I settled under our guayacán tree that Monday morning, but its usual warmth felt brittle. Sunshine filtered through petals of vivid yellow, dusting the courtyard in confetti — yet I felt hollow. My stomach churned like I was floating in a boat on choppy seas. The weekend with Miguel lingered like a dream. Now I was back, surrounded by my friends, but a part of me was gone — lost on those lake waters.
Around me, the group had changed. Zack lounged cross-legged, flipping through his notebook between sips of juice. He looked up and offered an encouraging nod, but I caught a shadow behind his eyes. To me, he was still a sniveling and judgmental gossip.
On one side, Carlos, Ricardo, Ferney, and Yeison were casually juggling a ball. Their laughter filled the air, but Yeison’s was tight, lacking its usual warmth. Yet still, before class, he found me and took my hand — no words, just a silent, forced smile.
Two new faces appeared in my line of sight, and Carlos and Ricardo quickly introduced them. The first was Juan Felipe, fifteen, a year below most of us. He was slender, almost delicate, with short dark brown hair that hung a little longer in the back. His wide, innocent-looking eyes seemed too big for his face; he wore a small earring in his left ear, and the braces only made his baby-faced look more pronounced, like he was a couple of years younger than he actually was. He moved carefully, almost like he was afraid to take up space — cautious, awkward, unsure. It was obvious he was gay, though not in an over-the-top way. Honestly, he was just kind of adorable and looked very huggable.
The other kid, though — Stiven — was impossible to ignore. His black hair was styled just enough to look effortless, his skin a warm shade of macchiato, and his dark eyes seemed to hold entire stories behind them, secrets he wasn’t about to share. He stood just a little taller than me, thin and lanky, with this natural air of mischief that felt equal parts dangerous and magnetic. And then there was the snake tattoo curling up his neck — a glimpse that made me wonder, almost against my will, what else he might be hiding under his school uniform. Like Juan Felipe, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t gay too. Maybe we were destined to become the gay group on campus — not exactly a label I wanted. But with Miguel on my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to protest. And honestly, having someone like Stiven around was… well, let’s just say I wasn’t blind.
At lunch, I ventured, “Hey guys, how about horseback riding next Sunday? Just the group, a trip out of the city?”
Zack’s head snapped up. “Love that idea!” He looked at the others. Ricardo, Carlos, and Ferney bounced in place before nodding furiously. Stiven cracked a small smile and added, “Cuenta conmigo!”
Juan Felipe said nothing, but his eyes lit a flicker of hope. It felt good — like cueing the old rhythm back into the group. It had been a while since we’d done anything as a group together, as I’d been off with Miguel and pretty much ignoring my friends during the weekends for the past few weeks. I felt the need to make it up to them.
Later, Zack paused, eyebrow raised. “Maybe we should invite Miguel — if he behaves. He’s your… special friend. Kind of an asshole move not to include him after Yeison.” I thanked him and said I’d ask, though I wasn’t sure I even wanted Miguel there — the point was not to out him, unless that was Zack’s plan. I didn’t trust his intentions anymore. It would also make things way more awkward with Yeison, and this outing was to reinforce our original parche — with two new members we needed to actually get to know. As much as I hated to admit it, Miguel would be a distraction.
The group agreed — and I felt my heart fly up into my chest. Yes. The plan was coming together. Now I just needed Juan Camilo to take me to buy a genuine Colombian cowboy hat.
After school, the usual invitation came from Carlos: “Ice cream? Same spot as before?”
Of course, I would go anywhere Carlos wanted to go. I just hoped I could control myself from drooling all over his ice cream cone.
I glanced at my message from Miguel — just a text-bubble emoji again. I didn’t respond.
Instead, I told my friends, “I’ll meet you there. Gotta let Juan Camilo know.” Juan Camilo ended up following us to the ice cream shop, much to my chagrin. He’d been starting to get “clingy” again, and I’d really started noticing it during my trip to Guatapé. Did he know something I didn’t know?
Surprising the heck out of me, Carlos pulled me aside as we were walking down the sidewalk to the ice cream shop. Sure, Carlos and I were friends, and I’d had more than a few jack-off sessions thinking about him sitting on my face with his tight, smooth, and muscled ass, but other than being part of the same group of friends, I didn’t really know much about him. You should know who your friends are, right?
And apparently, he’d been thinking the same thing. “So, how about we hang out together at the ice cream shop and the horse-riding trip and get to know each other a little better. I hardly know anything about you other than that you’re a gringo and you had that thing with Yeison.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Sure, that would be muy bacano!”
He returned my smile, and we kept walking.
Inside the clean, minimalist gelato shop — white marble, tall stools, faint music — the air smelled of espresso and fruit. I scanned the counter: cherimoya, guanábana, curuba.
Things tasted sweeter here, somehow.
I went for cherimoya; Carlos picked guanábana. We claimed a long wooden bench along the wall, our legs stretched out, sneakers brushing the tiled floor. At first, the conversation stumbled with little awkward pauses and quick glances, both of us … testing. But after a few minutes, it loosened, and we were talking like we’d known each other for more than a handful of casual hangouts.
He wanted to know about the U.S. — what I missed, what I didn’t. Then he flipped it, asking what I liked so far about Colombia. I told him, straight-faced, “All the hot boys,” and he nearly choked on his ice cream. The laugh that followed was warm and unguarded, and when he looked at me again, there was something in his eyes — just a flicker — before he glanced away.
From there, we slid into safer territory — his sports obsession: soccer (obviously) and lifting. Then he told me about tejo, an old Colombian game where you throw a metal disk at a clay target that explodes. “It’s a national sport,” he said with a grin. “Loud, messy, and fun.” He offered to take me sometime, and I said yes before thinking about whether Miguel would approve.
Carlos was also clearly proud of his motorcycle and his deluxe Renault Duster — the ubiquitous SUV crossover here. He wasn’t into flashy or luxury cars like BMWs, Mustangs, Camaros, Mercedes, or Porsches; he was actually eyeing an electric vehicle soon and liked the BYD models. So yeah, he had money, but he didn’t flash it or blow it on stuff he didn’t need. He was humble. I really liked that about him.
He mentioned wrestling — not the over-the-top lucha libre, but the real thing — and he was on the school team. He talked about it with a quiet, focused intensity you don’t fake. The more we talked, the more I realized he wasn’t just another pretty face in our group. He was sharp — smarter than he let on — funny in a dry, self-deprecating way, and genuinely kind and generous. But he also had a shyness that made him fade into the background when the whole group was together, which was odd, because with his looks, easy charm, and athletic ability, he could’ve rivaled Miguel in the popularity department at school.
I told him so, and he shrugged like the idea had never occurred to him — or maybe like it had, but he’d decided he wanted no part of it. Popularity didn’t interest him. That made me like him even more.
Somewhere in the middle of that thought, I caught him watching me again — not staring, exactly, but holding my gaze a second longer than necessary. And maybe I imagined the corner of his mouth twitching into the start of a smile before he looked back at his ice cream.
