“Listen,” I say between gasps, trying to regain composure. “Juan’s my friend. He loves making ice cream for me and puts everything into it. When I first came to Barcelona, this was the first flavor I dared to taste.”
It’s the truth. I’d been craving something out of the ordinary, and when I first saw the stall, I reached for the most absurd flavor I could find. And, against all odds, it had exceeded every expectation I’d had.
Dante’s eyes twinkle with hesitation, then determination. Slowly and deliberately, he scoops a small portion of ice cream, letting it hover for a moment before tasting it. My stomach twists in anticipation, excitement roaring through me in a way I haven’t felt in years. I watch him, silently pleading for a reaction—a small sign that he likes it. It’s ridiculous, but somehow it feels monumental.
The way I feel for him doesn’t fit any ordinary mold, doesn’t bend to explanation. For some time, we were just partners in crime, sharing glances that spoke of pragmatism and planning. And then, without a warning, something shifted. Our eyes suddenly became X-rays, reading straight through each other, exposing truths neither of us could hide.
All the cracks, all the jagged, bloody pieces. And neither of us looks away.
We just…fit. At least to each other. The outside world’s judgments don’t matter here. Not when we’ve built our own reality, a world stitched together from scars and quiet understandings.
A strange, warm satisfaction blooms in me as I look at him, realizing he’s finally distracted. We’ve spent an entire week indoors—cooking, eating, kissing, talking, pleasing each other—and neither of us could pull back. It feels like a glacier has cracked, the tension snapping at last, and now we can take and give to each other without hesitation. Only to take back, harder, in an endless cycle.
“It’s…” he trails off, prolonging the pause deliberately. I can practically feel his smug awareness of my burning curiosity.
His eyes meet mine as his tongue darts out, licking the remnants of ice cream from his lips. The motion ignites a heat low in my stomach, curiosity momentarily taking a backseat.
Damn him.
“Delicious,” he finally admits, scooping another portion before shoving it into his mouth, nodding with approval.
A smile spreads across my face, but a glimmer of suspicion soon creeps in, so I tilt my head. “Are you saying that because you actually like it, or because you don’t want to upset me?”
He pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking quickly to mine before returning to the road ahead. “I’m enjoying it…andI don’t want to upset you,” he deflects smoothly. “Does that count?”
My smile falters, threatening to crumble entirely. Amusement simmers beneath the surface, but I clamp it down. “Uh, Dante… no!”
He stops in his tracks, forcing me to halt as well. Slowly, he turns toward me, the vein along his neck pulsing as he moves. Instinctively, I bite my lower lip, feeling a faint electric buzz crawling under my skin.
Dante takes another scoop, stepping closer. My lips part, caught between curiosity and caution, unsure of his next move. He lifts the small spoon of ice cream and presses it against my upper lip. A shiver races through me as the icy cold spreads across my skin, then he drags it to the side, smearing it chaotically, forcing me to lean in, caught in the small, intimate act.
The air between us hums with tension—electric, sharp—a wildfire ready to ignite. Our chemistry is alive, a dynamite that burns everything in its radius, sparks licking at my skin, teasing, relentless.
Dante leans in, his lips drawn to mine like a magnet. When they meet, it’s soft, delicate—a whispering kiss that sends tingles cascading down my spine. A weak moan escapes me, and his tongue flicks out, teasing, tasting the ice cream smeared along my lips.
The world could shatter around us, collapse into smoke and ash, and I wouldn’t notice a thing. All I can feel and care about is him, the heat of him, the softness of him, the way he’s here, grounding and consuming at once.
I can feel eyes on us, curious glances trying to pry into our intimate moment—but I don’t care. Everyone else melts into a grey blur while the main splash of color presses so close to me, drinking me in, absorbing all of me.
When he pulls back, my chest tightens, a whimper threatening to escape as need blossoms in its wild, uncontrolled way. But he gives me nothing—only the faint, lingering taste of ash on my tongue before his lips drift upward, brushing the curve of my nose in a teasing, intimate gesture.
“I’ll enjoy anything if you let me taste it like this,” he murmurs, voice teasing, vibrating across my skin.
My hand finds the collar of his black shirt, gripping and pulling him closer, and I can’t stop the soft smile that curls onmy lips. “You are so adorable,” I whisper, a laugh maneuvering through my words.
I kiss him quickly, just once, before retreating, turning my attention back to my ice cream. I scoop a generous bite into my mouth, but the sweetness falls flat—empty and dull against the memory of his lips.
All the sweet things in the world pale in comparison, tasting like nothing next to the fire, warmth, and delicious aftertaste he leaves behind.
By the timewe select our costumes and have them carefully packed, the hunger coiling inside me has twisted tighter, pushing me to the brink. This store has always been the sanctuary of the extraordinary—the finest fabrics, the most precise cuts, the highest quality.
And that is the problem. I crave something I don’t yet possess, something that will catch the light and hold it in its folds.
The floors beneath my feet shift between soft, cushioned carpet in one corner and polished stone in another, yet no step echoes. The store is quiet—there is no rush, no bustle, only the slow, controlled movements of the associates, whose footsteps skim the surface almost without sound.
It’s why I love this place. The women’s section is gentle and considered—pale ivory upholstery, marble surfaces veined with warm amber, clothing arranged like art in a gallery. Dresses hang from sculptural rails, each curve and fold showcased without crowding, each piece given space to breathe, a single garment per arm’s length.
The workers always leave their customers alone, allowing the comfort of choice—the space to decide without intrusion. I can’t stand it when someone buzzes around me, pressing questions I’m not ready to answer. I never know what I want until I see it.
