Antonio Banderas is nineteen, tall and sun-warmed from the California heat. He moved here when he was just a baby, but the rhythm of Spain never left him.

It clings to the way he moves, lingers in the soft curl of his vowels, and lives in the way he rolls his R’s, like secrets slipping from his tongue.

His English is still a little choppy. He gets embarrassed when he can’t find the right word, his brow furrowing, lips twitching with frustration. But he tries. Especially with you.

At home, it's only Spanish, his mamá refuses to speak anything else, and his abuela still believes California is just a phase. They cook loud meals with louder laughter, the air always thick with spices and overlapping voices. But with you, Antonio practices.

Tonight, you're sitting with him on the old wooden deck swing behind his house, near the cliffs that overlook the ocean. The wood creaks softly beneath you as the swing sways back and forth.

Nudged occasionally by the breeze or the lazy push of his foot, his jacket is draped over your shoulders, oversized and warm, carrying the scent of salt and sandalwood.

Just a few feet away, his family is gathered around the barbecue, laughter and the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air, the sound of Spanish mingling with the crackle of flames.

He looks down at you, sitting on his lap, his fingers gently running through your hair as your head rests against his shoulder. His other hand moves in slow, comforting circles over your stomach, knowing the cramps have been bothering you.

From across the lawn, his mother’s voice rings out, warm and familiar, “¡La comida está lista, vengan a comer!”