I woke up Friday bracing for the worst — pounding head, sandpaper mouth — after everything I’d smoked with Brayan. Instead…nothing. I felt clear. Too clear. The night snapped back in high definition, and with it, the guilt.
After everything Miguel and I had shared — emotionally, physically, spiritually — how could I have done this? I’d spent weeks suspecting him, and all along it was me. I was the liar, the cheater, the hypocrite. I couldn’t pin it on Brayan or Miguel Ángel; no one forced me. I chose it. I wanted it. And I liked it — more than a random hook-up, with feelings that made it worse, not better.
And that wasn’t even the biggest secret. The other one still lurked: my dad was DEA, and from the start I’d helped him look for cracks around Miguel and his family. I told myself I was just passing along little things, but I knew what it was — betrayal. If Miguel ever found out, it wouldn’t just break us; it would wreck him and any future we had.
Two secrets: one shameful, one catastrophic. Their weight sat on my chest, poisonous and patient. Meanwhile, the thing that gnawed at me most was Miguel’s sudden distance. After the most intimate weekend of our lives, he’d gone almost silent, like someone slammed the brakes in the middle of a dream. I couldn’t tell if what we had was real or a beautiful, careful illusion. Looking at it all at once was overwhelming.
When I stepped through the school’s front gate, the morning sun casting harsh, slanted shadows on the courtyard, I saw my friends hanging out by our tree. They waved tentatively. I waved back but didn’t stop. My feet carried me straight to Miguel’s locker like they had a mind of their own. I didn’t know what I would say if I saw him face-to-face. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But he wasn’t there.
I grabbed a piece of paper and a Sharpie from my backpack and scribbled a quick message:
Okay, we can talk. After school today? Please. Te amo.
I folded it in half and slipped it through the vents of his locker. My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid someone might hear it.
But the rest of the morning passed without a glimpse of Miguel. No sign of him in the halls, not in any of the common areas. I saw Tomás once — laughing with a group of his friends — but not Miguel. And that only made things worse. Because now I couldn’t help but wonder if my paranoia was true, if he really had been with Tomás this week instead of just avoiding me.
At lunch, I sat with the usual crew under our tree, but no one brought up anything meaningful. The conversation drifted — memes, video games, some nonsense about a fight that happened between two kids in another grade — but it all felt like filler. Like everyone was trying not to talk about the thing we were all actually thinking about.
I asked if anyone had seen Miguel. They all said no.
And then, finally, halfway through lunch, I saw him.
He walked through the front gate slowly, almost like he was floating or disoriented, and headed straight toward the administrative office. The moment I saw his face, my heart sank.
He looked awful. Pale. Hollow-eyed. His usual curls were a frizzy mess. Even from a distance, I could see the fatigue in the way his shoulders slumped, how he moved like he had the weight of the world strapped to his back. It was like all the confidence, all the fire that made him Miguel, had been drained out of him.
He didn’t see me, but everyone saw me watching him. I felt their eyes flick toward me, then quickly away. It was obvious to everyone that something had shifted. It made me feel exposed, like someone had turned a spotlight on me.
Still, I waited the rest of the day. Waited to see if he’d show up in class, or in the halls again, or at lunch. Nothing. Not a single glimpse. Just the ghost of a boy I’d once held so close, now drifting through the school like a shadow.
When I got to my locker at the end of the day, I found his reply:
Gracias. Meet you by the front gate after school.
Short. Simple. But seeing his handwriting made my chest tighten. My fingers trembled as I read it again. There was no “te amo” at the end of his note, I noticed.
As the final bell rang, I forced myself to walk to the front gate. Every step felt heavier than the last. I said “bye” to a few friends along the way, but I couldn’t really hear what anyone was saying. I was too busy preparing for the two outcomes I thought were possible: either we’d stay together, or we’d break up.
What terrified me was that I honestly didn’t know which one was more likely to happen or which one I wanted. There were things he was hiding from me, and there were some really crazy and fucked up things I was hiding from him. And while I hoped he would come clean, I knew I couldn’t.
He was already there, leaning against the fence when I arrived. But this wasn’t the Miguel I knew. This wasn’t the boy who’d once looked at me like I hung the stars in the sky. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself small. When he finally looked up and saw me, he smiled — but it was fragile, broken, and didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.
“So where are we gonna talk?” I asked, skipping any kind of greeting.
“Somewhere private,” he said, voice quiet.
He suggested my place. I said no. Juan Camilo and Doña Susana would be there, and I didn’t want this conversation to be interrupted. Then he suggested Parque El Salado in Envigado.
I’d never been, but I’d heard of it. A big ecological park built into the hills, full of walking trails, suspension bridges, shaded river paths, and even a waterfall. It sounded peaceful. And distant. Just what we needed.