I thought we could be great friends. I wanted us to be. Obviously, he couldn’t come close to Miguel in my heart — we’d already crossed the Rubicon in that regard — but I was desperate for more people in my corner, people I could trust. And Carlos? He fit the bill perfectly. The fact that he was hot didn’t hurt. And maybe — just maybe — I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
Nearby, Ricardo launched into a passionate rant, half in English and half in Spanish, about the city's new security policies. “The police need better equipment, but we’re throwing money at curfews instead. It’s not the same!” Carlos and Stiven nodded, but Yeison’s jaw tightened. Ferney was complaining about how long it now took to get to school with all the roadblocks, and Stiven noted how it made it harder to hook up (of course). And I realized: everyone had new stories to tell. I felt momentarily proud — new boys, new perspectives — but a pang stabbed my gut. Where did I belong now? Where did I fit in? I felt like I was leading a secret life and wasn’t even really part of the parche anymore, in a sense. And I realized that I missed the camaraderie.
Suddenly: BOOM!!!
A wall of sound exploded behind the ice cream counter. The shop rattled violently. Mirrors danced, paint chips rained down, and the floor lurched beneath us. A second, louder blast followed. I could tell the explosions weren’t that far away, as I noted the damage around us.
“¡Al suelo! Get down!” The voice was fierce — Juan Camilo. He dove across the table, drawing his Glock pistol, eyes blazing yet focused.
Tables overturned. Glass shattered. A third explosion tore away half the front window, spraying glass like diamonds in the air. Masks of terror formed on the faces of my friends. I dove beneath the bench, pulling Carlos with me.
A storm of gunfire erupted outside — short bursts, staccato crackling. The police checkpoint that once guarded the corner was gone; police lay slumped. An officer’s arm twitched over a shattered shield. The sidewalk writhed with bodies, blurred and unmoving. Blood spattered the white tiles at my feet, dark and congealing.
Smoke and chaos penetrated the store. I felt Carlos holding my hand. He pressed his body over mine. “I’m here. Te tengo.” His voice sounded distorted. The smell of urine reached my nose, and I realized I had pissed myself. Yeah, Carlos was going to find that really attractive. I felt like a total wuss.
A deafening boom shook the building again, this time a little further away, I thought … I hoped. I didn’t know for sure. Then the gunfire paused, but the ringing in my ears throbbed. Fear and adrenaline clashed inside me like rattling sabers.
Juan Camilo poked his head out and shouted in English and Spanish: “Shelter in place. No one moves until the army gets here. Repito, resguardense. Que nadie se mueva hasta que llegue el ejército.”
His eyes found mine — and I saw both strength and fear in them.
Suddenly, a man in plain clothes, cradling what looked like an AK-47-style assault rifle, stepped into the doorway. All of us stayed crouched behind the overturned tables, the air thick with dust and the bitter sting of spilled coffee. He swept the room slowly, muzzle first, his eyes hunting. My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath locked in my throat, and I squeezed Carlos’s hand as he still lay covering my body until my knuckles ached; he squeezed back. I prayed — silently, desperately — that he’d just keep walking.
Then Juan Camilo rose, just enough for the barrel of his Glock to clear the table’s edge. The gunshot shattered the air, deafening and sharp, the smell of cordite burning into my sinuses. The intruder’s head snapped back with a wet, cracking pop, a crimson mist blooming behind him. For a fraction of a second, his body seemed confused about what had happened — knees buckling, fingers twitching around the rifle’s grip — before gravity took him. He hit the floor with a heavy, final thud, like a bag of meat dropped from a rooftop, the sound reverberating through the silence that followed. Somewhere in the distance, a spoon clinked against tile.
Ten minutes ticked by. The acrid smell of cordite filled my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut. Prayers tumbled in my mind. Over and over: Get me out! Keep us alive! I had to admit, though, I felt safer having Carlos with me. What were the odds that today, of all days, he’d wanted to talk to me, and he was protecting me now, the best he could? He was literally my hero.
Roughly an hour later — although it seemed like much longer — men’s voices approached, shouting rapid-fire orders in Spanish. The engine roar of a Humvee. A soldier in full tactical gear burst through the shattered doorway. A medic followed, hurried and grim. Juan Camilo gave commands; they pulled the wounded out. Most of the injuries appeared to be from the broken glass. I hadn’t seen anyone shot. I helped lift Juan Felipe, whose arm was scraped and bleeding.
“¿Estamos a salvo ahora?” Ricardo whispered, voice trembling. He was clearly in shock.
The soldier nodded. “Evacuación: ponerse de pie y moverse en fila india.”
I allowed analgesic relief into my mind as I stood, Carlos and I supporting each other. We shuffled out, blinking in the streetlight. Outside, a burned-out police truck lay on its side, shattered. Blood pooled under the canopy. The smell of barbecued meat from a nearby cart blended with burning rubber.
Then I heard crackling over the radio: “Hay dos muertos dentro: una mujer y un adolescente.” My heart skipped a beat. Two deaths, including one adolescent? I prayed to God that it wasn’t someone from our group. I’d never prayed harder in my life.
On the street, a column of camo-painted Humvees with .50-caliber machine guns passed, along with ambulances, and escorted by two EE-9 Cascavel armored fighting vehicles, their large gun turrets slowly rotating from side to side. The only noise was heavy breathing, the roar of the vehicles’ engines, distant sirens, and the hum of helicopters overhead.
Zack wrapped an arm around Juan Felipe, whispering, “You okay, man? Talk to me.”
Stiven, ashen-faced but steady, whispered facts. “This was coordinated. They targeted police stations in several cities.”
“How do you know”? asked Carlos, still trembling.
“Alerts on my phone,” replied Stiven, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The jungle weekend flashed back. Guatapé. The lake. Miguel at the bow of the boat. The church in Sabaneta. Safe. Now, carnage again. We declared it over after the government’s massive counter-attack; saying it out loud was easier than admitting we expected it to hit back even harder. Whereas most of the fighting in recent years had been relegated to the jungles and mountains between the government forces and the narcos and guerrillas, it was now back to the cities, where it hadn’t affected the people in many years. It was bad. Really bad. I suddenly thought of my dad and hoped that he was okay.
I fished my phone out of my pocket. No signal. Emergency services messages muttering. I tried calling Miguel. Nothing. No voicemail. I also tried my dad, but nothing.
My chest seized. Heat rushed to my face. Rage and terror churned.
Where in the hell was Miguel? Was he still at school? Was the school attacked? I was a mess, just trying to get any information I could, but it was hard to come by. No one seemed to know much about what was going on, except that it was the cartel's most brazen attack yet.
They brought the bodies out in silence. First, a middle-aged woman — shirt torn to pieces, skin waxy, eyes half-closed — the kind of stillness you don’t need explained. The next stretcher came slower. Dust on the lashes, blood at the hairline, blanket to the chin. No mask, no compressions, no hurry. For a beat, he was just a shape — then the fade at his temple, the beaded bracelet, the unmistakable tattoos along his ribs and on his arms. Ferney. A soldier eased the blanket over his face as a medic muttered to another, “Parece que ambos murieron por esquirlas.” Juan Camilo leaned in, voice low: “Shrapnel. Both of them.” That was the second the war stopped being “out there” and stepped straight into my chest.
