I lift my glass of wine and take a sip as the day folds around us, smooth and heavy like silk. The bitter taste washes over my tongue, lingering for a heartbeat before I swallow. My hand tightens around the glass, holding it close as if performing some quiet, private ritual. I raise it to my lips again, the liquid sliding down with familiar warmth.
Then another sip, letting the taste linger a heartbeat longer than necessary. Around me, the world softens at the edges, blurring into a watercolor of city lights and evening shadows. Dante, the streets, the murmuring life of Barcelona—all of it begins to slip through my fingers, drifting away like smoke curling into the night air, untouchable and fleeting.
I can feel how bad this is for my body—chugging alcohol on an almost empty stomach, if you don’t count the ice cream and the lollipop—but I hate that Dante is still in my head. Evensurrounded by all these shiny distractions, my thoughts keep drifting back tohim.
I set the glass on the table and motion desperately to the waitress. She doesn’t see me at first, so I shift in my chair, lifting myself, and in my clumsiness, the glass slips.
I can only watch, stunned, as it slides toward the edge of the table, before a hand wraps around it, catching it mid-fall. For a moment, I freeze, a thought struggling to break through the fog in my brain.
It feels like something is trying to warn me, but I refuse to let it in.
“Nice reflexes,” I mumble, plopping back into my chair. I feel the eyes on me and glance sideways, meeting concerned stares from nearby diners. My face twists into a demanding grimace as I silently dare them to say anything. Ashamed, they retreat into their food and idle chatter.
“Thank you,” Dante murmurs, carefully setting the glass back on the table.
A shadow drifts across my face, sharp and sudden, and I flinch, my heart leaping in my chest before I register who it is—the confused, slightly wary waitress hovering at the edge of our table. I lean back in my chair, creating space for her to pour more wine. Tension coils in my chest, and I know that if I let myself start feeling strange, my thoughts will spiral, tumbling into places I don’t want to go, and I’ll have to chase them away, numb them with something—anything—before it’s too late.
“I always dreamed of having one,” Dante says, his voice low, a thread of melancholy weaving through it. I lift a questioning brow, and he nods toward a nearby table.
I follow his gaze, catching a man—probably the father—who sets down what looks like a vinyl player on the table. The boy across from him vibrates with excitement, hands hovering,ready to snatch it the instant he can. The way he leans forward, coiled and jittering, makes my skin itch.
Everyone else sees innocence, a soft warmth radiating from him. I see something else—greed, unpolished and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t even bother to hide it. I can already picture him in a few days: bored, abandoning it without a second thought, leaving it to gather dust and disappointment.
Some children are given far too much of what they don’t deserve, while others—always others—are left with nothing, starved of what should have been theirs.
“You mean a vinyl player?” I ask, forcing the violent thoughts out of my head. My hand slides under the table, curling into a fist. My nails bite into my palm, sending sharp, electric pricks shooting up my arm—a fleeting sting that clears my mind for just a brief moment.
“Correct,” Dante responds. “Have you ever had one?”
I snap back to him, watching the way his head tilts, curiosity burning in his eyes. Dark hair falls messily across his forehead as he runs a hand over his beard. The movement is casual, yet somehow intimate.
My gaze lingers longer than it should, noting the surprisingly fast growth of his facial hair, the curve of his jaw, the tilt of his shoulders. Time seems to slow, leaving just us and the quiet tension humming between sips of wine and the distant laughter of a family who has no idea they are being watched.
“You look better like this.” The words slip out before I can stop them—born from the alcohol and whatever thin edge of instability I’m riding. I reach up, my index finger tracing the shape of his mouth and chin in the air. “With a full beard.”
He blinks, his brows knitting together in confusion, and he makes a half-hearted move to turn away—but it’s too late. I’ve already seen it: the flush that blooms across his cheeks, sudden and bright, like a quick heat stain spreading across his skin. Helooks mortified, exposed in a way that feels almost naked, and for some inexplicable reason, the sight tugs a small, reluctant smile across my lips.
“And yes, I have one,” I add. “A vinyl player. Hundreds of records.”
As if on cue, the waitress glides toward our table, balancing the plates with practiced ease. Dante’s patatas bravas arrive, golden and crispy, crowned with delicate shards of jamón, while I’m presented with a steaming pan of paella, its saffron-infused aroma curling into the air and stealing my focus. No matter how many dishes I try, this one will always hold a special place—forever my favorite, a familiar comfort that anchors me amid the swirl of flavors.
“Gracias,” Dante says to the waitress, a soft smile touching his mouth.
Her fingers brush his as she hands him the plate. He doesn’t even seem to notice—but I fucking do. Then she straightens, and I watch her walk away, her hips swaying a little too deliberately, an offering disguised as simple motion.
My jaw tightens, muscles coiling as a sudden spark of anger shoots through me, sharp and electric, igniting a flare that travels from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my fingers.
“Why were you being so nice to her?” I ask, the disgust in my voice low and dangerous. The fork in my hand catches the hanging bulbs’ light, and I grip it until my knuckles blanch.
I’ve killed with less.
“Why not?” he asks calmly, a slight confusion brewing beneath the surface. “She’s on her feet all day. It’s a shit job.”
“Not unless she’s angling for your tip,” I snap, eyes catching the waitress as she looks back at our table, particularly at Dante, who’s still clueless. “Bothof them,” I add sharply.
He chuckles, brushing off my irritation like it’s nothing as he digs into his plate. “I didn’t notice that. And why? Are youjealous?”
I snort before I can stop it, but my muscles remain tight. “Oh, please. I just don’t want you being distracted and becoming a rag, that’s all.”
