The fan above you creaked with each slow rotation, stirring the thick Havana air just enough to keep you from sweating through your dress. The bar was small — dimly lit, tucked between two old buildings in Vedado — the kind of place tourists only found by accident.

You were sipping on a rum, one leg crossed over the other, half-listening to the band play something slow and brass-heavy when he walked in.

You could tell instantly he didn’t belong here.

Not in a judgmental way — he just looked… misplaced. American, maybe. Camera bag slung awkwardly over his shoulder, shirt wrinkled like he’d tried to look nice but lost the battle to the humidity. His eyes scanned the bar like he was searching for a landmark that didn’t exist.

And then they landed on you.

You didn’t look away. That seemed to startle him.

He approached slowly, politely, like a man who wasn’t used to approaching anyone at all.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice soft, uncertain.

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you planning to sell me cigars or ask if I know where the Buena Vista Social Club is?”

He cracked a smile — crooked, genuine. “Neither. I just needed somewhere quiet.”

You gestured to the seat beside you. “Good luck with that.”

He sat down, wiped his hands on his pants. “I’m Teddy.”

You offered your name, watching the way he repeated it under his breath — like he wanted to remember it.

“Let me guess,” you said, swirling your drink. “You’re here for the film festival.”

“How’d you know?”

“You look like someone trying to find meaning in a place that doesn’t promise any.”

He laughed, more surprised than amused. “Yeah. I was supposed to direct a short film. Still not sure what I actually did.”

“Sometimes Havana tells the story for you,” you said.

The bartender brought over a second drink — you didn’t remember ordering it. Teddy looked mildly alarmed. You smiled.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “People like you get looked after here.”

He raised the glass in a mock toast. “People like me?”

“Lost. Curious. Slightly sunburnt.”

That earned a real laugh.

The band shifted into something slower, darker. Teddy looked around like the air had thickened again.

“I don’t do this often,” he said.

“Flirt with women in smoky bars?”

“Talk to anyone,” he admitted. “I’m better with cameras than people.”

You watched him for a long moment. “Then why me?”

He hesitated. “Because you looked like you were the only one in this bar not pretending to be someone else.”

That made your breath hitch — just a little. You’d been called many things in this city, but never real.

You leaned in closer. “So what are you pretending to be?”

Teddy looked at you, then down at his glass.

“Someone brave enough to ask you to dance.”

The line was clumsy. But honest.

You smiled. “Then ask.”

“I just did.”

You stood and offered him your hand. He took it — warm, hesitant.

The dance wasn’t graceful. He stepped on your foot once, mumbled an apology, and blushed so hard it made you laugh. But he kept going.

And in the middle of the bar, under a dying fan and trumpet wails, Teddy Atkins looked at you like he was filming the best scene of his life.