Around us, the world splintered — sirens and radios, glass under boots, someone praying, someone swearing. Ricardo folded, sobbing; Yeison’s jaw clenched like he was chewing stone. Carlos locked both arms around me, and I held him back because we needed each other to stay upright. None of us had ever been this close to the cost before. I couldn’t scream; I couldn’t cry; I just shook, the medic’s words looping in my head. We stood there until orders cut through the noise and the street began to move again, waiting for the all-clear.
Ricardo was the only friend without a ride when the army gave the all-clear, so Juan Camilo and I hustled him to my SUV. Inside, Officer Santiago — face set — looked relieved. He was carrying a military-grade assault rifle now, not just a pistol. We piled in. Tears streaked Ricardo’s face; I rubbed his cold fingers. For the first time, Juan Camilo hit the siren. We sped to El Poblado, where streets crawled with police, soldiers, heavy weapons, EE-9 Cascavel armored cars, and U.S.-made M1117 Guardians, while helicopters hammered overhead.
At home, I got Ricardo onto the sofa and settled while we figured out the next steps. He was safe here; we’d keep him until we reached his family and could get him home. I flipped on the news: Bogotá — government buildings firebombed. Cali — market ambush. Medellín — financial district chaos. Cartagena — massive attack on a coast guard station and naval base. Smaller attacks and skirmishes were reported across jungle and mountain regions where guerrillas and narcos were strongest.
The TV flickered over burning barricades, bullet-riddled buses, terrified civilians hiding behind cars, and helicopters circling like vultures. Anchor voices trembled. Cities erupting again. The media were reporting that this attack was larger and even better coordinated than the last one.
Still no sign of Miguel either.
In the kitchen, Doña Susana sobbed quietly, clutching a towel over her mouth. Juan Camilo stood like a statue, gun holstered but hand ready. Officer Santiago was on the sofa, watching the news, with his assault rifle across his lap.
I slid to the floor beside my phone, fists clenching.
Juan Camilo crouched down gently. “Breathe. He’s probably safe… anxious, but okay.”
I nodded once. Probably. But probably wasn't enough.
I was still worried about my dad, too. Juan Camilo assured me that he was probably safe at the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá, where he was scheduled to be today, and that the place was like a fortress, guarded by heavily armed U.S. Marines. There was no way the cartels would attack that place, or they would risk almost immediate direct U.S. military retaliation.
Without another word, I opened my phone, looking for Miguel’s contact. My fingers trembled. I dialed again.
Again: No answer.
My phone beeped: text message from Miguel. I swallowed saliva. Slowly opened it.
Miguel: “I’m okay bebé. Blew a tire. Road blocked. Headed home soon.”
My heart lurched. Air rushed back into my chest. I exhaled, tears spilling. I crouched, head bowed.
“It’s okay,” I whispered to no one. “He’s okay.” Now, I just needed to see him, to touch him, to be sure it was real.
Meanwhile, outside, the city bled — once again awash in a narco-war. I didn’t know who or what had picked that intersection. But I knew this: my life in Medellín had changed.
I looked back at the TV. Helicopters, military convoys, neighborhood sirens. Behind them, windowed skyscrapers and bullet-pocked mansions — the war everywhere.
And then: a soft buzz — another text from Miguel.
Miguel: “Home now. I’m okay. Love you. Be safe. See you soon, I promise.”
I exhaled, more tears slipping down. I whispered into the living room light: I love you, too.
I texted him back to let him know that Ricardo was with us now while we tried to locate his family. Miguel’s only response was, “OK.” I was sure he was jealous as hell, but he’d have to get over it. It wasn’t my fault that Ricardo was super thin, with a tiny little ass, curly black hair, a baby face, and a monster-sized cock. And, of course, I would never do anything with him. We were just friends, and Miguel had to accept that.
I switched to a voice call — I needed his voice, not bubbles on a screen. I told him about Ferney. Miguel hadn’t really known him, but he was careful with me, like holding something cracked. I said this was the closest the war had ever gotten to me. He was quiet a beat, then — steady, almost too steady — said, “No es la primera vez para mí. Not even close.”
As I lay in bed with Ricardo next to me, still trembling, I wondered whether this war would ever stop. It had been raging for decades, in one form or another, from political violence to narco violence. What could a couple of DEA agents like my dad do to stop it? What was the Colombian government going to do to finally stop it? Tit-for-tat attacks weren’t the solution, but then what was?
Later that night, I dreamt that I was back with Ferney that day at his house. He was leaning against the wall in his bedroom while I fucked him from behind, holding on to his slender hips as I thrust into him, gently at first, then harder and faster, his moans getting more high-pitched and urgent. When I finished inside him, I turned him around, but it wasn’t the bright, youthful face of my friend in my arms, but his corpse.
I woke myself with a scream and bolted for the bathroom, retching hard into the toilet. Ricardo was there in seconds, his palm steady between my shoulder blades while the dry heaves burned out. I rinsed, brushed, spat mint and bile, and let him steer me back to bed. He pulled me in and held on tightly. My body finally went still; my mind didn’t. I barely slept.
***
Chaos. Pure chaos. That was the only word that came to mind whenever I turned on the TV or scrolled through my phone. The aftermath of Monday’s terrorist attacks felt like something out of a nightmare — except it was very, very real. Especially now that it had killed one of my own friends.
My dad managed to call me that night. Just long enough to let me know he was alive. His voice was tight and distracted, heavy with tension I hadn’t heard before.
“We’re gonna get him, son,” he said, determinedly. “If we could get Escobar and the Cali Cartel, these fuckers don’t stand a chance. And I strongly believe that this time, the U.S. will get involved. To what degree remains to be seen. The administration has classified this cartel as a terrorist organization now, which will lead to more resources for us.”
I’d never heard my father swear like that in front of me before, only when he was talking with his DEA buddies, and he didn’t think I was in earshot.
“I’m okay, Hunter,” he said. “I can’t talk long. Things are moving quickly. Just… stay put, alright? You’re under full lockdown. Listen to Juan Camilo. And I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Wait — what’s going on? Are you in danger?” I asked, heart pounding.
“I’m safe, don’t worry. But you know I can’t tell you where I am or where I’m going. But I may not be home in a while. This is big. Bigger than before. You just hang in there, okay?”
Then the line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a long time, trying to breathe.
School was canceled for the rest of the week, obviously. The streets were eerily quiet except for the constant thrum of helicopters and the occasional flash of police lights down side streets. News anchors looped the same shaky clips — smoke curling from blown-out windows, charred trucks, civilians led away from collapsed buildings.
