On Sunday morning, I almost considered going to church to repent for my sins. Almost.
Yeison was still asleep, curled up in my bed like a little angel, his lips parted just slightly, his arm slung over the pillow where I had been sleeping. His curls were tousled, and the faintest smile played on his face, like maybe he was dreaming of something warm and sweet. Maybe of me. And that only made everything worse.
I slipped out quietly, pulled on my swim trunks, and dove into the pool. The water was cold, sharp, and sobering. I did a few slow laps under the rising sun, trying to shake the fog in my head. Nothing worked. No matter how far I swam, I couldn’t outswim the shame, the guilt, the confusion that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. Thankfully, Daniel wasn’t there, so I didn’t have yet another sin tempting me, though I knew it was probably only a matter of time. He was cute, I knew nothing about him, and we both wanted only one thing.
Did I love Yeison? Of course I did. I wasn’t lying when I told him that. But what kind of love was it now? Was it changing? Or had it never been what I told myself it was in the first place? Maybe I didn’t know what love actually meant. Maybe everything I felt — for Yeison, for Miguel, for any boy before them — was just infatuation, projection, wishful thinking.
Maybe I didn’t have the capacity to love anyone. Maybe I was too selfish. Too broken.
When I did eventually break up with Yeison, I’d decided I’d let him keep all our friends. He needed them more than I did. I’d start over. I’d stay close if he wanted to and do everything I could to be a good friend and support him. But nothing I did would ever undo the pain I knew I’d cause. Maybe that was karma. Maybe Miguel would dump me in a matter of weeks. I’d deserve it.
Today was going to be especially hard. Meeting Yeison’s family. He’d be so proud to introduce me as his gringo boyfriend. He’d tell them how happy he was, how lucky. And they’d treat me so kindly, welcome me into their home, cook for me. And then, within days or weeks, he’d have to go back and tell them it was over. That their dream of their son finding real love — and maybe a way out of Colombia — had fallen apart.
He would be humiliated.
We held hands the entire way to Manrique — Comuna 3. The drive took about thirty-five minutes with traffic. The further we got from El Poblado, the more the scenery changed. The high-rises gave way to stacked cinderblock homes, rusted roofs, and narrow, crumbling alleyways. Everything was painted in faded, mismatched colors, as if trying desperately to mask the poverty underneath. Stray dogs wandered the streets. People carried groceries in their arms, not in cars. There was graffiti everywhere, political slogans, gang symbols, and religious murals.
When we arrived, we had to climb multiple staircases and duck through tight alleyways to reach Yeison’s house. It was a squat, one-story cement structure with a rusted corrugated roof. I could see cracks in the foundation and along the outer walls. The windows were covered with metal bars and plastic sheets instead of glass. It made my chest hurt.
Yeison squeezed my hand as the door opened. “Mamá, Papá — este es Hunter,” he said, steady and proud. They had the softened look of long shifts, but his mamá’s pressed floral dress and careful lipstick, and his papá’s too-starched shirt with freshly buffed shoes, said they’d dressed for this. Doña Marta pulled me into a quick hug; Don Carlos’s firm shake turned into a shoulder clap. “Bienvenido a nuestra casa,” he said. “Mucho gusto. Gracias por recibirme,” I managed, and Yeison’s thumb traced a quiet yes on my wrist.
Inside, it was tidy but cramped and visibly worn. The furniture was all mismatched, patched with tape or fabric, probably passed down through generations or picked up from someone else’s trash. Yeison pointed to the living room couch.
"Sometimes I sleep there if my cousin visits," he said. "But usually I sleep in my room. Venga."
His bedroom had dark blue walls, chipped in places. The mattress where he slept was on the floor, frayed and patched with duct tape. He didn’t even have an actual bed. One of the blankets had a Disney princess pattern, and Yeison laughed when he noticed me noticing.
"It was on sale," he said with a sheepish grin.
"It’s cute," I replied, and I meant it.
There was an old wardrobe without doors, just hanging clothes and some stacked shoes. No desk. He told me he did his homework lying on the mattress. His laptop — his only expensive possession — sat on the floor next to a pile of notebooks.
"It’s five years old," he said. "But it still works. My school gave me a license for the software. I'm just afraid it will break soon, and I can’t pay for a new one."
His voice was casual, but I could feel the weight behind every word.
He pulled me down to the mattress and kissed me, deep and hungry, the kind of kiss that says thank you for being here. I kissed him back, but I felt like I didn’t deserve it. Not even close. But I tried to return every ounce of passion he showed me.
“I love you, Yeison,” I whispered. “No matter what happens, don’t ever forget how much I love you.”