We hopped on his motorcycle. I hesitated a beat before wrapping my arms around his waist like always, but eventually I did. I felt him exhale — long and shaky — as my arms settled around him. And it felt good. Comfortable. Familiar. I still felt in love when I touched him. That same electricity as always.
The ride through El Poblado and into Envigado passed in a blur of honking cars and narrow streets. Once we started climbing into the hillside, the city began to fall away, replaced by cool mountain air and thick patches of forest. The temperature dropped slightly, and the sunlight filtered through the trees in golden shafts. It was beautiful — but I was too anxious to appreciate it.
Before reaching the park’s entrance, we pulled off onto a small turnout near the El Chingüí neighborhood, where a section of the river fanned out into a stony little beach. The sound of rushing water drowned out the noise of the occasional passing car or motorcycle, and for a moment, it felt like we were somewhere else entirely. Removed from the world. Safe, even.
We took off our helmets and left them on the bike, then made our way down a small incline to the river’s edge. There were flat, sun-warmed boulders perfect for sitting, and the river flowed with a kind of rhythmic power that calmed my racing thoughts — if only just a little. I thought this would be a great place to bring Max someday. He loved swimming and jumping around in the water.
We sat down in silence.
“Hey,” I said, breaking it first.
“Hi,” he replied, voice tight.
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
He looked down at the rocks, then back at me. “Are we breaking up, Hunter?”
I didn’t answer right away. My throat closed, and my stomach twisted. “I don’t know,” I said finally. “I’ve been feeling shitty all week.”
He asked what he’d done.
So, I told him.
How he hadn’t called or texted on Monday or Tuesday. How he ignored me at school, how he was always hanging out with Tomás, and barely looked in my direction. How our text fight on Wednesday spiraled everything further. How it made no sense — none of it — after the weekend we’d just shared.
However, I also had to own what he said in those texts: I’d been selfish. Not normal selfish — me-first, me-always. I made everything about how it hit me, and when I fell apart, he was the one scooping me up. I almost never did the same for him. I decided he was “fine” because he wore that annoyingly adorable, cocky grin and, yeah, he was the rich kid — how bad could it be? His dad obviously had his own problems, sure, but Miguel never went there, so I pretended the door didn’t exist. Seeing him this morning, thought, it was obvious that he wasn’t fine, and I had no idea what he’d been carrying while I was busy tending my own fires and feeding my own demons. If I hadn’t been so trapped in my head — so unwilling to even seriously try fix any of it — maybe he would’ve felt safe bringing me the heavy stuff. But why hand your heart to a walking emergency? Someone whose first response to a crisis was to go and screw around (even though he didn’t know about that part yet). I told him I was sorry — really sorry — and that I was here for him, too. And for once, I meant it to be more than words.
When I finished, he folded his head into his hands. When he looked up, tears were slipping down his face. Miguel didn’t cry. The swagger was part of his style, sure, but underneath it he was steel — hard to rattle. Watching him break like that didn’t just shatter me; it scared me. Whatever could make Miguel cry had to be bad.
“Last weekend…” Miguel’s voice broke before he could finish, his eyes glistening as if the words themselves hurt to say. “It was the best of my life. I’ve never felt anything like it. And I do love you — more than you could ever possibly understand.” He paused, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling as though every breath cost him something. “Before you, my whole life was already decided for me. Every step, every choice, laid out like a path I had no say in… a path I didn’t even want. But then you happened.”
His gaze locked on mine, desperate, searching. “Falling in love with you made me see that I didn’t have to follow that path. That I could be… anything, do anything, as long as you were there with me. You gave me courage, but that courage has a price. What we shared — what happened between us — only made me love you more. I meant it when I said forever, Hunter. I meant every single word.”
He took a shaky breath, and for a moment it looked like he might break completely. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to break up. But right now… it feels like the ground under me is crumbling, and I’m watching my whole world fall apart.”
“Then… what was all of this?” My voice wobbled more than I wanted. “Why did you start pulling away? If something was wrong, why didn’t you just talk to me instead of going so quiet and closed off? I would’ve listened.”
Miguel hesitated like the words were a locked door he didn’t want to open. His mouth parted, then shut again. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly, eyes darting to the floor before meeting mine.
“Mira, Hunter… it’s complicated.” His voice was low, almost breaking. “I don’t even know where to start, and I’m terrified of what you’ll think when you hear it. It’s… embarrassing. And scary. I’ve been trying to handle it alone, but…” He let out a slow, shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. “I can’t anymore. And as for why I didn’t come to you — Colombian men… we don’t just share our problems like that. It’s the way we’re raised. Machismo. I hate it, but it’s inside us before we can walk. Sometimes I forget you’re not Colombian, that you don’t play by those rules.”