New lockdown rules kicked in, and the city felt tighter. People could leave home only on certain days based on the last two digits of their cédula; on your day, you could buy groceries, go to the pharmacy, or hit the bank — nothing else. Get caught off-schedule or off-mission, and the fines could wreck your month.
Most restaurants kept kitchens running, but dining rooms stayed dark. You ordered on Rappi or Uber Eats and waited for a motorcycle to buzz your building. Friends said it felt like the COVID lockdowns in 2020 — only this time the fear wasn’t a virus.
The worst part? I couldn’t see anyone — not even the two newest in our crew, Juan Felipe and Stiven. And no Miguel. That hurt most. Not hearing his voice, not being able to touch him, was torture. With a father that powerful, he was exactly the kind of high-value target kidnappers might go after in chaos. I was scared. Terrified. All I could do was wait and worry.
After a few days, we reached Ricardo’s parents, and Juan Camilo arranged an armored vehicle to take him home. I’d miss him; he’d been my only company those first, terrifying days. I did manage to see “the monster” in the bathroom one evening as he was coming out of the shower, and he was fully boned up for some reason. It was truly a sight to behold, and what I wouldn’t have given to drop down to my knees and suck on it until I passed out. But, of course, my wish did not come true.
Juan Camilo and Officer Santiago set up a round-the-clock security rotation and added more cameras, their red lights blinking through the night. Down the block, a squad of heavily armed Policía Militar stood guard — part of El Poblado’s broader militarization after the attacks. Our compound hired two additional guards, and all now patrolled with shotguns. Even Max was limited to quick, tightly supervised walks with Juan Camilo or Santiago; thank goodness for the small backyard, where he could at least run a little, though he was getting cabin fever like the rest of us.
The only thing I wanted was to see Miguel. And maybe hang out with Carlos, too. I felt a new, strange bond with Carlos after what we went through together that day at the ice cream shop, just as we were really starting to get to know each other and become friends. The most we could do now was text each other, which we did a lot. Of course, I texted Miguel regularly, but he never seemed to say much, which worried me.
Juan Camilo gave me a few private lessons on firearms — starting with the Glock he always carried, then his sleek IWI Galil ACE rifle from Israel — since we couldn’t go to a range. He showed me the basics: check it’s unloaded, load and reload the magazine, flip the safety, grip and aim properly, and follow the rules of responsible handling, and I paid close attention because this wasn’t just for show. I still hoped to God I’d never have to use any of it; the idea of firing at another human being — even a “bad guy” — made my stomach twist.
By Wednesday, I was going out of my mind. The walls felt like they were shrinking. I lay on the couch with the curtains drawn, phone clutched in one hand, flipping endlessly between Twitter, WhatsApp, and the news.
At one point, Miguel texted:
Miguel: “Are you okay, amor?”
Me: “Yeah. Shaken up. But safe. You?”
Miguel: “I wish I were with you. I would’ve protected you. I
swear.”
Me: “I know you would. I wanted to call you a hundred times during it.”
Miguel: “I would take a bullet for you, Hunter. I mean that.”
That last line made my heart hurt. Not just ache — hurt. I didn’t even know what to say, so I just typed:
Me: “I love you. ❤️”
Miguel: “I love you more. ❤️❤️❤️ This world is crazy, but you’re the only
thing that makes sense.”
Later that night, we were finally able to FaceTime. He was in his room, lying on his side, the lighting soft and warm. His hair was messy, eyes tired but still sparkling when he saw me.
“God, I missed your face,” I whispered.
He smiled faintly. “It’s only been a day.”
“Feels like a year.”
He paused. “What if this gets worse, Hunter? What if — what if the U.S. pulls you out of Colombia?”
My stomach dropped. “There’s a rumor about that,” I admitted. “Family members might be sent to a safe zone. I don’t even know what that means. Or they could evacuate all non-essential personnel, which would include me.”
“I can’t lose you,” Miguel said, looking like he was on the verge of tears. “If they try to take you, I’ll — I’ll follow you. Anywhere.”
“Miguel…”
“I mean it. I can’t be without you!” he practically shouted, and I could see the tears welling in his eyes.
Everything felt so intense, every emotion heightened.
I couldn’t stop myself. I reached toward the screen like a kid, wishing I could touch his cheek. “Let’s not talk about losing each other. Let’s talk about what we’ll do after this.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “What’s the first thing you want to do when things calm down?”
“You,” I said, giving him a lecherous grin.
He smirked. “Besides that, corazón.”
“A day with you. Just… walking, holding hands. No guards. No drama. Just being normal.”
“You and me, together against the world,” he said. “Always.”
I really needed him. He wasn’t just my boyfriend. He was my best friend. Maybe the best friend I’d ever had. And it had all happened so quickly, like it was destined to be.
That night, I cried quietly after the call ended. Not because I was scared of dying. But because, for the first time in my life, I had someone I couldn’t bear to lose.
The next morning, my friends started texting more actively again in our WhatsApp group chat.
Zack: “Okay, I’m officially bored. Is this what prison feels like?”
Me: “Worse. At least in prison, you get yard time.”
Ricardo: “I miss soccer. I miss sunlight. If this goes on much longer, I’ll probably even miss school.”
Carlos: “I hope they don’t start up that online class crap again.”
Ricardo: “I’ll send nudes to anyone who’s feeling down jajajajajajaja ❤️”
I would have gladly accepted, under normal circumstances, but I was really trying to be a good boy now. I was certainly intrigued by the idea, though.
Stiven: “@Ricardo or I can sneak off to your place when it’s my day to go out, and we can make a video for OnlyFans. I’ll split the profits with you 50-50. ??”
Carlos: “Just relax, everybody. It’ll all be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”
The banter helped — a little. It also felt a bit staged, like we were reading lines. I didn’t buy Carlos’s optimism; everything outside still looked wrecked. No one said Ferney’s name. We were scared of it — like speaking it would make him more gone. With the lockdown, none of us could go to his funeral, so I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye to a friend — and, once, a lover. The thought rubbed my heart raw. I felt guilty for not trying to get closer to him, and I think he would have liked that.
By Thursday afternoon, we managed to set up a Zoom call. It was glitchy and awkward, with everyone talking over each other, but for thirty glorious minutes, I felt slightly normal again. Thank God for technology. If only technology could bring Ferney back or give me a hug from Miguel.
Zack told us his mom was organizing a care package drive for local hospitals. Ricardo said his dad might be volunteering with the Red Cross. Stiven was obsessing over the politics of it all, warning that if things escalated, Colombia might fall back into civil war. Carlos just wanted to go riding around on his motorcycle — anywhere. Yeison mainly stayed quiet, except to say he was safe and okay, and that his parents were, too.
At one point, Zack asked, “Hey, Hunter. How’s Miguel holding up?”
I hesitated, not wanting to say too much in front of Yeison … or anyone. That little shit knew I didn’t want to talk about Miguel in front of the guys, or anyone. “I have no idea. Maybe you should ask him,” I said.
I didn’t know what that dude’s problem was, but it was really pissing me off. He used to be my best friend here in Colombia, and now I wouldn’t even call him a friend. I wish he’d just leave the group and stay the fuck out of my life!
