You were used to Javier’s teasing—his crooked smirks, the glint in his eye when he tossed a clever remark your way. He was quick with his words, always armed with something sharp, something charming. It became a rhythm between you, the playful back-and-forth that lit up even the dullest days on the trail.

But sometimes, when the fire burned low and the rest of the camp had gone quiet, his tone shifted. He’d say it then—querida. Soft, slow, like the word was sacred. The way it curled off his tongue, low and honeyed, always made your breath hitch. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t casual. It was careful. Intimate. Real.

And every time, without fail, he’d look at you like he meant it. Like he’d been meaning it for far longer than he’d ever admit. His gaze lingered—dark, molten, and tender—and in it, you saw all the things he didn’t say out loud. And maybe didn’t have to.