I stepped closer until my knees brushed his. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” I said softly but firmly. “And forget that stupid machismo crap. We’re boyfriends. Lovers. Partners. We’re supposed to be able to lean on each other for anything. But you can’t do what you did last week — ghost me like that. What was I supposed to think or feel? I thought you’d decided to dump me. It brought back… some really dark stuff. I was scared, Miguel. And I needed my boyfriend. But I thought it was already over. I was totally losing my mind, drowning in the worst-case scenarios.”
I realized tears were streaming down my face.
His eyes flickered with something sharp — guilt, pain, maybe both. “It’s not fair to put that on you. And there’s nothing you could’ve done anyway. It’s something my dad has to fix. But… I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Not since he left for Panama.” He let out a bitter breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “And if we’re talking machismo, he’s the king. The most prideful, stubborn hijueputa I’ve ever met. I love him, because he’s my dad, but he’s… not a good man. Nothing like you or your family. If he knew I liked taking cocks up my ass, for example, he literally would kill me. I mean it. You’d be coming to my funeral, and I don’t want to even imagine putting you through that.”
I shook my head. “Ha. My family’s hardly perfect.” I gave a humorless laugh. “My dad and I barely talk. We haven’t had a real relationship since my mom died. Juan Camilo’s more of a father to me than my dad’s ever been. But my dad’s not a bad person. Just… his priorities are all fucked up. In my country, they’d call him a ‘negligent parent.’”
Miguel’s eyes softened, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t.
“Well, my family’s even more screwed up. We live in a different world from most of the rich here. Look at Carlos — his family is super wealthy, but he was raised right. He’s a good kid. I wish I’d had his life. He doesn’t have to deal with all this machismo garbage. He’s going to have an amazing future. I … won’t. The boy or girl who ends up with him will be truly fortunate. He’s a real caballero. You’re probably better off with him than with me. Sometimes I wish you were, because I can’t stand to see you suffer because of me.”
“How can you say that?” I stepped even closer, our knees pressing together now. “If you don’t like the world you’re in, you can choose a different one. We’ve already talked about doing it!”
Miguel gave a dry, almost mocking laugh, but his eyes were shining with something heavier. “That’s one of those hard truths you’re going to have to accept if you want to be with me. My family has secrets, Hunter. I have secrets. Things I’ll never be able to tell you. Parts of me you’ll never know. That’s just the way it has to be. And it’s not going to be as easy as just buying a plane ticket to America to leave.”
“I have secrets too,” I whispered, so close I could feel his breath. “Big ones. Ones I can never tell you either.”
Could we live with it — secrets between us? Could we accept them, forgive them, even carry them together? Was what we had bigger than what we were too scared or ashamed to say out loud? The catch was, I didn’t even know what those secrets were. Trusting him would mean stepping off a cliff and hoping he’d catch me. Did I have that kind of faith in Miguel — that whatever he kept back would never turn into a blade aimed at me?
That story about the scorpion and the frog kept circling in my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it was a warning — about Miguel and me. He was the scorpion, born into danger, surrounded by shadows and things he couldn’t always control. I was the frog, too trusting, believing that love alone could carry us safely across. But what if, no matter how much I tried to help him, protect him, or understand him, his world still had the power to sting me? And what if, deep down, he already knew it would? Could I take that risk for Miguel?
Finally, he reached out to me — his hand sliding to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing against my jaw. His faint smile was sad, almost wistful. And as if echoing exactly what I had just been thinking, he asked, “Is that how we want to live? Keeping pieces of ourselves hidden forever?”
“It doesn’t have to be forever. We don’t know what the future looks like,” I murmured, leaning into his touch.
He sighed, his forehead nearly touching mine. “So… do we keep trying? Stay together, accept these things about each other, and be as ‘normal’ as we can? The odds would be against us.”
“Yes, they would, but … that’s … that’s what I want,” I breathed. “It’s the only thing I want — to be with you. For better or for worse. Forever and always, just like you said. We made promises to each other … and I intend to keep mine.”
Pain tightened his face, splitting me open. “Then I’ll keep mine, too, and apologize in advance that there are certain things I can’t tell you about me … about my life. You just have to trust that I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Same here,” I quietly affirmed.
His fingers tightened slightly at my neck, and for a moment we just stood there, breathing each other in, like even the air between us mattered.
We stayed there, locked in each other’s gaze, breathing the same air. Minutes passed like they were hours, the silence thick with all the things we’d said — and all the things we still hadn’t. We’d danced around the edges, but the real truth, the thing that had made him pull away last week, was still buried between us.
“So… is that normal?” I finally asked. “Your father leaving for weeks at a time, and you can’t even reach him?”
Miguel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes… and no. He disappears sometimes. We talk here and there, but mostly by phone. He makes sure I have what I need — money, food, the staff — but that’s it. I’m on my own. I take care of myself.”