“I love you too, gringuito,” he said, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"Thank you for coming," he added, leaning his forehead against mine. "I know this place… it’s not much. But it is my home. And my parents really wanted to meet you. They didn’t believe I had gringo boyfriend!"
"It’s yours," I said. "That’s what matters."
He took my hand and led me to the bathroom to continue showing me around. The toilet had no seat. The shower was a corner pipe with no curtain. The sink was lime green, and the toilet was pink.
"Sometimes there is no water," he said. "You have to wait until night. Or ask a neighbor. Also, many times with no electricity."
Soon, we were called to lunch. The dining room was barely large enough for the old wooden table, which was flanked by six mismatched chairs. His mother had prepared a big pot of sancocho soup — chunks of chicken, pork, and beef, thick with potatoes and corn. There was rice with cilantro and lime, a salad, half of an avocado for each bowl, and tall glasses of guarapo, the unprocessed sugarcane beverage, ubiquitous in Colombia.
I smiled and thanked her in Spanish, told her everything looked delicious. However, the meat was tough, and the soup was under seasoned, as is often the case with Colombian food. Perhaps they all had a genetic deficiency in their taste buds? Still, I cleaned my bowl.
"¡Muy rico!" I said. "Gracias por cocinar."
She smiled so brightly it broke my heart.
Back in Yeison’s room, we lay curled up on his mattress. We didn’t talk much, just held each other. I let my fingers run through his curls while his hand rested on my stomach.
I wanted to freeze that moment, and bottle it up forever. Surprise! I was starting to have doubts about my decision again.
Eventually, Juan Camilo knocked and said we had to go because it was starting to get dark, and this was not a place we wanted to be after dark.
We walked slowly to the front door.
His mom hugged me tightly. His dad clapped me on the back and said something rapid in Spanish I couldn’t fully catch.
"They like you," Yeison whispered.
"They’re amazing," I said, and I meant it. “Very sweet and humble.”
As we pulled away in the SUV, I watched Yeison in the rearview mirror, standing in the doorway with his mom’s arm around his shoulder. He waved until we turned the corner.
Juan Camilo drove in silence for a few minutes, then said, "You know that lunch? Probably cost her two weeks of her salary."
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window. I felt like I was going to be sick.
Yeison didn’t deserve this. Any of it. Not my confusion. Not my betrayal. Not the heartbreak I was going to cause. He deserved happiness more than me.
I didn’t care that he didn’t have money. I cared that he was kind and brave and loyal and everything good. I cared that he needed someone in his corner, someone to believe in him. I wanted to be able to give him a better life.
But my heart was telling me something different. Maybe I should have stopped listening to my heart (and my dick) so much. They both got me into a lot of trouble.
The contrast between Yeison’s world and Miguel’s couldn’t have been more jarring. Miguel’s sleek motorcycle, his designer clothes, his confident swagger. Yeison’s secondhand jeans, his mattress on the floor, his borrowed dreams. At least he got a scholarship to attend our school. That was a big thing and, hopefully, would pay off in the future.
The rest of the drive home, I stared out the window, numb. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to disappear.
Nothing could shake the feeling that I had crossed some invisible line — one I wouldn’t be able to come back from.
Not even the thought of Miguel, waiting for me with a grin and a helmet, could make me feel better.
Because I was a piece of shit. Plain and simple. What’s worse was that I knew my issues, I’d recognized them, yet I seemed powerless to do anything about them.
And now, someone else would have to pay the price.
***
Monday morning returned with a suffocating weight.
The school grounds buzzed as usual: students laughing, backpacks swinging, soccer balls being passed between friends. But for me, the air was thick and metallic. I felt like I was underwater, moving through some strange dream where everyone else was in color and I was just grey.
I sat with Zack beneath the blooming guayacán tree, its yellow blossoms dancing lazily in the breeze. He was lost in a battered copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, a highlighter tucked behind his ear. My pasta salad sat half-eaten in its container, and the avocado beside it was starting to brown. The taste of food just didn’t matter.
A little ways off, Yeison, Carlos, and Ricardo were kicking a worn soccer ball in a loose triangle. Yeison looked beautiful, like he always did when he was active and carefree. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He still came over to hold my hand at lunch. Still kissed me good morning. Still told me I looked handsome. But something in him knew. I could feel it in the silence between our words, in the way he held me just a second too long, as if afraid I might vanish.
My phone buzzed in my lap. I looked down.
Miguel: "How r u doing?"
My heart clenched. I hadn’t heard from him since Friday night. The silence had made me feel abandoned, but part of me had also understood it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to interfere, or perhaps he’d been jealous that I spent Saturday and Sunday with Yeison.
Me: "Not great. Could’ve used some moral support this weekend."
There was a pause before he responded.