After we logged off, Miguel called me again — this time from the balcony of his finca in Llanogrande, where he’d been holed up since the renewed violence. The view behind him was breathtaking: rolling green hills stretched into the horizon, and in the distance, a few horses galloped freely across the open pasture. He was shirtless, his hair still damp, his skin catching the last blush of sunset. I could’ve stared at him forever. I’d once told him his skin reminded me of cappuccino, warm and rich and velvety. He laughed and said he preferred latte — smoother, lighter. Either way, it was beautiful. He was beautiful.
“You look like a painting,” I told him.
“Paintings don’t get hard when they look at you,” he replied, smirking.
I snorted, blushing hard. “Not fair.”
He grew serious again. “Hunter… I don’t want to scare you. But this war — it’s not just headlines to me. I’ve lost people to the constant war here. Friends. Family. And I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“You won’t,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I wish I could hold you right now.”
“I wish I could fall asleep next to you tonight.”
“One day,” he said, “We’ll have our own place. Somewhere safe. Not here. Maybe… somewhere new. I’ll work. You’ll write your books. We’ll have a dog. A big dumb one.”
“I want that,” I said. “So much it hurts.”
He then told me that on the next day he was permitted to go out, he’d be returning to his apartment in Medellín. He said it felt too isolated being alone at his big house in Llanogrande, and he wanted to be closer to me if anything happened. I kept trying to think of ways we could possibly meet up, even for just a few minutes, like going to buy groceries or going to the pharmacy for something, but I knew Juan Camilo would never allow it. I didn’t understand why Juan Camilo wouldn’t just go out, pick up Miguel, and bring him back to ride out the storm with me here. He kept saying, “No, it’s not a good idea right now, Mr. Hunter.” But he never elaborated.
Miguel kissed the screen. “Sleep well, mi amor. Dream of me.”
“I always do.”
The following Tuesday evening, we were still on lockdown, and I lay on the sofa staring up at the ceiling fan. It barely turned, more ornamental than functional. The power hadn’t gone out like in some parts of the city, but it still felt like the whole country had come to a standstill. Juan Camilo was in the kitchen with Officer Santiago, reviewing intel reports. My dad hadn’t been home since before this latest round of fighting, and we had no idea when he would. Supposedly, he was at the embassy coordinating incoming DEA agents and meeting with Colombian security officials. That meant the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Therefore, most of my days were filled with watching movies, taking naps, texting my friends, and masturbating. Lots of masturbating.
I texted Miguel again.
Me: “You doing okay?”
Miguel: “Not really. This whole thing is so fucked up. I can’t stop thinking about how easily we could have been at that ice cream shop together.”
Me: “Yeah… that could’ve been us. It’s so messed up. I’ve never been that close to gunfire before. I still hear it in my head sometimes. And I’ve never lost a friend before.”
Miguel: “I hear it too. And the explosions. And I wasn’t even there. But I imagine you, curled up under that table, scared out of your mind, and I hate myself for not being there.”
Me: “Don’t say that! It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. Nobody knew. And Carlos was with me. He covered my body with his. He made sure I was safe.”
As soon as I sent that last message, mentioning Carlos, I knew it was a mistake. Miguel was going to get super jealous. It was a few minutes until I received his next message.
Miguel: “It’s a good thing he was there. I will have to thank him later.”
I wasn't expecting that response, though I didn’t know how sincere it was.
My hands suddenly started to tremble slightly as I held the phone. I hated this invisible wall between us. I hated that I could only hold his words and not him. I hated that I felt this angst constantly in my life, nearly endlessly, except when I was with him. When he was near, I was calm.
Me: “I feel so selfish even saying it, but right now, I don’t care about what’s happening out there, I just need to be with you. I wish Juan Camilo would stop being such a dickhead and go pick you up so we could at least be bored and miserable together.”
He didn’t respond for a while, and when he did, it was a voice message. I pressed play and heard his voice — soft, heavy.
“Te extraño mucho, mi querido. No te imaginas la angustia que siento cuando no estamos juntos. I miss your laugh. I miss your smile. I miss how you look at me when you think I’m not watching. I miss waking up next to you, even when you steal the cobijas. I miss your stupid American T-shirts and gringo accent when you speak Spanish. I miss everything. Everything feels darker without you.”
I listened to it, like, five times in a row. Just hearing his voice helped to tether me.
Later that night, my phone lit up with an incoming FaceTime from Carlos. I propped it against a glass on my desk and answered, and his face filled the screen — slightly pixelated, hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. I hadn’t talked to him one-on-one since the bombing, except through text messages, even though I’d thought of him often.
“Hey, monito,” he said, grinning. “Still alive over there?”
“Barely,” I said. “I’m surviving on instant noodles and bad Netflix decisions.”
Carlos laughed, and the sound came through warm and clear. “That’s basically my diet right now. My mom’s threatening to cut the Wi-Fi, so I’ll stop binge-watching dumb telenovelas.”
“I’d riot,” I said. “You can’t just take away a man’s Wi-Fi in times like these. It’s inhumane. But telenovelas? Seriously? I didn’t take you for that kind of guy.”
He smirked, leaning closer to his camera so I could see the faint dimple in his cheek.
“She keeps saying I should ‘use the time productively’ — which apparently means cleaning out the garage or studying. I mostly just go back and forth from the couch or my bed to the gym. Working out helps. It would help you if you tried to get some exercise, too.”
“God, I can actually picture you in the garage,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “All sweaty and annoyed, tossing boxes around.” I tried to avoid thinking of him pumping iron in the gym, his muscles rippling.
He tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “Glad you’re picturing me sweaty.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m imagining you covered in cobwebs and dust.”
“Still hot,” he said with mock confidence, and for some reason, my brain didn’t immediately disagree.
We drifted into talking about school, the classes we were missing, the teachers we didn’t miss at all. He told me about how his little cousin had built an obstacle course in the living room — complete with couch-cushion hurdles — and how his abuela kept feeding him, as if the world was ending tomorrow.
“I think I’ve gained like three kilos,” he said, patting his stomach just enough for the camera to catch it.
“Good. You were starting to make the rest of us look bad.”
His smile widened. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
“Take it however you want,” I said, but I could feel my own smile lingering a little too long.
The call went on longer than I’d expected — past the point where either of us had anything important to say. Or maybe we were just that bored … or lonely. He moved from his desk to his bed, lying on his side with the phone propped up, and I mirrored him without thinking. There was something strangely easy about it, like the screen wasn’t really there.
At one point, there was a lull. Not awkward — just quiet. He was scrolling through something on his phone, and I found myself watching the way the bluish light from the screen caught the angles of his face.
“I’m glad we’re talking more now,” he said finally, not looking up right away.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Me too.”
And for a few seconds, it didn’t feel like we were in lockdown, or that the city outside was holding its breath. It just felt like the two of us, sprawled on our beds, talking about nothing — and somehow that felt like everything. For the rest of the day, I felt a little more bounce in my step than usual.
