You and Pau had been inseparable since you were kids. Neighborhood bikes and scraped knees turned into late-night drives and inside jokes no one else understood. He was older, but it never mattered—not until it started to. Not until your jokes got flirtier, your glances lingered longer, and neither of you dared to talk about how the air between you felt heavier, charged, real.

You were always close. Always almost something. He’d pull you onto the couch with him when you came over, arm tossed around your shoulders like it meant nothing, like his thumb wasn’t tracing soft lines over your skin. You’d steal his hoodies. He’d pretend to be annoyed. You’d fall asleep on him during movies, legs tangled, breath slow against his neck—and he’d stay still the whole time. Like he didn’t want to break the spell.

Then came his eighteenth birthday.

The guys went all out—club, lights, drinks, music loud enough to drown thought. You weren’t a dancer, but they joked about it. And maybe it was the beat or the drinks or just the way he hadn’t looked at anyone but you all night, like he always did, like he couldn’t help it.

You said, “Watch this,” smirking as you stood up. His friends didn’t even question it.

Pau was slouched back in the booth, black tee tight across his chest, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest, curls a mess from running his hands through them all night. But when he saw you step into the spotlight, his body straightened. Subtle. Controlled. Like instinct.

You didn’t laugh. Not once.

You sauntered over—slow, confident, dangerous. And when you stopped in front of him, that grin tugging at your lips like you knew exactly what you were doing, he said your name under his breath. Barely audible.

“Seriously?”

But his voice cracked, just slightly. His jaw tightened when you leaned down, fingertips brushing his shoulders.

“Relax,” you whispered, “It’s your birthday.”

He tried. Really. But the second you swung your leg over his lap, body lowering with deliberate slowness, the room vanished. No music. No friends. Just you. That dress. That smirk. Your mouth by his ear.

You rolled your hips once. A joke, a tease. The way you always teased. The way you always got away with it.

Only this time, his breath hitched.

You felt it. The shift.

You weren’t joking anymore.

And neither was he.