Miguel: "Lo siento. I didn’t want to bug you. I was scared it was the wrong time."
Me: "Were you thinking about me?"
Miguel: "When am I not thinking about you? I’m lovesick.”
Me: "But what if you never fall in love with me?"
Miguel: "Too late for that."
My breath hitched. I looked up across the courtyard, and there he was. Miguel. Standing a few dozen yards away near the soccer field, holding his phone in both hands, his brows furrowed as he typed. He looked up, and our eyes met for the briefest second.
Miguel: "Come to my family's finca this weekend. Nobody else will be there. Just us, the animals, the wind, the sun. I’ll take care of you. Help you feel whole again."
That was when I remembered: it was a three-day weekend coming up. I had time to disappear. But could I really do it? It would feel amazing to spend a few days on a little farm, far away from the city and everything else. Maybe the darkness wouldn’t be able to find me way out there. But it also meant I couldn’t stall anymore with Yeison.
That afternoon, at my locker, I found another heart-shaped note. Te Quiero, it read in Miguel’s familiar handwriting. “I love you.”
I smiled sadly, flipped it over, and scribbled “Me too” on the back before slipping it into the side of his locker.
The rest of the week blurred into a pattern of fake smiles and aching silence. I tried to laugh at Ricardo’s silly dick jokes, responded to Carlos’s teasing with weak nudges, and acted like everything was fine. But inside, I was crumbling. Every time Yeison leaned against me or laced his fingers with mine, I wanted to scream, curl into the fetal position and cry.
By Wednesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. After class, I made my way to Dr. Montoya’s office, the school psychiatrist. Yes, at the rich kids’ school, they had an actual psychiatrist instead of just a psychologist. He could even write prescriptions, too. I’d tried therapy a few times in my life, but it never stuck, and I invariably would quit after a few weeks. But I wasn’t so much looking for treatment right now, just some sort of “expert opinion” on what the hell I should do about my current predicament. Someone to tell me I was right or wrong, and I wasn’t about to talk to a priest about it.
He was at his desk, filling out paperwork. He looked up when I closed the door.
“Señor Callahan?” he said, setting his pen down. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” I said, my voice already beginning to crack. “It’s not.”
Dr. Montoya stood immediately. He didn’t rush over to me, but there was a quiet urgency in his movement — as if he already understood I was seconds away from falling apart. He gently gestured to the chair across from his, away from the desk.
“Ven, siéntate,” he said softly. “Let’s talk.”
I dropped into the chair without a word. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustle of leaves just outside the window. His office was different from the classrooms — warmer somehow. Books lined the shelves, framed certificates sat on the wall, a small potted plant leaned toward the light, and the faint scent of palo santo hung in the air. There was also a small rainbow flag poster on the wall that said, “espacio seguro,” so I knew I was in a safe space (unfortunately, one would not find signs or spaces like these in the public schools in Colombia). He sat across from me, elbows resting loosely on his knees, giving me space but not distance.
We sat in silence for a few seconds. He let it stretch.
And then I broke.
I told him everything — well, everything I could. Not about my dad. Not about the DEA. Not about the reasons I was in Colombia in the first place. But the rest… it came out fast, like something that had been waiting for permission to fall apart.
I told him about Yeison — how kind he was. How easy it was to be around him. He was the kind of person who never made me feel like I had to earn love. He gave it freely, like sunshine, and for a while, I think I truly believed that was enough.
“I do love him,” I said, almost defensively. “He’s good. He’s so good. And I know he cares about me.”
Dr. Montoya nodded, not to agree or disagree — just to show he was listening.
“But lately…” I stared down at the frayed seam of the chair cushion beneath my fingers.
“Lately, I’ve been wondering if I only got with him because he was the first boy who actually liked me back. Who made me feel… not so alone in this very foreign country. He’s sweet and funny and affectionate and handsome, and he makes me feel safe. And that’s rare. But… I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m just going through the motions. Like I’m playing a part.”
Dr. Montoya didn’t say anything. Just waited.
And then I said the part I’d been avoiding — the part I hadn’t even said aloud to myself.
“There’s this other boy. Miguel.”
I felt the name hang in the air like a dropped match, and from the twitch in Dr. Montoya’s eyebrow, I could tell that he knew exactly who I was referring to.
“He’s… complicated. Messed up, maybe. I don’t even really know him, not entirely. But when I’m around him, everything inside me feels loud. Like I’m awake for the first time in a long time. It’s not entirely comfortable or safe. But I feel like it could be, and so much more. I feel it in my bones when he looks at me. Like maybe I was supposed to meet him. Like maybe I was waiting for him without knowing it. Like maybe he’s even my … soulmate.”