I shook my head. “But you’re still just a kid. That’s not okay, Miguel. That’s neglect — and it’s wrong. That’s way worse than my father.”
He let out a sharp, humorless scoff, like I’d just told him the sky was green.
I reached across the space between us, my fingers curling over his hand, feeling the faint tremor there. “Please. Just tell me. Whatever it is, whatever you can tell me, we’ll deal with it together.”
His eyes fluttered shut. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind you take before stepping off a cliff.
When he opened them again, they were darker. He swallowed once, twice, then finally said it — his voice barely above a whisper, but cutting straight through me.
“On Monday night… I couldn’t call or text you because the policía were raiding my apartment.”
***
“What the hell?!” The words tore out of me, sharper than I intended, aimed more at the universe than at Miguel himself. He didn’t look up. His shoulders hunched forward, head bowed so low I could barely see his eyes. It was like he was trying to fold himself into nothing, to vanish right there on the spot. Shame clung to him like a second skin, but underneath it was something worse — fear. The kind of fear you see in a boy who knows he’s in trouble but has no idea just how deep the hole is yet.
"Why would the police raid your apartment?" I asked again, my voice sharper this time.
“Well, technically, it was the Dirección Nacional de Inteligencia — the DNI,” he said, voice low and brittle. “They’re like… your FBI. There were also policia and I saw one gringo wearing a DEA jacket.”
“Well, whoever the hell they were, why would they raid your apartment?” My voice was climbing toward a shout, my pulse pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears.
“I don’t know.” His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “They showed me the warrant, came inside, and started tearing the place apart. They said something about my dad and financial crimes. Money laundering.”
The words just hung there. Heavy. Oily. Wrong.
This was Colombia — money often came wrapped in secrets, fortunes built as easily on blood as on business — but hearing him say it about his father felt like a punch to the gut. And it sounded a lot heavier than what my dad and Juan Camilo had let on, which pissed me off. I’d pictured his father on the periphery — mixed up with shady people, maybe someone with cartel gossip the DEA wanted to flip — not someone in the crosshairs for serious crimes and under serious investigation (and quite possibly arrest), which it was starting to sound like now, at least from my limited perspective.
“Did they find anything?” I managed to ask.
“I doubt it,” Miguel muttered. “My dad doesn’t keep his work stuff at home. He’s hardly ever there.”
My mind was spinning — images, theories, ugly possibilities crashing into each other. Maybe his father was running his legitimate businesses as a front to wash cartel money. Maybe he’d been forced into it. Or maybe he wasn’t just in the background — maybe he was right in the middle of it, the man who kept the books, the one who could burn the whole house down if he talked. None of it excused abandoning his own kid without a word. But then there was the other possibility: if the worst-case scenario were true and Miguel could get his dad to turn on “El Chino,” they could be free from this. Miguel could have a normal life. And then I wondered if these were the kinds of secrets Miguel said he had to keep from me, and if there was even more to the story.
“But that’s not your problem,” I said, trying to force some logic into the mess. “This is about your dad, not you.”
Miguel’s head snapped up, eyes sharp and pained. “Try telling that to the policía or the fiscalía! No. It is my problem. Because of the investigation, they froze every bank account connected to him — even the ones in just my name. I can’t get to anything. I’m broke, Hunter. Completely broke. I can’t pay the bills, can’t buy groceries, can’t even put gas in the bike or the cars. ¡Ahora soy un pinche pelado!”
I just stared at him. He was openly crying now. I’d never seen him look so weak, so lost. Miguel — the boy with the designer shoes, the sleek motorcycle, the cologne that cost more than my entire outfit, and, most importantly, the self-confidence — broke. The idea didn’t seem possible.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could’ve… I don’t know… helped. Or Juan Camilo—”
“Because I was ashamed,” he cut in, the words sharp but shaking. “I thought I could fix it myself. I’ve been trying to call my dad, but he’s gone. Completely dark. No one knows where he is. I even went to his lawyer — he doesn’t know anything either, and he can’t do anything to help me without my dad anyway. I could try to borrow money from some of my dad’s business associates, but they’re not the kind of people you want to owe money to.”
He stared down at his hands. His knuckles were bone-white, fists clenched so tight they trembled.
“And when you saw me talking to Tomás,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly, “it was because I was asking him for help. For money. His family’s loaded, and we’ve known each other since la primaria. He gave me a little… enough to get by for maybe a week or two. If I could just get into my own accounts again, I’d be fine. I’ve got enough there to survive for a while. But right now…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, the unspoken I’m scared hanging between us like smoke.
I looked at him — really looked. His usually perfect posture was hunched, shoulders heavy, as if he were dragging the weight of the entire world. And maybe he was. His eyes, usually glowing and mischievous, were dulled, ringed with dark circles. My heart broke a little more just seeing him like this.
