Alejandra and Callum had stayed at her grandparents’ house in Sevilla, the one Carlos and she had inherited when they died, and her family was going to join for the night. It had been nice—more than nice—to have Callum step into a part of her life she hadn’t quite shown him yet. Her Spanish roots were important to her, but even more so were her Andalusian ones—her mother’s family from Conil, her father’s from Sevilla. The rhythm, the chaos, the loud love. All of it.
Before telling them the truth, she wanted a few more minutes alone with him. Just a few. Before everything shifted. Before she had to say out loud what had been sitting, heavy and suffocating, inside her chest.
“It’s Sevilla. Nothing is normal here.” She smirked, gesturing at the people walking by in polka dots, ruffles, and high heels in the middle of the day, sweat beading on their necks. “Tonight you’ll see the best of it.”
“Why is it called Feria of April, when it’s May?” Callum asked, fanning his face.
“It’s because it follows the Holy Week, and since it changes every year, it may happen that it ends at the beginning of May.”
She couldn’t wait to show him the madness, the music, the lights of the Feria de Abril.
“Do I really have to wear a suit?” he grumbled. “I’m already sweating through this shirt. I thought I had left my suits in Lamina’s office.”
Alejandra chuckled. “If you want to see me in one of those dresses,” she pointed to the many girls walking with their stunning trajes, fabric clinging and flowing at the same time, “you’re wearing thesuit. We’ll sweat together with rebujito, don’t worry, cariño.”
He groaned but smiled, shaking his head, just as a familiar voice called out her name across the street.
Her parents were waving animatedly, shouting for her and Callum, while Carlos trailed behind them, looking absolutely mortified to be part of such a scene. That sight alone made something warm twist in her chest. She had missed this. More than she had admitted, even to herself.
“Here they are.” Alejandra chuckled, stepping forward to meet them.
They wrapped her in a sweaty, emotional hug, then turned to Callum and pulled him into the same kind of affection without hesitation. He was part of the family now—she had told them what had happened, what they meant to each other. And they genuinely seemed to like him. Maybe even love him already.
“Qué guapa estás, hija,” her father declared, as always. If she had the confidence she did, it was thanks to him. Since she was a kid, he had never ceased to tell her how gorgeous she was—even when she clearly wasn’t.
“Y tú, qué guapo, madre mía,” her mother said, immediately hanging onto Callum’s arm. “Very gorgeous,” she repeated in English, just in case.
Carlos chuckled next to her, wrapping her in a strong hug that almost lifted her off the ground. “I missed you, gremlin.”
“Missed you too.” She looked up at him. “How do you feel?”
“You ask me? I’m not the one who dove to save a grandpa.” He grinned. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Good.”
That question caught her parents’ attention immediately, who were in the middle of interrogating Callum about everything—from his job to whether he liked Spanish food—and they turnedto her at once, firing questions over each other. It was chaos. Pure, loud, overlapping chaos.
Her parents talking at the same time, her trying to answer both, Carlos sighing like he wanted to dig himself a grave right there on the pavement. Callum watched them, clearly amused, as she threw him a sheepish smile.
That was the López Romero way. Loud, messy, overwhelming, and full of love.
Alejandra told them about the doctor’s appointment. More recovery. More time. More patience.
“Have you been doing the strengthening exercises I told you about?” Carlos asked, instantly switching to trainer mode.
“Yes, never missed a day.”
Every morning, wherever she was—London or Aberystwyth—before Callum woke up, she had her two hours of recovery. No exceptions. At the end of the day, she was still an athlete.
“I really need to talk to you before prepping everything for the Feria tonight. Can we just grab a coffee before we go get ready?”
The three of them exchanged a glance. Carlos studied her with that older-brother look—the one that saw too much, too fast.
“I’ll go start getting ready,” Callum offered softly. “I’ll wait for you in the house so you can talk freely.”
She nodded, gave him the keys, kissed him goodbye, and watched as he disappeared toward their grandparents’ house.
The four of them crossed the street to a nearby café, settling at a shady table under an awning that barely protected them from the heat. Everyone ordered iced café con leche, condensation already forming on the glasses before they even touched them.