I laughed once, bitterly. “That sounds so stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” Dr. Montoya said gently.
I looked up, surprised.
“It sounds like someone who’s feeling a strong emotional pull — maybe even something close to infatuation. And it also sounds like you’re trying to be honest with yourself. That’s never stupid.”
I nodded, slowly, but the ache in my chest wasn’t going anywhere. I dropped my gaze again.
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “If I leave Yeison, I’ll destroy him. He’s not just sweet — he’s a little bit fragile and needy. And his home life isn’t the best, and maybe he was counting on me to help him get away from that. To get away from here. He needs someone to be good to him. And I’m terrified that if I’m not that person, he’ll fall apart. And everyone will blame me. And maybe they should.”
“Why do you think you’d be the one responsible for holding him together? Or to help him change his circumstances?” Dr. Montoya asked.
“Because I’m the one who said yes,” I said. “Because I made him believe in something.”
There was a pause. Dr. Montoya sat back a little in his chair.
“Hunter,” he said, carefully, “you can love someone and still not be the right person for them. You can care about someone deeply and still know in your heart that you're not where you're meant to be. That doesn’t make you a villain. It makes you human.”
I felt my throat tighten again.
“But if I leave him… I become the bad guy. Everyone loves Yeison. They’ll hate me. And they should, because I’m a repeat offender. I’ve broken a lot of hearts in my life already.”
“That’s possible,” he said, honest but kind. “People sometimes confuse endings with betrayal. But staying in a relationship out of guilt isn’t love. It’s fear. And it’s not fair — to him or to you. As far as your past patterns go, that’s not something that we can solve in one session. We’d need more regular talks to delve into that.”
I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my jacket.
“And what if Miguel doesn’t feel the same? What if I give all this up and end up with nothing?”
Dr. Montoya’s voice softened even more.
“Then you will grieve, and you will grow. And you will learn. And, eventually, you will find your way. But you’ll have done so with honesty. And that matters. More than you probably realize right now.”
I didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, barely, my head bowed.
I knew I couldn’t keep pretending nothing inside me had changed.
But I also knew what my decision had to be. How many chances in life do you have at being with your soulmate?
On Thursday afternoon, I told Juan Camilo the plan. I think he was genuinely sad.
“I like Yeison,” he said. “Good kid. Honest. Loyal.”
“I know.”
“And now you want to be with Miguel?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “Be careful with that one. He is… complicated. But I will not stop you. Keep your phone on. Always.”
“I hope I didn’t just make the biggest mistake of my life,” I muttered.
Now was when I really could have used a father, but for all intents and purposes, he was almost as dead to me as my mother was. I knew that didn't sound nice, but it was the truth. I really had no one to offer me guidance or who cared enough to know when I needed help, even if I didn’t realize it yet myself.
Juan Camilo put his hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Hunter, even if it is a mistake, if you learn from it and grow, then it was worth it. And you’re only sixteen years old, so you still have plenty of time left to make mistakes, and to learn from them, and to grow. And to find the right person for you. Just relax, take your time, be patient, and enjoy the journey. There is so much more to life, so much more to experience in Colombia. And then, when you least expect it …”
Seriously, where did they find this guy? Sometimes I felt like Juan Camilo was really my best (and only) friend here.
***
Friday arrived like a thunderstorm.
Every class passed in a daze. My hands were clammy. My heart raced. I kept looking at the clock, counting the hours until I would ruin someone’s life, and perhaps ruin my own.
After the final bell, I made my way slowly to the front gate. And there was Yeison. Smiling, radiant, full of love.
“Hola, bebé,” he chirped.
“Hola, señorito,” I replied softly. “Can we talk?”
His smile faltered. “Sure.”
We walked toward our usual tree. I think he knew. I think he’d known for days.
“Yeison,” I said, “I love you. I always will. But I don’t think this is working. I haven’t been okay. And I think I rushed into a relationship when I wasn’t ready.”
He blinked, tears already shining in his lashes. “Is there someone else?”
“No,” I lied.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his bottom lip trembling.
“No, amor, you were such a good boyfriend. The problem is me. I’ve got too many problems in my head right now, and I need to work on those. If I don’t, I’ll go crazy here. You’re one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever met, and I don’t want to do this, believe me. But I have to, for me and for you. I need to fix myself first before I deserve someone like you again. But please, please, I hope that we can still be very good friends. I want you to be a part of my life.”
I had rehearsed that whole speech in front of the mirror countless times last night, and every time it felt awful. I was having lots of second thoughts. Part of me wanted to call the whole thing off, but I had set my mind to it, and I felt like I would lose what little sanity I had left if I didn’t. If I somehow ended up with Miguel, great. If I ended up spending a good, long time alone, perhaps that would be even better. Then I could hook up with Daniel from the pool or Ferney again, or maybe even swap spit with Carlos again and let that be that to calm my urges. I was just hoping that the sooner I told Yeison, the sooner he could start healing.