He wasn’t just broke. He was abandoned. His father, the shadowy figure with all the money and power, had disappeared the moment things got hard. I may not have had the most affectionate dad on the planet, especially after Mom died, but I never doubted he’d be there for me if I needed him. Miguel didn’t have that luxury.
And he needed someone now. Someone who wouldn’t vanish.
"You’re not alone anymore, Miguel," I told him. "You’ve got me. And you’ve got my family. You’re not doing this by yourself. We’re a team. We’re partners. That’s what it means to be in a relationship."
He didn’t say anything — just nodded and let the tears fall freely. I pulled him into me, letting him sob into my shoulder while the sounds of the rushing river filled the silence around us. A few people walked by, a couple of dogs barked in the distance, but I didn’t care who saw us. My boyfriend was hurting. I wasn’t going to let him go through this alone.
The bottom line was this: I had to get over myself — the drama, the spirals, the recklessness. Enough with the excuses. Enough with tearing myself apart and dragging everyone else down with me. Miguel didn’t need an angsty and neurotic brat who kept breaking apart at the first hint of a problem. He needed someone steady, someone who could stand beside him. My boyfriend. My lover. My partner. No more games. No more infidelity. No more pity parties.
It was time for Hunter Callahan to grow the fuck up. And right then, I swore — not half-heartedly, not as a wish, but as an iron promise — that I would never hurt him again. Not ever. Whatever secrets we carried, whatever storms were coming, I was his, and he was mine. That was the truth I would live by. Unshakable. Final.
Once he’d calmed down, I promised him I’d talk to Juan Camilo. He worked for the Colombian National Police, after all. The best way to fix it, though, would be to go to my dad. With his position at the DEA, he could certainly clean up this mess. I couldn’t tell that to Miguel, though — that would risk revealing too much. Miguel didn’t know anything about my dad’s real job with the DEA, and he never could. No matter how much I trusted Miguel, that was a line I wouldn’t cross. I figured I’d call my dad as soon as I got home, briefing Juan Camilo about my plan first.
Miguel looked at me with wide, almost disbelieving eyes, gratitude written all over his face.
“Thank you, Hunter,” he whispered, voice thick. “I mean it. Just… thank you. Even if you can’t help, just knowing you’re here helps a lot. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said, though my chest tightened at the way he looked at me. “I don’t know what Juan Camilo can pull off, but I’ll ask. Worst case, you stay with us for a while. My dad and Juan Camilo might not be thrilled, but I can be persuasive when I really want to be. I throw a pretty convincing temper tantrum.”
He gave a weak laugh, but his voice cracked when he said, "I don’t want to be a burden. I’ve already imposed so much—"
"Stop," I said. "You’ve basically lived at my house half the time anyway. What’s a few more nights? You’re my boyfriend. I’m going to take care of you. ¡Y ya!."
He glanced down, almost shy, before lifting his eyes back to mine. “So… you’re not breaking up with me?”
“No,” I said quickly, the word carrying more weight than I meant it to. A smile tugged at me, even through the heaviness in my chest. “Of course not. I’m taking care of you. I love you. We just have to accept that we both have our secrets… and learn to live with them. Our love has to be stronger than all the other crap. Strong enough to outlast it.”
I rushed to add, “And forgive all our past mistakes — the bad choices, the things we’ve done — and start fresh from right now.” It was mostly for me, a way to ease the weight pressing on my conscience over my infidelity, but I told myself it applied to him, too. He wasn’t exactly an angel before I came along, even if my sins felt heavier than his.
His whole face softened, and he let out a deep exhale. "You have no idea how much I love you, Hunter. I mean it. You saved me. And not just tonight. You’re like my guardian angel or something. I swear, when you accepted my invitation to talk, I was sure you were going to break up with me."
“Okay, well, your guardian angel says it’s time to go,” I said, standing and offering him my hand. “Step one: food. Step two: shower. Step three: industrial-strength snuggles. Doctor’s orders.”
“At your place?” he asked softly, almost like he didn’t want to hope too much.
“Of course,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not about to dump you back in a wrecked apartment. You’re with me now.”
For the first time all day, a small, shy smile tugged at his lips. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell me he believed me — or at least wanted to.
He took my hand and pulled himself up. "You always know what I need."
"Yeah, well," I grinned, "Maybe I am an angel, after all."
He chortled again and I laughed insanely, and it was the first real laugh we’d shared together in what felt like forever. I’d missed it. We walked back up to the bike together, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees as if it too was finally letting up on him, if only for a while.
***
Before heading back to my house, we stopped at Miguel's apartment so he could grab a few essentials. I was a little surprised at how close we lived, maybe a ten minute drive at most. He really wanted to stay at his apartment to maintain some semblance of independence, but nearly everything was destroyed; it just wouldn’t have worked or made sense. So, he quickly gave in. I’d never been there before — only his family’s finca outside the city — and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Given the way he dressed, the way he carried himself, and the various other pieces of information I’d picked up along the way (like owning multiple cars and homes), I knew his family was extremely well-off. But I wasn’t prepared for this.