On Wednesday afternoon, Miguel FaceTimed me from his bedroom. His hair was a mess, and he was wearing that oversized Colombia soccer jersey he knew I liked. The moment the call connected, his face lit up.
"Mi amor," he said softly. "You look tired."
"I am," I admitted. "I barely slept. The helicopters keep flying overhead."
"Same here. They flew over my house all night. I feel like I live in a war zone."
"In a way… we do."
"I know."
We were quiet for a while, just watching each other. He reached toward his screen like he could touch my face. "If I had a teleporter, I'd be in your arms right now."
I smiled. "We’d never leave the bed again."
"Never," he echoed, eyes darkening slightly. Then, softer: "I hate being apart from you. It’s like I’m only half a person."
“Media naranja,” I said softly.
“Sí, bebé,” he said, sighing.
That made my throat tighten. I leaned my head against the wall.
He bit his lip and continued, "I want you in my life, Hunter. For real. After this chaos ends… I want to talk seriously about what comes next. How we stay together … for real. Long-term."
A spark of hope flared in my chest.
"Well, we’re only sixteen, but okay," I agreed. "Let’s talk about it. When this all ends, let’s figure it out."
Later that night, I messaged Ricardo too. I hadn't heard much from him since we’d taken him back home.
Me: “How are you doing? Been thinking about you.”
Ricardo: “I'm okay. My mom won't even let me go into the backyard. She’s freaking out.”
Me: “So what do you do all day?”
Ricardo: “Masturbate.”
Hunter: Jajajajajajajaja, it’s just good to hear from you, hermano.
Ricardo: You too. You know, you’re kind of like the glue in our group, Hunter. You’re the one who got us all together, nuestro parche. Don’t forget that.
I just stared at the screen. Me? The glue? I’d never pictured myself that way. It hit warm and a little guilty, because I’d been MIA for weeks, pouring everything into Miguel. That changes now, I thought. I’m showing up — for all of us. Well … maybe not for that little gossipy toad, Zack.
Thursday evening, Miguel called again. This time, his voice was more serious.
"My dad’s been acting… strange," he said.
"How?"
"Just… closed off. On the phone all the time. Whispering. And when I asked him about the attacks, he changed the subject."
I felt a cold stab of anxiety. "What do you think about that? I thought you hadn’t seen him in a while.”
Miguel exhaled slowly. "I don’t know. But I’m scared. Not just for him. For us. He’s been back home the last couple of days but says he will be going to Panama soon, like in another day or two."
"You mean because of everything going on?"
“No, he says it’s a business trip. He won’t let all of this shut down his businesses.”
"We’ll figure it out," I said. "I’m not going anywhere. No matter what happens."
"I love you, Hunter."
I swallowed hard. "I love you too."
He smiled. "Say it again?"
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."
"Once more."
"I love you, Miguelito."
He closed his eyes, let it sink in. "God, I needed that."
I fell asleep that night with my phone on my chest, our messages still glowing softly in the dark. The sounds of distant helicopters buzzed above. Dogs barked down the street.
Somewhere far off, a siren wailed into the night.
But all I could think about was Miguel.
And how, no matter what chaos the world tried to throw at us, I couldn’t lose him.
***
For over two weeks, we’d been locked inside our homes like prisoners, allowed out only on assigned errand days — not that I even got that privilege. Life in Colombia had shrunk to whispers through cracked windows, the hum of helicopters, and the endless replay of the same horrors on TV. The economy had stalled; entire towns were barricaded. Streets were nearly empty except for soldiers and armored vehicles, rifles angled down but ready. People whispered that the past was returning — car bombs, disappearances, gunfights in broad daylight.
Even in Medellín’s wealthiest neighborhoods, the air was heavy with tension. The casualties weren’t faceless anymore — they had names, stories, faces. Two U.S. Army Rangers had been killed in an IED attack near Barranquilla, their convoy ambushed while trying to capture a cartel lieutenant. Everyone was rattled — locals, expats, the government, the press. Expats were fleeing by the thousands, and protests filled plazas across the country, candles and banners demanding peace, action, and justice. The nation felt like it was coming apart, while the weak leftist president seemed powerless — or unwilling — to stop it, blamed for his soft stance on the cartels and cozy ties with guerrillas. Now it was all exploding in his face.
Starting Monday, school would move online. At least that would give me something to do besides staring at the TV or tossing a ball for Max. I needed some interaction, anything to keep my brain from unraveling. Texting or FaceTiming with Miguel and Carlos helped, but not enough. I needed to see Miguel — to touch him, hold him, kiss him, feel his breath as he whispered that he loved me. And I wanted to thank Carlos for shielding me in the ice cream shop, covering me with his body without hesitation. People like him don’t come along often, and I wanted to hold on to that. Miguel had said he’d take a bullet for me, too, and the thought sent a shiver down my spine.
The past few days, I’d been anxious, restless, and low. More than usual. I hadn’t worn real clothes in weeks — just baggy T-shirts and boxers. I stopped showering daily, forgot meals, and barely slept. My mind replayed everything — the gunfire, our dead headmistress, the wounded officers, Ricardo bleeding in the hallway, Ferney’s body on a stretcher, Carlos’s weight over me as he tried to protect me. Sometimes I thought about feeling him close again, holding his hand, and immediately felt guilty, which only made the spiral worse.
Miguel and I talked constantly, but it wasn’t enough. I missed his skin, his scent, his arms — and I couldn’t shake the fear that we were slipping away from each other, that I’d lose him to the violence or to time and distance. I didn’t want to go back to my old ways, chasing affection wherever I could find it. Since Miguel, he’s been the only boy I’ve wanted. I’d trade a hundred flings for one night just sleeping beside him.
Sunday night, the night before our first day of remote classes, I was on the phone with Miguel, venting again about my paranoia, my anxiety, my restlessness, how I couldn’t stop imagining terrible scenarios. The darkness. It was consuming me again. He’d become the only person who could talk me down.
“I feel like I’m going crazy,” I muttered, pacing the living room with my phone pressed against my ear. “Like… what if you fall out of love with me or something?”
Miguel laughed softly, though there was a tightness to it. “¿En serio, amor? After all this time and everything we’ve been through? ¡No digas eso, mi rey!”
“I know it’s stupid,” I said. “I just—”
“No. No es estúpido. You are scared. I am scared, too. But please, Hunter, listen to me. I love you. I am not going anywhere. And this will all be over soon, and we’ll be back together before you know it, and we will do so many fun things together. I will show you all the beautiful places in Colombia, although none of them are nearly as beautiful as you, mi monito.”
Just as I was about to respond, he cut in sharply. “Wait. Turn on the news. Now. Caracol.”
“Oh fuck! What? What’s happening now?”
“Just do it,” he insisted.
The only thing I could think of was another horrible attack. Maybe this time it would be dead DEA agents …
I scrambled for the remote and flipped on the TV. My breath caught — the president of Colombia was speaking live. He stood stiffly at a podium with a forest of microphones, flanked by military brass in full dress uniform. Old men long past their fighting days.