Tears were trickling down his face now. “If you need anything, any help here in Medellin, if there is anything I can do for you, just tell me and I will do it. I know you don’t have your family here, and you must feel very lonesome, but I will always be here if you need a friend. I promise, Hunter. Te amo mucho, de verdad.”
“I love you, too,” I replied.
He looked down, suddenly appearing shy. “Can I… can I hug you? Just one last time?”
I opened my arms. He fell into them and bawled his eyes out on my shoulder, and I know I shed quite a few tears as well. The other kids around us were giving us strange looks, but to be honest, I didn’t care. My bodyguard was in the car right down the block, and he had a big gun, so they could all just fuck off.
We clung to each other under the tree, as the yellow blossoms rained softly down around us. I ran my fingers through his curls. He sobbed into my shoulder.
“Please be careful, Hunter. You know what I mean,” he said. “If you get into any kind of trouble, please come to me.”
“I’ll miss you every day,” I said.
I walked away before I could change my mind, and I almost did.
Juan Camilo was waiting for me about two blocks down.
“You okay?” he asked, seeing my tear-streaked face.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Just… give me my bag, please.”
He handed it to me silently. His expression was clouded with worry.
Miguel was there. Helmet in hand. Even he had concern spread across his face.
“Ready?” he asked.
I took the helmet. My voice shook.
“Let’s get out of here … as fast as we can.”
And we sped off down the street, my arms wrapped tightly around him, the wind burning my face, trying to outrun the pain.
***
We rode for more than two hours. My butt was killing me from sitting on that damn motorcycle seat. Dusk had just started to fall, casting a warm golden haze over the hills as the road twisted through the countryside. The air grew cooler the higher we climbed, brushing against my face with a crispness that reminded me I was far, far away from the city now. With each bend in the road, Medellín faded behind us, and a strange mix of guilt, relief, and anticipation began to settle in my chest. I leaned forward, resting my head against Miguel’s back, feeling the vibration of the engine and the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath his leather jacket. He reached one hand down to gently squeeze my knee from time to time, and every time he did, it made me feel more grounded, like maybe I wasn’t completely spiraling.
Eventually, we turned onto a bumpy dirt road surrounded by dense trees and brush. My bones rattled with every pothole, but I didn’t complain. After about half a mile, a squat, ramshackle structure emerged from the shadows. As we pulled into the small gravel driveway, motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the property in a pale-yellow glow. The house was nothing like what I’d expected. It was small, made of whitewashed cinder blocks with a corrugated tin roof that glinted dully under the floodlights. A small, covered porch wrapped around the house. The edges of the property were fenced off with warped wood and loose barbed wire, and I could hear the distant squawks of chickens and the occasional low moo of a cow in the distance. This was not the finca of a ridiculously wealthy family I had expected.
"We have a caretaker who lives down the road looking after the animals and fruit trees when we’re not here, which is most of the time," Miguel said as he shut off the bike.
He pulled off his helmet and gave me a tired but affectionate smile. "Other than him, it’s just us for the weekend, and I’ll call him to let him know we’ll take care of the chores ourselves."
"Good," I murmured, stretching my arms. "That’s exactly what I need. Peace and quiet."
“You mean you need me?” he grinned.
“I need a lot of things,” I admitted, looking at my feet. Miguel ruffled my hair.
He reached over and rubbed my arms briskly. "Let’s get you inside and warmed up. You look like a popsicle." We were at a significantly higher altitude than Medellín, so it was quite chilly.
The inside of the house was rustic, but a little more modern-looking than the outside, and surprisingly cozy. The floors were plain cement, and the walls were unpainted cinder blocks, but the furnishings were clean and well-maintained. A small but functional kitchen stood in one corner, with a tiny bathroom next to it. The open living area was centered on a large L-shaped sofa, with a worn but colorful rug and a glass coffee table. A large curtain separated the main space from a bedroom with a massive king-sized bed, crisp white sheets, and four fluffy pillows. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was comfortable — like a hidden retreat from the rest of the world.
Miguel dropped our bags inside and tossed me a throw blanket. "Let’s grab some food before you collapse. The nearest pueblito is about ten kilometers from here."
I groaned, rubbing my lower back. "My ass may never forgive me, but sure. Let’s go."
“I’ll give your ass a good massage later, if you want,” he grinned slyly at me.
I blushed beet red, but sure wouldn’t mind having him rub my butt … and maybe other things.