The security guard at the high-rise recognized Miguel instantly and buzzed us in with a nod, no questions asked. The elevator ride up was quiet. Miguel was biting his bottom lip the whole time, his hands fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. I didn’t know whether to reach out and comfort him or give him space. I chose space. At least until I understood more.
When we stepped inside the apartment, I froze.
It was huge — easily twice the size of my dad’s place in El Poblado. The kind of space that made you drop your voice without thinking, like you’d just stepped into a gallery after hours. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows still commanded the far wall, opening onto the Aburrá Valley like a painting that wouldn’t end, the city puddled in light and the mountains holding it close.
Everything inside leaned dark and old-world. Heavy mahogany bookcases lined the walls, their shelves crowded with leather spines and oddities picked up from everywhere—carved masks, a brass sextant, a porcelain tiger, a bowl of smooth river stones with little labels stuck underneath. A long credenza held framed black-and-white photos and a pair of bronze busts that watched you no matter where you stood. Oil paintings — saints, ships, stormy landscapes — hung in thick gilt frames, and shaded sconces threw amber halos across them. The couches were deep and button-tufted, the kind you sink into and instantly sit up straighter anyway; Persian rugs took the echo out of the floor; heavy drapes pooled like dark water at the windows. The whole place smelled faintly of beeswax polish and old paper, as if the furniture had been telling stories long before we walked in.
Or, at least, it had been all that.
Now it looked like the set of a crime drama after the police had wrapped the scene — furniture upended, drawers ripped open, cushions slashed, art knocked crooked or straight-up missing from the walls. The marble floor was scuffed and smeared, littered with broken glass, scattered papers, and what looked like a torn-open briefcase dumped in the corner. The faint, sharp tang of cleaning chemicals mixed with the dust and the acrid scent of something electronic that had been fried or smashed. Even the view outside couldn’t distract from the chaos in here.
I couldn’t stop staring, my brain struggling to reconcile the luxury I could still see in flashes with the wreckage in front of me. It was like walking into the aftermath of a storm — except this storm had a badge and a search warrant. My chest felt tight, and not just because I was trying to make sense of how someone my age could live in a place like this. I couldn’t decide if I was more impressed by the opulence or unsettled by the destruction. Both, maybe.
I glanced at Miguel, wondering how many times he’d stood here with this view, in a world so far removed from mine, and what it felt like for him to see it reduced to this. But his expression was unreadable — carefully blank in that way that made me think it wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a scene like this.
That thought made my stomach knot.
Now it looked like a war zone.
And then there was the yellow tape, stretched taut across the main doorway and the balcony: LÍNEA DE POLICÍA - NO CRUZAR.
It hit me then — really hit me — just how far out of my depth I was. I was only sixteen. Just a kid. And somehow, I’d gotten pulled into this swirling mess of drug raids and financial investigations, secret missions and corrupt empires. Could I really help Miguel? Could anyone? And what more was he still hiding from me?
What if my dad couldn’t — or wouldn’t — make the right calls? What if Miguel had lied about something? We’d only known each other for a few months. Much of that time, we hadn’t even been friends. And yet, here I was, standing in the ruins of his life, carrying his duffel bag, trying to fix something that I didn’t fully understand. This whole mess was just … totally loco.
I couldn’t help but wonder what he really knew about his father. If I could get him to share something useful, maybe it would give me leverage with my dad and Juan Camilo — a reason for them actually to step in and help Miguel with his financial problem. A trade. Quid pro quo.
“Babe, what do you actually know about your father’s businesses? About his trip to Panama? Maybe we can figure it out together.”
Miguel let out a long sigh. “I only know what I told your father. He always says I’m too young to get involved. But I do know that when he goes to Panama, it’s always to meet with groups of Mexican businessmen. He calls them pandilleros mexicanos. I always thought it was just a joke, or maybe him being a little racist toward los Mexicanos. I think one group is from Culiacán and another is from Guadalajara. They’re responsible for shipping my dad’s products from Colombia to the United States.”
Mexican gangsters. That’s how his father described them. My mind immediately went to something my dad had told me about the Mexican cartels — how closely they worked with the Colombians, how alliances between them had become stronger. It wasn’t proof of anything on its own, but it was something, and the fact that he knew specific locations where these Mexicans came from could potentially tie them to specific cartels. Enough for Juan Camilo and my dad to think Miguel was starting to provide useful information. Enough for them to see it was worth helping him.
A short while later, Miguel came out of his bedroom carrying a navy-blue duffel bag, his face stiff, like he was trying not to cry again.
There was only one thing I could think to say to him amidst all this destruction: “I love you, Miguelito.”