“I can’t understand what he’s saying,” I said. “Is it another attack?”
Miguel’s voice was tense in my ear. “No. It’s… He says there is a bilateral ceasefire effective immediately. Between the government and the narcos and guerrillas in all the departamentos in the country.”
My jaw slackened. “Wait. Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Miguel breathed. “He says the Clan de Bahía Sur must also stop, or they will be… exterminated.”
My stomach twisted. “That’s a big ‘if.’”
Miguel didn’t answer right away. Finally, he whispered, “But it is hope.”
I stared at the screen, disbelief warring with relief. I didn’t want to believe it. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
“I have to call my dad,” I said. “I’ll call you right back.”
He hesitated. “Okay. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
When my dad picked up the phone, his voice was calm but clipped. “Hey, son. I figured you’d call.”
“Is it real?” I asked. “The ceasefire?”
“Yes. For now. The Vatican brokered it during secret peace talks in Havana, Cuba. But we’ll see how long it lasts. This could be just a shift in tactics.”
“Are the lockdowns ending?”
“Soon, hopefully. They’re reviewing curfew orders now. The cartel has already agreed to the ceasefire, and the guerrillas will do whatever the cartel says, or their funding stops. You’ll probably be able to go out again later this week. But don’t expect things to go back to normal right away. We still haven’t caught ‘El Chino,’ and this war will never truly be over until then.”
“The war will never truly be over, period,” I said.
“What do you mean?” my father asked cautiously.
“As long as there is a market for drugs, there will be people willing to supply them, and with all the money involved, there will always be violence. This isn’t a war we can ever win. We got Pablo Escobar, the Cali Cartel, and Colombia today is producing way more cocaine now than it did back then. This war is a lost cause. You may take down one cartel, but another will always pop up to take its place. It’s pointless.”
His voice dropped. “You will never say that the work I do is ‘pointless’ again. Do you understand me? We are doing God’s work down here.”
And then the line went dead. You could say my views on the subject matter had been changing somewhat drastically since I’d been here, lived in the middle of this, and I wasn’t surprised that that didn’t sit well with my father. But in a couple of years, if they were still fighting like this, then it would be my friends, like Carlos, Ricardo, Yeison, Juan Felipe, Stiven, and other kids who would be fighting and dying in the jungles and mountains. Mandatory conscription had only recently ended. If the fighting continued at this pace, it would be very easy for them to bring it back.
That night, I texted the guys and set up a Zoom call. We hadn’t all chatted together in nearly a week. I didn’t care about protocol anymore — I added Miguel to the group. He had every right to be there.
When the screen filled with the familiar faces — Zack, Yeison, Ricardo, Carlos, Juan Felipe, Stiven, and now Miguel — my chest swelled. It wasn’t the same as being together in person, but it felt like coming home after a storm. I just didn’t know how the rest of the group was going to respond to Miguel, and we’d basically be confirming that we were together now. It could be a disaster.
“Holy crap, it’s good to see you guys,” Zack said, grinning.
“I forgot what everyone looked like,” Carlos joked. “I wish we had some aguardiente to celebrate with!”
“Hell yeah!” agreed Ricardo.
“I almost forgot what I looked like,” I muttered, lifting my shaggy blond hair.
Yeison offered a soft chuckle but mostly stayed quiet, eyes darting toward Miguel’s square in the Zoom grid. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Miguel. But they both saw each other. Acknowledged each other. It was awkward.
“It’s true, right?” Stiven asked, his face lit by the glow of his monitor. “The ceasefire?”
“Yeah,” Zack confirmed. “We just got a bulletin from the school. In-person classes resume on Tuesday.”
Cheers erupted.
“¡Por fin!” Ricardo shouted. “I’m tired of living like a monk.”
“We go to an all-boys’ school. How is going back to school going to help with your ‘problem’?” Carlos asked, laughing. “You sent like six thirst traps to the group chat last week, and in one of them I think I saw the tip of your chimbo.”
“Hey,” Ricardo said defensively. “Who said anything about girls! In fact, Juan Felipe is looking pretty good at the moment. And if you wanna see more explicit photos with my entire cock and my tiny culito, I’ll send you my secret Telegram. I’ve got plenty of cum shots, too. It’s a good way to make some extra cash until I’m old enough to get on OnlyFans, although it would be better with some colaboraciones!”
We all laughed — loud, real laughter — and I realized just how long it had been since any of us had felt safe enough to be teenagers. However, poor Juan Felipe had turned an unnatural shade of red after Ricardo’s comment about him. As for Ricardo’s foray into the world of vender contenido — selling explicit content — I wasn’t all that surprised. He had plenty to show off, he was hot, and his family desperately needed the money. So, the stories Zack had told me months ago about the sex industry's popularity in Colombia were true. And I couldn’t blame Ricardo. Yeah, he was underage, but it was a million times better than actually prostituting himself, like Brayan and Miguel Ángel.
“Okay,” Zack said, once the noise had died down, “We have to plan something. This weekend. A party. Get everyone together again.”
“Sí,” Juan Felipe agreed. “Un escape. Something fun. Maybe we can go swimming in the river in San Rafael? We can take the bus.”
They all looked at me. I cleared my throat.
“I kind of… I really need a weekend alone …,” I said, cringing. “For something … personal.”
Obviously, “alone” meant “with Miguel,” and “something personal” would probably be boinking each other’s brains out. And I was sure the rest of the group was thinking exactly along those lines, and I actually felt embarrassed that Carlos was probably thinking that, too. Shit!
Miguel raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. Zack blinked, then smirked.
“Ohhh. That kind of weekend.” Ricardo grinned. “I’m already jealous!”
“Well, then maybe the rest of us should get together to take care of ‘something personal’ in the meantime,” Stiven suggested, with a lecherous grin on his face.
I knew he was a naughty boy the second he joined our group. There was just something about him — that mischievous glint in his eyes, like he was already planning something. And of course, once my brain went there, I started imagining who in our group would eventually hook up with whom. Ricardo and Stiven definitely seemed like the horniest of the bunch, the ones most likely to be in it for “fun.” But then again, you always have to watch out for the quiet ones — like Juan Felipe. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. It was going to be entertaining to see how it all played out. And the best part? I got to watch from the sidelines, safely out of the drama, because I was already happily taken. And no drama meant no anxiety.
“You guys can count me out of that, thank you very much,” said Zack.
The others groaned in mock protest.
“You should at least let us help hook you up with a trashy grilla so you can finally desvirgarte,” insisted Ricardo. For the benefit of the two gringos, Stiven sent a chat message to the group explaining that desvirgar(se) was a very crude way of saying to lose one’s virginity.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Zack, rolling his eyes. “I prefer nice girls.”
“Who said they’re not nice?” questioned Stiven. “They’ll treat you real nice!”
Everyone laughed hysterically, me included. Maybe Zack wouldn’t be such a gossipy little bitch if he got some.