The pueblito was barely a town — just a cluster of buildings around a small plaza with a church, a small grocery store, a pharmacy, and one restaurant with flickering neon signage. We loaded up on essentials: drinks, several kinds of meat, potatoes, corn, eggs, chorizos, bread, some cans of tuna, bacon, mayonnaise, snacks, and even some tiny marshmallows Miguel insisted were for "something special later." At the restaurant, we sat at a plastic table and shared a typical Colombian meal: grilled chicken, rice, salad, plantains, and the dreaded arepa. I also ordered a small bowl of mondongo soup, made from cow’s stomach. It wasn’t particularly tasty, except for the soup (go figure), but it filled me up. Miguel said if we forgot anything, we could order a domicilio from the store and they would deliver it to our doorstep.
Miguel raised an eyebrow at my grimace. "Still not a fan of arepas, huh?"
I poked mine with my fork. "You know I’m trying, but it’s like chewing on cardboard."
He laughed and stole mine. "More for me, mi rey."
By the time we got back to the finca, a gentle rain had started, tapping against the tin roof like a thousand tiny fingertips. Miguel lit a couple of candles even though the electricity was working, to make it cozier. The warm, flickering light made the whole room feel softer somehow, more intimate. After all this time, I couldn’t believe we were alone, here, together, and my heart was beating a million miles per minute. How did the two of us end up together?
"You shower first," he said, motioning toward the bathroom. "But save me some hot water, eh?"
"You’re assuming there’s going to be any," I called from behind the door.
When Miguel emerged from his shower in a towel, I was waiting shirtless in just my boxer-briefs. His dark curls were damp, clinging to his forehead. I couldn’t help but stare at him.
"See something you like?" he teased, grabbing a pair of boxer-briefs from his duffel.
“I like it all,” I admitted, blushing. “You’re really sexy.”
“I know,” he shrugged, smirking.
"I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you’ve been doing in the gym."
He smirked. "Carry heavy motorcycle, chase cute American boys. You know, the usual."
“Have you chased many American boys?” I asked.
“You’re the first one, and hopefully the last,” he said.
We settled into the sofa in just our underwear and scrolled through Netflix until we landed on Raiders of the Lost Ark. Miguel confessed he’d never seen it before.
"Are you serious? You’re a cinematic heathen," I said.
"I know," he replied sheepishly. "But I make amazing aguapanela con limón. Want some?"
I nodded, curling up under the comforter while he moved around the kitchen, boiling water and mixing in brown chunks of panela and lime juice. The smell was sweet and comforting.
I was still thinking of Yeison, and how horrible he must be feeling right now. I wondered what he was thinking at that exact moment. The break-up went better than expected, but I figured it was only a matter of days before he started to hate me, especially when he eventually saw me with Miguel.
When Miguel returned with two steaming mugs, he handed me one and slid in behind me, wrapping both arms around my waist as we spooned under the blanket. His bare chest was warm against my back, and I melted into him. He smelled clean from his shower, and his skin was so soft. I was fighting hard to keep from getting hard. Sex was the last thing I needed right now.
"Big spoon or little spoon?" he whispered.
"Little spoon," I replied. "Definitely little spoon tonight."
He kissed the back of my neck, and I bit my lip. The feeling of his soft lips, the heat of his breath — it was all so tender. So real. I started to cry, quietly at first, but he felt it immediately.
"Bebé," he said, pulling back a little. "What’s wrong? Is this too soon? Am I pushing you too much?"
I shook my head. "No. It’s just… this feels so good. Too good. I don’t know if I deserve it after today and what I did to Yeison."
He held me tighter. "You do. He’ll get over it and find someone new. And I’m not going anywhere."
“Promise?” I asked.
“I swear to Diós,” he said, and then did the sign of the cross.
We watched the rest of the movie like that, his chin resting on my shoulder, our bodies tangled under the blanket. When it ended, he looked at me.
"Wanna stay up for another or head to bed?"
"Bed," I whispered.
We climbed into the massive king-sized mattress, but somehow ended up tangled right in the middle, skin against skin, like gravity had pulled us there. His arm looped around my waist, warm and solid, while his other hand threaded lazily through my hair. He whispered buenas noches against my temple, his voice low, breath hot, and then started trailing kisses — my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my jaw — each one slower, closer, like he was working up to something.
Then his lips found mine, and he kissed me. A real kiss.
At first, it was gentle, a soft press that made my chest seize up, but the moment I leaned in, it changed. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger that made my pulse roar in my ears. His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me steady as the kiss deepened, his tongue brushing mine, making me gasp into him.
Our bare chests pressed together, slick with heat, every breath making me feel the thud of his heart against mine. The warmth of his skin, the faint salt of sweat, the sheer electricity of his lips on mine — it all blended until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. My fingers clawed into his back, pulling him even closer, desperate to erase the tiny spaces left between us.
