camilla exhales a laugh, shaking her head. "I am going to pretend I did not see this and go back to stressing about deadlines." She points at me. "Text me if you disappear."
She retreats to her room, door closing with deliberate softness.
The quiet settles again.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. "She is dramatic."
"She is observant," Gael replies.
I fold my arms, suddenly aware of my pulse. "You did not have to stay."
"I wanted to."
That simple answer unravels me more than anything dramatic could.
He glances toward the window, then back at me. "Come with me."
"Where."
"For a drive."
I blink. "That is your solution."
"It is not a solution," he says calmly. "It is a pause."
"A pause from what."
He steps closer, not enough to touch, just enough to be felt. "From thinking too much."
I swallow. "Why are you doing this."
The question hangs between us. Heavy. Honest.
For a moment his expression tightens like he might say something dangerous. Something real.
He does not.
Instead he exhales, slow. "Because if I stay here I will forget how careful I am trying to be."
That lands deep.
"This does not mean anything," I say quietly, as if saying it will keep me safe.
He reaches for the door, opening it, the city's night air slipping inside. "I did not say it did."
The hallway feels different when we step into it. Like a line has been crossed without ceremony.
As we walk toward the stairs, my heart beats faster not with fear but with the knowing that this is the kind of night that changes things quietly.
Not with promises. Not with labels. Just with proximity.
And I follow him anyway.
The car hums to life beneath us, low and restrained, like it is holding something back. Gael drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gearshift. He does not rush. He never does. Barcelona slides past the windows in streaks of amber and shadow, streetlights blurring into something almost cinematic.
He does not ask where I want to go.
That should bother me but it does not.
Music plays low in the background, something steady, almost forgettable. The car moves through traffic, lights flashing past the windows in uneven bursts. I catch our reflections briefly in the glass, blurred and shifting, then they're gone. We don't talk much. The quiet isn't awkward, just heavy in a way that makes me more aware of how close we are sharing the same space.
You are quiet," he says.
"I am thinking."
"Dangerous habit," he replies, almost gently.
I huff a small laugh. "Says the man who dragged me out for a night drive to avoid thinking."
He glances at me then, just briefly. His eyes catch the light and let it go. "I said to pause. Not to escape."
We stop at a red light. His foot eases off the accelerator. The car idles. The silence thickens.
"Do you do this often," I ask, softer now. "Disappear into the night."
He considers it. "Only when I cannot sit still."
"And tonight."
"Tonight counts."
The light turns green. We move again.
The city thins as we climb, streets narrowing, noise falling away. The air feels cooler here. Cleaner. My shoulders relax without permission.
"You make it look easy," I say. "Being calm."
He lets out a breath through his nose. "That is because you are only seeing the surface."
I turn to him fully now. "And what is underneath."
His jaw tightens. The road curves. He follows it with quiet precision.
"Things I do not invite people into," he says.
The honesty in that sends a small shiver through me.
"Then why invite me."
He does not answer right away. The car slows near an overlook, the city spread out below us like something fragile and glowing. He parks. Turns off the engine.
The silence rushes in.
He finally looks at me. Really looks. Not guarded. Not distant. Something closer to tired.
"Because you do not ask for more than I can give," he says. "And that makes me want to give anyway."
My chest tightens, not painfully but dangerously.
"That sounds like a warning," I whisper.
"It is."
We sit there, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin space between us. His presence presses in, heavy and deliberate. He still does not touch me. That restraint feels crueler than anything else.
"I should go home," I say, the words barely audible.
"Yes," he agrees.
Neither of us moves.
The city breathes below us, lights flickering like something alive. The night wraps around the car, sealing us inside its quiet. Somewhere deep inside me, instinct whispers that this is not something safe or clean.
It is a slow collision.
I turn toward him first.
The movement is small. Intentional. My knee brushes his. I feel his breath hitch. His control slips just enough for me to notice.
Gael's hand comes to my thigh, slow and careful, as if he is asking permission with every inch. His fingers rest there, warm and grounding, then slide upward just slightly. Not enough to cross a line. Enough to make my pulse spike.
"Gael," I breathe.
He leans in. His forehead rests against mine. I can feel his restraint trembling under his skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
I do not.
His lips meet mine softly at first, almost reverent. The kiss is slow, searching, like he is learning me instead of taking me. My hand finds his jaw, my thumb brushing the edge of his mouth without thinking.
The second kiss is deeper. Hungrier. The kind that steals air and thought. His hand tightens on my thigh, fingers pressing in, sending heat rushing through me. I lean into it, wanting more, wanting him closer.
Too close.
He pulls back suddenly.
We are both breathing hard now, eyes locked, the space between us charged. His hand slips away from my thigh, resting back on his own knee like a promise withdrawn.
"If I do not stop now," he says quietly, "I will not be gentle."
The words send a shiver straight through me.
My lips still burn from his.
Neither of us smiles.
We just look at each other, knowing exactly what we almost crossed and how badly we both wanted to.
The engine remains off.
The city keeps breathing.