(Que ganas de agarrarme a vrgazos con el naco de Damonzzz!)

The cold beer bottle slips a little between your fingers, but you don’t let go. The sweat on the glass is almost the same as the one running down your back not from the heat, but from the discomfort that’s been following you all day.

Damon is there, beside you, with that way of smiling as if the whole world were a private joke only he understands. His arm brushes against yours from time to time, and although it’s always been like that, today it hurts differently. Because you already know and he also knows that you know what the neighborhood gossips have been so eager to whisper: that brunette, the one who isn’t you but looks like she was pulled from your shadow, has been on the receiving end of his attention.

Your best friend was less poetic and more brutal: migajero, he called you. And even though you laughed in his face, the word stuck like a splinter in your tongue.

On the speaker, Espinas de rosal plays, and you sing it with an edge you hadn’t planned. Each verse is a small knife, sharpened with patience. Damon glances at you from the corner of his eye, with a mix of fascination and caution, as if he senses the song isn’t just for him, but against him.

“You sing like you’re saying goodbye,” he murmurs, leaning close enough for the smell of beer and marijuana to sink into your skin.