The kiss went on and on, long and unrelenting, until we finally broke apart with a shared, shaky breath — almost reluctantly, like neither of us wanted to stop but both knew we had to before it went too far. I wasn’t quite ready to go there yet, although I knew it wouldn’t be long. Our lips lingered inches apart for a moment, foreheads touching, eyes closed, before Miguel shifted behind me. He wrapped his arms tight around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, feeling his hardness pressing against my ass, holding me as if he could keep me there forever.
Lying there in the dark, with the rain still tapping overhead and the soft rhythm of his heart in my ear, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope. And desire.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring — or how badly I’d screwed everything up — but tonight, at least, I had this.
I had him.
And he had me.
***
I woke to the sound of a rooster’s shrill crow slicing through the morning mist. It echoed in the stillness like a trumpet blast, grating and persistent. For a moment, I remained still, curled beneath a thick duvet, eyes shut, disoriented and aching from sleep. The air smelled faintly of rain-damp stone, citrusy shampoo, and something earthier — woodsmoke, maybe, or the soil itself. Then, slowly, the memories returned. Miguel. The finca. The long ride. Leaving Yeison. Miguel holding me as I cried. And the kiss.
A wave of dread and guilt washed over me, sucking the air from my lungs. My chest tightened, and I rolled onto my back, blinking at the slightly cracked ceiling overhead, already flecked with cobwebs in the corners. The faintest rays of morning light leaked through the drawn curtain separating the bedroom from the rest of the house. I reached across the sheets — cold. Empty. Miguel wasn’t there. For a second, my pulse spiked with panic. Had he left? Was this all a mistake? Some kind of dream I’d stupidly mistaken for salvation?
But then — smell. Coffee. Arepas toasting. Bacon? Something savory and sizzling. I groaned softly and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the cement floor cold against my bare feet. I rubbed the sleep from my face, slipped on a hoodie, and stepped outside.
The front door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, revealing Miguel seated in a weather-worn wooden chair on the porch, shirtless, clad only in gray boxer-briefs. He was smoking a cigarette, legs propped up on the railing, looking impossibly serene as he stared out into the misty, foggy green hills rolling beyond the fence line. When he heard me, he turned, smiled, and pulled me into his lap.
“There you are, mi amor,” he said, pulling me into his lap. His skin was warm against the morning chill. “¿Cómo amaneciste?”
“Good,” I mumbled into his neck. “Until I woke up alone and started freaking out.”
He kissed my temple. “Lo siento, mi rey. I had to check on the chickens, milk the cow, and start breakfast. I wanted to let you sleep. You had a rough day yesterday.”
“I thought maybe you left me,” I admitted, immediately feeling silly.
“Don’t be so tonto,” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around my waist. “You think I’d bring you all the way here just to disappear? I promised I wouldn’t leave you. I meant that. You’re — how do you say — stuck with me now.”
I relaxed against him. His heartbeat was steady, grounding. Despite the storm of feelings inside me, his touch anchored me. “I’m sorry I’m being so dramatic. I just… I’ve never felt so guilty and so relieved at the same time. It’s confusing.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to figure it all out right now. Just feel what you feel and know that I’m here for you now. You’re safe. Not even that stupid war can touch us out here. Here we are both safe.”
We sat like that for a long moment, swaying slightly as the mist curled through the valley. Beyond the yard, I could hear the soft clucking of chickens and the distant lowing of cows. Dew shimmered on the grass and the delicate-yellow guava blossoms. A gentle breeze rattled the leaves, carrying the scent of wet soil and distant citrus groves.
“Do you feel it too?” I asked softly. “Like you’re … maybe … falling in love?”
I immediately regretted saying something so intense so quickly. Yeison and I had just broken up yesterday. But it was what I was feeling in that moment. It was honest.
He looked at me for a moment, surprised. “Sí, bebé,” he said. “I feel it so strongly sometimes, I don’t know what to do with it. But I’m not scared anymore. I’m just… grateful. I’ve been loving you secretly for a long time, ever since we first met.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, then led me back inside for breakfast. The kitchen smelled amazing. Miguel had set out calentado — rice and beans fried together with onion — scrambled eggs, chorizo, bacon, and fresh arepas with farmer’s cheese, hot from the griddle.
“I know you’re not a fan of the arepas,” he said sheepishly, sliding me a plate. “But I made them extra crispy and with quesito. Maybe you can try them again? These are made with chocolo, it’s a different kind of corn. They’re much better.”
“I’ll allow it,” I said, kissing him quickly on the lips as I sat.
