I nod, already warm again—though I’m not sure how much of that is the sun.
Our next stop is the market. It is a riot of color and sound—bright woven fabrics strung like flags overhead, the air thick with the smell of fresh tortillas and sizzling meat. Vendors call out in Spanish, offering bracelets, carved wooden animals, piles of mangos and limes that gleam in the sun.
My hair is still damp from the cenote, sandals clicking on the uneven cobblestones as I trail after Ash. He’s completely in his element—laughing with vendors, tasting roasted nuts, pointing things out like it’s his mission to make sure I don’t miss a thing.
We stop when we hear a street musician under a palm-fringed tarp, battered case open at his feet, hand-painted sign reading:Gracias por apoyar la música.He’s playingSabor a Mí,notes clean, rhythm swaying with the heat. His voice is sugared smoke.
Ash shifts the way he does when music gets into his bones. “It’s in G,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. My hand tugs him closer.
We join the little semicircle of listeners—kids with melting paletas, a couple in matching hats, a grandmother with the sharpest elbows in Mexico. The guitarist looks up and smiles, wrinkle-fans at his eyes saying he’s done this a thousand afternoons and still loves it.
Ash’s thumb rubs over my knuckles as he leans down, mouth close to my ear so I can hear him over the market’s warm hum. “He’s swapping the turnaround,” he whispers, delighted. “Listen—he’s going to hang on the four and then dive.”
We listen. The guitarist does exactly that. It’s both unexpected and inevitable—the way music is supposed to feel, I’m learning. Ash beams like a kid who guessed the twist in a magic trick.
The song ends. Applause stutters, then gathers. The musician’s smile deepens; he nods, hand over his heart.
Ash pulls out his wallet and drops a bill into the case with a soft thwap. I glimpse the portrait before it disappears.
“Ash,” I hiss. “That’s—”
“—fine,” he cuts in, already flushing, guilty but not sorry. “He’s good. Like… good good.”
The guitarist blinks down, then back up at us. For a second I’m worried we’ve made it awkward. Then he laughs—quick, delighted—and calls something I don’t catch. The grandmother with the sharp elbows translates without being asked: “He say, felicidades. Honeymoon?”
I open my mouth to protest—we’re not honeymooning, we’re… whatever this is—but Ash beats me to it with a sheepish little bow that makes the crowd coo. The guitarist grins and, with a flourish, slides straight intoBésame Mucho,dedicating it tolosesposos.
Okay, fine. When in Tulum, accept your fate. We stay for three songs.
The next stall drips with dresses—soft cotton and linen in every shade from seafoam to crimson. Ash brushes his fingers over a pale coral one, thin straps and a skirt that looks like it would flutter if you so much as breathed on it.
“This one,” he says, holding it up against me. “You have to try it.”
I laugh. “It’s cute, but—”
“No buts. Go.” He’s already gesturing to the tiny curtained space at the side of the stall. “Humor me.”
The dressing space is barely wide enough to turn around in, but the dress is light and airy against my skin. I smooth it down, take a breath, and step out.
Ash’s reaction is immediate. His jaw drops, then snaps shut like he’s caught himself. His gaze sweeps over me once—slow, deliberate—and I swear I feel it in places the tropical heat has nothing to do with.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “That’s the one.”
“It’s just a dress,” I protest weakly, tugging at the hem.
“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” he counters, pulling out his wallet before I can stop him. “It’s for my viewing pleasure.”
“Ash—”
“Too late. I’m buying it.”
And just like that, it’s mine. He hands the vendor cash, tucks the receipt away, and grins at me like he’s just won something.
I end up wearing the dress for the rest of the day, the light fabric swishing around my knees as we wander from stall to stall. Every time I glance at Ash, I catch him watching me—eyes dark, mouth curved in the kind of smile that makes my pulse jump.
It’s both distracting and… exhilarating.
We stop at a table stacked high with hand-painted ceramics, and the vendor—a man in his thirties with an easy smile and mischievous eyes—immediately zeroes in on me. “Bella,” he says, sliding a bowl toward me, “this one is as beautiful as you.”
