"It has a full roll of film in it."
Without thinking, I lift the camera and snap a photo of him standing there in the Spanish sunlight, surrounded by market sounds and the scent of fresh herbs.
"Don't waste the film," he says, but he's smiling.
"It's not a waste," I reply, and something in my voice makes his expression shift, grow more serious.
Most afternoons are spentwith Nate playing guitar, sitting on the terrace while I read nearby.His fingers move across the strings with newfound confidence, no longer the hesitant fumbling I remember.Some songs I recognize—melodies that used to stumble and fracture now flowing like water finding its course, others are new.
It's rare, you know, watching someone fall in love with something so completely that it becomes indistinguishable from who they are.
The music isn't something he plays anymore; it's something he speaks, something that flows through him like blood through veins.
"So, I have this idea," he says suddenly, his fingers pausing mid-chord."It's just an idea."
I close my book, giving him my full attention.
"All things start with an idea.Tell me."
He sets the guitar aside, running both hands through his hair in that gesture that betrays his nervousness.
"I've been thinking about opening a studio space—either here or back home.Somewhere musicians could come and let music be the rehab they need.A retreat for singer-songwriters and bands, completely free from drugs and alcohol, where they could create music without distraction.Like..."He struggles for the words.
"Like what Javier did for me, but through music."
He waves dismissively, already retreating from the vulnerability of sharing.
"It's probably nothing.Just a stupid?—"
"Stop."I shift from my chair to sit cross-legged directly in front of him on the stone terrace, close enough that our knees almost touch.
"Ideas, especially the ones you can't seem to let go of, need attention.This sounds like one of those ideas that could take you places you never even dreamed of going."
We're so close now that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, can smell his familiar scent mixed with Spanish sunshine and guitar wood.
“You should seriously look into it.”
His gaze move from mine to my lips and for a split second, I convince myself he’s going to kiss me.My pulse quickens, and I notice the way his breathing has shifted, becoming more careful.
His eyes snap back to mine, and the air between us crackles with the weight of everything we're not saying.
"You think I should do it?"His voice is quieter now, more uncertain.
"I think you should."
The words come out more breathless than I intended, and I watch something shift in his expression—hope mixing with something darker, more complicated.
The moment stretches between us like a held breath, full of possibility and danger.I'm acutely aware of how easy it would be to lean forward, to close the distance that's both too much and not nearly enough.
His eyes are doing that thing they used to do, looking at me like I'm the centre of his world.
I clear my throat and lean back, breaking the spell.He looks away too, running a hand through his hair again.
"Javier wants to do dinner tonight," he says, his voice carefully casual."I may have let it slip that it's your birthday tomorrow."
"Nate—"
“And I have a surprise for you," he says, running his hand through his hair—that gesture unchanged despite everything else that's shifted."After dinner, we're going out."