Yeison’s face darkened slightly, and I bit my lip, but said nothing. I couldn’t keep walking on eggshells. It was becoming increasingly uncomfortable having him around, knowing that he still wanted me but also seemed to like Miguel. It was all just a little too … awkwardly intense.
We ended the call an hour later, everyone making vague plans for the next week, already talking about what movies to watch, where to eat, and how to get past their parents' concerns for their safety; otherwise, they could get stuck with Juan Camilo cramping their style. My heart felt lighter than it had in days.
Then Miguel FaceTimed me, and everything inside me warmed.
I was still grinning when the FaceTime ring lit up my screen.
Miguel.
I didn’t even say hello. I just answered and stared at his face, letting the silence speak for itself. He was lying in bed shirtless, propped up on one elbow, his hair damp and messy like he’d just showered. A soft yellow light cast shadows across his cheekbones.
My heart squeezed a little.
“Hola, mi cielo,” he said softly, like a secret.
“I miss you,” I whispered, trying not to sound too pathetic.
“I miss you more,” he replied. “I miss you so bad, I almost texted your dog just to feel close to you.”
I snorted. “Max can’t read. And he doesn’t have a phone.”
“He probably can. He’s smarter than you sometimes. And I’ll get him a phone, help him set up WhatsApp, Instagram, and everything,” Miguel snickered.
“Rude … and weird.”
He laughed, looking so happy, and I wanted to crawl through the screen. “You look adorable tonight,” he added. “Your hair’s getting longer.”
“Quarantine chic,” I said, running my fingers through it. “I haven’t gotten a haircut in forever.”
“I like it. You look… soft. Like a gringo boy band member from the '90s. But if you really want a haircut, I can call my barbero and he’ll come to your place to do it. It only costs 50 mil pesos. He’s excellent.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll think about it. And are you trying to seduce me with compliments?”
“Always.”
The conversation shifted into a comfortable rhythm. We discussed the ceasefire further and its implications. He was optimistic — cautiously, but genuinely. I was more guarded, but seeing him helped. Just seeing his face, hearing him laugh. It made the last two weeks feel less like a slow, suffocating nightmare. I was surprised I made it through without having a serious breakdown and ending up locked up in a psych ward. It must have been all the calls and texts from Miguel that kept me going.
“So,” he said eventually, “you really want to spend the whole weekend alone with me?”
I froze for a second, then nodded.
He smirked. “Like, just us alone?”
I sighed. “Sí, Miguelito.”
“Hmm,” he said, pretending to think. “Alone in your room… in your bed… with no interruptions… no group chats blowing up… no military helicopters flying overhead…”
“Exactly.”
He paused. “So, um… when you said earlier that you needed the weekend alone with just me… what exactly did you mean by that?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know what I meant.”
“Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just an innocent and naïve Colombian boy being taken advantage of by the evil gringo.”
“You’re so not.”
“Hmmmmm. Explain it to me. Slowly.”
I groaned and flopped backward on my bed, covering my face with a pillow. “You’re evil.”
Miguel cackled. “Just say it, mi gringuito.”
I peeked out from under the pillow. “I want to… do stuff with you.”
“Oof. So romantic.”
“Okay, make love. Is that better?” I asked, huffing and rolling my eyes.
His voice dropped, sincere now. “Yeah. Mucho mejor. Qué rico …”
We both went quiet. I looked back at the screen, and he was gazing at me with that intense, magnetic look he always had when he got serious. I could feel it through the screen — the heat, the desire, but also the tenderness.
“I want that too,” he said softly. “So bad. Not just the sex. I want to hold you. Sleep next to you. Wake up with your legs tangled in mine.”
Was there some secret academy in Colombia where boys learned to speak this way — romantically, intimately — like Hogwarts, but swapping magic for seduction? Because he was frighteningly good at it… and honestly, most of the cute Colombian boys I’d met could flip that switch in a heartbeat. It was intoxicating — heat and honey wrapped in a voice — intense, magnetic, and shamelessly sexy. And when they laid it on thick, it could melt steel. And when they did it in Spanglish, they could hit me twice as hard — sweet in English, sinful in Spanish.
I swallowed hard, my chest aching with how much I missed him. “Me too,” I managed, my voice barely holding together. Another minute of this and I’d be a puddle on the floor. I couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like if he were here — close enough to hold me, to let his hands map every inch of me while that voice kept pouring into my ear. I might not just combust; I might detonate.
“Next weekend,” he said. “It’s ours. No interruptions. No excuses. If the world explodes, we’ll deal with it afterward.”
I nodded, blinking back tears. “Promise?”
“Lo juro por Dios. I swear.”
“Say it in English.”
“I promise, Hunter. I’m yours. Always.”
I stared at him, blurry-eyed, feeling way too much all at once. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Then cry,” he said. “I’ll kiss your tears away later.”
God, he could be corny, but it worked. On me, it worked like a spell. My face was already red. My heart was doing somersaults.
“I love you,” I said, quietly but clearly.
“And I love you, too,” he said, without even blinking. “And I’m not going anywhere. Tu eres mi príncipe azul.”
“What does ‘príncipe azul’ mean?” I asked him.
“Príncipe azul,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “It’s what we call the perfect guy — the one you dream about, the one who shows up and sweeps you off your feet. In the fairy tales, he’s the prince on the white horse…” He leaned closer to the screen, eyes locked on mine. “In real life… he’s right in front of you.”
“Like a soulmate?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
“Exactly.”
We kept the call going long after that — sometimes whispering, sometimes saying nothing, just looking at each other like we were trying to memorize every inch of the other’s face. At one point, he turned the camera around to show me his dog, Timo, sleeping at the foot of the bed, snoring like a chainsaw.
“Timo snores like he’s possessed,” I said.
“He probably is. But he loves you.”
“Everyone loves me.”
He gave me that look — that fond, exasperated look like I was ridiculous and adorable at the same time. “I’m going to marry you someday, you know that?”
My heart stopped. “Say that again?”
“I said I’m going to marry you someday.”
I didn’t even have a witty reply for that. Just a goofy smile and the sudden urge to grab a ring and hop on a plane. I didn’t even know how to respond to something like that. But I supposed it was possible … same-sex marriage was legal in Colombia.
“I mean it,” he added. “Not right now. But someday, maybe sooner than you think.”
I nodded slowly. “Then I’ll wait for that day.”
He smiled, then blew me a kiss through the screen. “Now go to sleep, mi amor. You’ve got to enjoy your last day of freedom tomorrow before school starts again.”
“Gross.”
“I’ll be dreaming of you.”
“I’ll be dreaming with you.”
He ended the call, and I lay there staring at the dark screen, holding the phone to my chest, grinning like an idiot.
Marriage? Seriously? He made me so crazy, I might even just do it …
And that night — for the first time in a long time — I slept deeply, peacefully, and without nightmares.
Because somewhere out there, I knew Miguel was dreaming of me, too.
Copyright © 2026 Little Buddha
Posted 28 February 2026