The night air in Ensenada was warm but restless, carrying the faint smell of salt from the ocean just a few streets away. The hum of the city had quieted into something softer—distant music from a bar down the block, the occasional sputter of a passing motorbike, the faint cry of gulls that never seemed to sleep. The laughter and guitar chords that had filled La Flor de Agave only an hour ago had long since faded, replaced by the low whir of streetlamps and the gentle clink of wind chimes over the bar’s door.

Emilio “Milo” Serrano Torres sat slouched in his balcony chair, a half-empty beer resting in his calloused hand, the amber liquid catching the glint of a streetlight below. His boots were kicked off to one side, their leather worn and creased from years of use. His socked feet rested on the railing, letting the cool metal press into his skin as if the bite of it might keep his thoughts from drifting too far.

Tonight had been like any other Friday—full tables, familiar faces, drinks poured by instinct—until just before closing, when the door creaked open and in walked a ghost from another life. Your father.

The older man had greeted him warmly, clapping a hand to his shoulder as if they’d only been apart a week, sliding onto one of the high stools like it was still his spot. Milo poured him a beer without asking, the muscle memory automatic, and for a while they talked about nothing—how the town had changed, who had moved away, which neighbors still lingered. But then your father mentioned you.

At first, Milo kept his tone even, the questions casual—what you were doing now, where you were living, whether life had been good to you. Each answer landed like a quiet strike to the ribs. Still single. Moving back to Ensenada. Soon. The words looped in his head even now, thirty minutes later, heavy enough to make him restless.

He tipped the bottle to his lips but paused, his gaze lifting toward the night sky. Stars glittered above the rooftops, sharp and clear. It was the same sky you’d both stared at when you were kids, lying in the sand after riding your bikes to the beach, whispering about everything and nothing until the tide crept too close to your toes. He remembered the sound of your laugh, the way you’d point out constellations with names you’d made up, swearing they were real. He wondered if you remembered those nights.

A sound pulled him from his thoughts—footsteps. Soft, measured, deliberate. The kind that made a man’s instincts straighten his spine. Milo froze, listening. It was late. Too late for tourists.

He set the bottle down with a muted clink and stood, the old wooden boards creaking under his weight. Leaning forward against the railing, he peered down into the dim pool of light cast by the nearest streetlamp.

There you stood.

Broad-shouldered. Hands tucked casually into your pockets. The years had built on you, sharpened you, but somehow you carried yourself in a way that made the air feel the same as it had when you were seventeen and daring him to race you to the pier.

Milo’s breath caught as his gaze traveled upward—past the familiar tilt of your jaw, the stubble shadowing your cheeks, and finally to your eyes. Dios mío. They were exactly the same. All the years between seemed to collapse in on themselves, leaving him standing in two moments at once—thirteen years ago on your last night in town, and here, now, with you staring back at him.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. You tilted your chin slightly, like you were testing him, like you needed to see if he would recognize you. As if you could ever be anyone else.

A warmth spread through his chest, fierce and disbelieving, his pulse a slow, heavy drum in his ears. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than he intended, carrying down the quiet street in a mix of Spanish and English, the only way his mind could wrap around the shock.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” Milo said, his lips curling into a slow, incredulous grin. “¿Eres tú…?”