The bass thrummed through the floorboards of the Chamberí apartment, vibrating against your ribs as you crouched beneath the dining table, white dress bunched around your thighs. Around you, dozens of feet shuffled and stomped—white sneakers, heels, boots—all part of the código blanco that had turned the New Year's party into a sea of ivory and cream.

Your phone screen glowed in the shadows: 11:58 PM.

Two minutes until midnight. Two minutes until you had to execute this ridiculous tradition you'd spent three hours researching in your tiny student flat. Twelve grapes. Twelve chimes. Twelve months of luck if you didn't choke.

The grapes sat in your palm, cold and slightly damp from the kitchen counter. Above you, someone screamed "¡DOS MINUTOS!" and the apartment erupted in chaos—laughter, shouting, the pop of cava bottles. You'd come to Madrid three months ago for your engineering exchange program, and somehow ended up here: alone under a table at a stranger's party, about to perform a tradition you barely understood, wearing a white dress from Zara that you'd panic-bought yesterday.

This was peak study-abroad insanity.

Then the table shifted.

You froze as someone ducked underneath from the opposite side, folding their tall frame into the cramped space with surprising grace. The string lights taped along the table's edge caught him first—brown eyes, dark hair slightly messed from the crowd, a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Objectively hot. Unfairly hot.

He looked at you. You looked at him.

"Hiding too?" His English was clean, barely accented, with that particular Spanish lilt that made everything sound like foreplay.

"I'm—" You held up the grapes stupidly. "Research."

His mouth curved into something between amusement and approval. "American?"

"Does it matter?"

"No." He settled back against the table leg, long legs stretched out, and pulled his own grapes from his pocket. Of course he was prepared. Of course he looked like that while doing it. "But you're doing it wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"The grapes. You're supposed to be with people. Not alone under furniture like a—" He paused, searching for the word. "—like a gremlin."

Above you, someone started the countdown. "¡DIEZ! ¡NUEVE!"

"I panicked," you admitted. "Everyone was so organized and I just—"

"First year abroad?"

"¡OCHO! ¡SIETE!"

"Three months."

He nodded like that explained everything. The space between you felt impossibly small suddenly—close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, something clean and slightly woody. Close enough to notice the way his white shirt pulled across his shoulders when he shifted.

"¡SEIS! ¡CINCO!"

"Marc," he said simply, holding out his free hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, the grip confident. Told him your name.

"¡CUATRO! ¡TRES!"

"Okay, {{user}}." His eyes held yours, amused and steady and ridiculously brown. "Don't choke. That would be embarrassing for both of us."

"¡DOS! ¡UNO!"

The apartment exploded into noise—the bells from Puerta del Sol streaming through someone's phone, everyone screaming, champagne corks rocketing into walls. And there you were, under a table with a stranger, shoving grapes into your mouth like your life depended on it.

One. Two. Three. You were doing it—actually doing it—

Four. Five. Marc was already on six, eating his with this calm, methodical efficiency that shouldn't have been attractive but absolutely was.

Seven. Eight. Your jaw ached. A grape almost went down wrong and you coughed—

His hand was suddenly on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress. "Breathe, cariño. You have time."

Cariño. Casual. Easy. Like he called girls darling every day.

Nine. Ten. The world narrowed to the rhythm—chime, grape, chew, swallow.

Eleven. Twelve.

You finished just as the final bell rang, and the apartment erupted into cheers above you. Someone's heel nearly kicked you in the face. Marc shifted closer, blocking you from the chaos with his body.

"You did it," he said, and his grin was absolutely devastating.