For a moment, he stopped, looking at me with a wan smile, and said, “I love you, too, mi monito. Eres mi universo. ¿Sí, me entiendes?”
“Sí, bebé,” I replied.
“They took all my fucking electronics,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Except for my phone. Everything else is gone. ¡Odio a esos hijueputas tombos corruptos de mierda!”
“I’ve got an old laptop you can borrow,” I told him, trying to sound upbeat, like that was a normal thing. Like any of this was normal.
I took the duffel from him, slung it over my shoulder, and we made our way back to the street. We rode back in silence. He drove slower than usual, more carefully, like he was scared of making one more wrong move. I held on to him tighter than I usually did.
When we walked into my house, Juan Camilo was lounging on the couch, a soccer match playing on mute while he typed something on his laptop. He raised his eyebrows at the duffel.
“What, you’re moving in together already?” he asked, only half-joking. “Don’t forget to send me an invitation to the wedding.”
“No, parce. We’re just gonna do it at the notaría,” Miguel responded, deadpan.
I gave Juan Camilo a serious look. “I need to talk to you. Now. Privately,” I said, leaving no room for debate.
Then I turned to Miguel. “Take a shower. Heat up some leftovers from the fridge. We’ll be back in a minute.”
He nodded, eyes still hollow, and disappeared down the hall.
Outside, the air was warm, but my skin was cold. I told Juan Camilo everything — about the raid, about Miguel’s frozen bank accounts, about the investigation, and the silence from Miguel’s father. I didn’t leave out a single detail.
Juan Camilo muttered a curse under his breath. “The DEA was supposed to be dealing with that. The DNI and policía jumped the gun. Got impatient. We’ve been laying the groundwork for weeks.”
“Miguel said he saw a gringo there with a DEA jacket,” I said.
“¡Mierda!” Juan Camilo muttered.
“So can you fix it?” I asked.
“Maybe. Possibly. But not me. Your father’s going to have to make some calls. He’s the top DEA liaison in the country right now. If anyone can unfreeze those accounts or get the police off Miguel’s back for now, it’s him.”
“And will he?”
Juan Camilo looked at me for a long moment. “He might, if I ask. But Hunter…this isn’t over. Miguel’s not in the clear. Not yet.”
Now it was my turn. “Well, I may have gotten some intel from Miguel that might be of interest,” I said.
Juan Camilo arched an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”
“When his father goes to Panama for ‘meetings,’ it’s always to meet with a group of Mexicans that his father refers to as pandilleros mexicanos. There are two groups, and they come from Culiacán and Guadalajara. Miguel says they are responsible for shipping his father’s products from Colombia to the States,” I explained.
“Interesante,” Juan Camilo said, scratching his chin. “Thank you for that. Good job. Both of those areas in Mexico are major strongholds for the Mexican cartels.”
I just hoped that it would do the trick and possibly even be helpful to the investigation.
Then I swallowed hard. “So, is Miguel in trouble?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on how deep this goes and if he’s believed to have any involvement, or if he was left completely in the dark.”
“But involvement in what?” I asked, growing frustrated. “Is this somehow related to the cartel? He told me that he didn’t know anything about his father’s businesses other than what he already told you and Dad, that his father told him he was too young to get involved in his businesses yet.”
“I can’t say,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You can ask your dad when he’s home next time, and maybe he can give you some answers.”
“But don’t I have the right to know if my boyfriend — the boy I love — is involved in some kind of serious criminal shit?” I asked, determined to pester him until I finally got a reasonable answer.
“Mr. Hunter, it’s—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted him, rolling my eyes. “It’s complicated.”
“Correcto,” he answered, patting me on the head.
When I went back inside, I found Miguel stretched out on my bed, fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs. His curls were still damp, his skin glowing faintly from the steam. He should have looked like something out of a dream — and he did — but instead of joy, all I saw was sorrow. He looked like a painting no one wanted to hang, too beautiful and too sad at the same time.
It was in his eyes — those impossible brown eyes that gave everything away. Miguel could never hide how he felt. He’d make the worst poker player in the world unless he wore sunglasses. Right now, every bit of his sadness sat heavy in them, and it broke me.
And underneath the sadness, I felt something else rising in me: anger. We shouldn’t have been here, tangled up in all this cartel insanity, secrets, and violence. We should’ve been doing normal, stupid teenage stuff — ditching classes, playing soccer, sneaking into movies, laughing until our stomachs hurt, having mind-blowingly good sex. That’s what Miguel deserved. That’s what we deserved. Not this. Not carrying the weight of a world that was never meant to be ours.
