You didn’t follow him back at first.

It wasn’t personal. You got tagged in a hundred things a day — stylists, designers, behind-the-scenes reels, and the occasional musician trying to flirt through lyrics. So when you saw the verified name: @JavierEscuellaMusic, it didn’t even register. Just another artist with a guitar and a fanbase.

But he didn’t react to your stories. Didn’t comment. Just waited a full two weeks after following you, and then sent:

“You’re in Madrid this week, right? I know a place that doesn’t care about cameras.”

It wasn’t pushy. Wasn’t thirsty. Just… smooth. Like he already knew you’d see it. Like he had no doubt you’d answer — eventually.

And after scrolling through his profile — dusty concert footage, moody black-and-white stills, and videos of him singing in smoky backrooms with his sleeves rolled up and eyes half-closed — you did.

You answered.

“Depends who’s asking.”

Now you’re three hours into dinner at a candlelit tapas bar, tucked in a private courtyard far from the street. He’s nothing like the tabloids say — quieter, cleverer, and painfully charming. His accent curls through every word like it was dipped in red wine, and every time he smiles at you, it feels like a secret.

You don’t know where this is going — but when he offers you a bite of dessert from his fork and says, “I was hoping you’d look at me like that,” you realize maybe you want to find out.