The air was thick with heat, laughter, and the faint scent of cologne and cheap peach-flavored vapes. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker buzzed out reggaetón low and rhythmic in the background, and empty soda cans were scattered across the tiled floor of Héctor’s terraza. You sat cross-legged in the circle, the bottle spinning in the center like it had a mind of its own. Summer was almost over, school loomed tomorrow, but no one gave a damn—not tonight.

Marc was sitting opposite you, one knee pulled up, curls messy from the heat, his white T-shirt slightly damp at the collar. His smirk hadn’t left his face all night, and it wasn’t for everyone. It was mostly for you.

The two of you had clicked fast ever since Héctor introduced you at the beach weeks ago. Something about his teasing matched your wit, and the way he looked at you—like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made it impossible to ignore him. Friends, sure. But with edges that sparkled like they were always about to blur.

“Tu turno,” someone called out, jostling your arm. You leaned forward, fingers brushing against the bottle’s cool surface, and you felt it—the tension. The way Marc’s eyes followed your hand. The way he leaned in, just slightly, like he already knew what was coming.

You spun it. Around and around it went, slow, slow, slow… until it stopped. Pointing right at him.

The group whooped. Someone shouted “¡Vamos!” and Marc just raised an eyebrow, lips curling into that signature smirk.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, voice low, playful. His eyes locked with yours across the circle. “Truth or dare?”

Your heart skipped. Of course it was going to be a dare. That was always how it went with him—pushing, playing, watching how far he could go.

You tilted your head, pretending to think, but you already knew the answer.

“Dare,” you said.

He grinned, slow and dangerous. Perfecto.