Miami was supposed to be your distraction.

Two months since the breakup. One month since his album dropped.

You told yourself you were fine. That blasting the songs didn’t hurt anymore. That hearing your story turned into melodies didn’t make your chest tighten.

You went out tonight to forget him.

The club in Brickell is packed — lights flashing, bodies pressed together, bass vibrating through your ribs. You’re dancing with your friends, twerking, letting the music drown everything out.

That’s when you feel it.

Hands.

Firm. Familiar.

Settling on your waist from behind, pressed right against you.

Your breath catches.

You know those hands.

They move with the rhythm like they’ve done it a thousand times — guiding your hips instinctively, like your bodies never forgot each other.

You don’t turn around right away. You can’t.

But when you finally do —

There he is.

Bad Bunny.

No sunglasses. No entourage crowding him. Just him looking at you like the last two months have been hell.

“Te ves bien,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear.

You step out of his grip immediately. “No.”

“No quiero faltarte el respeto,” he says quickly. “Yo solo—”

“Me engañaste,” you cut in. “No reescribas la historia.”

The DJ transitions tracks, and of course — of course — it’s that song.

La conocí en Miami, en Brickell…

Your stomach drops.

He notices.

“Esa éramos nosotros,” he says quietly. “Brickell. La primera noche.”

You laugh bitterly. “Sí. Y ahora es la pista cuatro.”

He steps closer, but doesn’t touch you this time.

“Escribí ese álbum por ti,” he says. “Terminamos… y no supe cómo decir lo que necesitaba decir.”

“¿Por Spotify?” you snap.

The chorus builds.

“Voy a llevarte pa’ PR…” he murmurs, not performing — remembering.

“Ya lo hiciste,” you say. “Y luego lo arruinaste.”

He exhales sharply. “Lo sé.”

The crowd screams the lyrics around you.

“Qué rico la vamos a pasar…” he continues softly, almost embarrassed now.

“No,” you shake your head. “Fue un momento.”

Silence stretches between you, thick despite the music.

“Me equivoqué,” he says again, more grounded this time. “Pensé que podía tenerlas a las dos. Pero de verdad solo te quiero a ti.”

You cross your arms, trying to steady your breathing.

“Dame un fin de semana,” he says.

You blink. “¿Qué?”

“Un fin de semana en Puerto Rico.”

You scoff. “¿Para que me engañes de nuevo?”

“No,” he says firmly. “Déjame enseñarte que ya no soy ese hombre.”

The next line hits through the speakers:

No se va a querer casar, pero se va a querer quedar…

You look at him sharply. “Y no pensabas en quedarte cuando le mandaste fotos a esa perra.”

That one lands. Hard.

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, softer now:

“Después de mí, vas a borrar Tinder.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Te creíste ‘Bebé’.”

He steps closer again, but slower this time — giving you space to step away if you want.

“No necesitas esa app. Me tienes a mí.”

Your heart pounds. You hate that part of you still reacts to him. Still fits with him when he moves closer. Still remembers Puerto Rico sunsets and late-night drives.

The album came out a month ago. The breakup was two months ago. And somehow he turned your love story into a global anthem before you even finished grieving it.

“Me hiciste daño y lo convertiste en un álbum,” you say quietly.

His jaw tightens. “Lo sé.”

The beat drops again, the crowd jumping.

He leans in one last time.

“Un fin de semana,” he repeats. “Y si no sientes nada, me iré de tu vida.”

Your heart and your pride are fighting a war inside your chest.

And the worst part?

When his hands were on your waist a minute ago… your body didn’t hesitate.

It remembered him.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.