We finished breakfast with playful banter and a lot of staring. He made the cutest facial expressions at me. Miguel was a surprisingly good cook. I could’ve used some hot sauce, but the warmth of the food — combined with the company — made everything taste better, even the arepas. After we cleaned up, he took me on a tour of the small farm's grounds.
The finca sat on a slight rise, bordered by barbed wire and uneven wooden fencing. Guava trees dotted the sloping terrain, along with two hefty avocado trees thick with green fruit. The grass was a rich emerald, thick and spongy beneath my bare feet. Bright flowers — hibiscus and marigold — sprouted in beds near the porch, and small stone paths wound between garden patches, leading to a coop bustling with chickens and a shady pen for the two cows.
They also had an old dog, Rusty, but he was definitely an outside dog. He was quite dirty and would not be climbing into bed with me. I did spend a few minutes petting him and scratching him behind the ears, though, and asking him, “Who’s a good boy?” because I just loved all dogs. I was still thinking of that street dog in El Carmen de Viboral, “Pony”. I wished I could have taken him with me. He couldn’t have been more than a year old and would have made a great playmate for Max.
“This is Doña Cumbia, and that one is Señora Muu,” Miguel said, laughing as the cows approached. “They give us fresh milk every day.”
“You name your cows?”
“Of course. They’re family.”
The view was breathtaking — steep mountains clothed in fog, jagged edges softened by distance. The air smelled clean, wet, and full of life. The air quality — the taste — was worlds away from the heavily polluted city. Just breathing it in calmed me.
“Have you ever had fresh milk, straight from the cow?” he asked, holding up a mason jar.
“Um… no. And that sounds… warm.”
He grinned. “It is. But try.”
I took a sip. Sweet. Earthy. Definitely warm. Not terrible. “Weirdly… kind of good.”
Back inside, we made more coffee and curled up on the couch again, just talking. About us. About our fears. About what we wanted in the future. Miguel opened up in a way that surprised me.
“I used to think I had to act like I didn’t care,” he said. “But that was just to survive in the crowd I hung with. With you… I can be real. That’s new for me.”
“I like the real you,” I said. “But if you ever slip back into asshole mode, I will 100% call you out.”
“Please do. My friends at school are all just rich brats like me, but outside of school, I used to hang out with some very bad hombres. People who have done bad things, even killed people.”
“Why did you hang out with those kinds of people?” I asked, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable.
“Guys tied to my dad’s business. Their kids. A lot of them were neas, like gangster kids, and we would go out dancing and stuff sometimes. Even legit import-export gets risky — traffickers hitch rides on legal shipments out and move the money back in. And real estate? Half the time, it’s a parking lot for dirty cash — buying blocks of apartments so the money looks clean. When your country’s economy is based on cocaine, it’s hard not to have some sort of connection with it, innocent or not.”
None of it was news — I grew up with a DEA agent for a father — but it still rattled me that Miguel had brushed that world, however lightly. With my dad and Juan Camilo already circling his father’s business deals, nothing he said surprised me; it only sharpened my resolve to keep the worst of it away from him. I’ll admit, the nea look — gangster-kid tough, more costume than crime — turned me on; most who wore it were just playing a style, and Miguel, outside school, often did too, and it frequently caused a stirring in my pants.
He hesitated. “Can I ask something a little… daring? You can say no if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Always.”
“Can we… snuggle naked?” He looked suddenly shy.
I blinked. “From you, that’s daring?”
He laughed. “Only because I don’t want to mess this up. I know we’re not rushing anything, but I just have the urge to feel you, all of you. I want to memorize every inch of you, so when I’m not around you, I will always remember.”
I nodded. “Okay. Naked, yeah. But just snuggling.”
“Just snuggling,” he promised. “We’re taking things slow.”
We stripped, then quickly pulled the comforter and pillows to the couch. I hardly even got a good look at him naked. But the moment we wrapped ourselves around each other, skin to skin, I melted. His chest pressed against my back, warm and strong. His hand lightly traced my ribs, my stomach, the curve of my hip, and my butt.
I felt so safe. So desired. So wanted. I was putty in his hands. I would’ve done anything he wanted. But as it turned out, he seriously just wanted to hold me.
We watched three more Indiana Jones movies, pausing occasionally for long, soft, deeply sensual kisses, warm mugs of aguapanela, and whispered promises that I hoped would still be true next week. Eventually, the rain picked up again, tapping steadily on the tin roof above us like a lullaby.
I closed my eyes, letting the sounds, the warmth, and his breath lull me into a deep, quiet peace I hadn’t known in too long.
At least for now, everything was okay.
At least for now, I was able to hold the darkness at bay. More than that, I was happy.
Copyright © 2026 Little Buddha
Posted 7 February 2026