I imagined what was running through his head: Why me? What did I do? I’m just a kid. And I hated that I didn’t have an answer. All I knew was that I couldn’t let him sink into that sadness forever. I couldn’t let him become like me. I had to get over my own selfish spirals into anxiety and depression and be the strong one for both of us. Somehow, some way, I had to bring back the Miguel I knew — the one who laughed mischievously, who teased, who had swagger and charisma, and who made me feel like the world could be light and fun again. I wanted that boy back. I needed that boy back. And I wasn’t going to stop until I saw him smile again.
But, for now, I didn’t say anything. What could I say? So, I just went to shower, scrubbed every inch of myself with extra care, brushed my teeth, even spritzed on a little cologne — not for sex, not for seduction, just because I wanted to smell good for him and feel human again. I wanted us to feel human, not like casualties of something bigger than ourselves.
When I came back into the bedroom, towel around my waist, Miguel glanced up and gave me a small, tired smile. In the mirror, I saw him sneak a glance at me as I dropped my towel and put on my underwear. A flicker of something normal, something lighthearted. That helped. Especially knowing that he was still attracted to me, despite everything we had put ourselves through over the past week.
I climbed into bed beside him. He didn’t say a word, just turned into me and wrapped his arms around my chest, pressing his face into my collarbone like he was trying to hide from the world.
“I’m so, so, so sorry about all of this,” he said, his voice muffled against my skin. “And for making you feel like crap all week. I didn’t mean to. I was just… I don’t know. Scared. Really scared.”
“You’re more than forgiven,” I said, my fingers combing gently through his damp curls. “And maybe I was being a little dramatic. You know I spiral sometimes, overthinking and getting insecure, hating myself, terrible anxiety. It’s kind of my specialty.” I let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t reach my chest. I was still feeling guilty about betraying my lover, in more ways than one.
He let out a small laugh. “Yeah. I’ve noticed. Your mind seems like a scary place sometimes. Sos el típico gringo adolescente todo rayado, como los que salen en las pelis.”
We laughed together at that. It made me feel a lot better to see him laugh, to laugh together.
“This is the craziest relationship I’ve ever been in,” I sighed.
“Same.”
“But I meant it, you know. When I said I’d never leave you.”
He looked up at me, eyes shining. “I believe you. And I’ll prove to you that I’m not going anywhere either. No importa lo que pase. Any problem we run into, we’ll figure it out together. We’re a team. We can accomplish anything together.”
Damn these guilty feelings! Will they ever go away?!
“Maybe once this whole mess is cleared up, we can start talking about our future again. Our plans. I’d really like that. I like imagining a future together.”
“I’d like that very much,” he whispered. “I want a future with you. A life.”
I reached over, turned off the bedside lamp, and then turned back to him.
“Bebé …,” he said softly.
“Yes, amor?” I answered him.
“I know this may sound a little loco, and I know we’re both tired and it’s been such a long day, but … De verdad necesito que me hagas el amor ahora,” he said softly. In the dark, I couldn’t see his eyes, but I wished I could. And, of course, I couldn’t deny him his request.
As I made love to him slowly, rolled up tightly together like in a little ball, our foreheads pressed together while I explored his insides with my cock, I couldn’t help thinking that at least when I’d cheated, I hadn’t had intercourse with them. I could still keep that one special act for just the two of us. But just thinking about what I had done while I was inside my lover sent waves of guilt coursing through me, and it seemed like it took ages for me to finish. When I finally did empty myself into him, at least his kisses and pronouncements of eternal love let me know that he was satisfied, which was all that mattered to me right then.
I leaned down and kissed him — not like we were trying to escape or forget or distract. I kissed him like we were two people who had been through hell and still found each other again. It was deep and slow and full of emotion, and when it finally broke, I held him even tighter.
We fell asleep like that, our bodies still rolled up together, close, still inside him. Wrapped up in each other like a shield against everything else the world could throw at us.
***
When I woke up on Saturday morning and glanced at the clock on my phone, I was stunned — it was already 10:00 AM. I never slept that late. The bedroom was bathed in soft morning light pouring through the curtains, warming the room with golden sunlight. Miguel was still asleep beside me. We had changed positions during the night. My cock had slipped out of him at some point, and now his arms were wrapped tightly around my waist like he never wanted to let go. His breath was soft and steady against the back of my neck, and for a moment, I just lay there, content, trying to memorize the rhythm of it and forget everything else that had been haunting me.
We’d both had long, emotional days, and I guess our bodies finally forced us to rest. But I felt more refreshed than I had in days. Carefully, trying not to wake him, I untangled our limbs and crept out of bed, heading toward the bathroom to bleed the lizard and then to the kitchen for some strong coffee.
Doña Susana was already humming to herself, cracking eggs over a hot pan. The scent of fried arepas and sizzling butter filled the air. Juan Camilo sat at the kitchen table with his laptop open, a steaming mug of black coffee cradled in his hands.
“Buenos días,” I said, pouring myself a cup.
He nodded at me, then raised an eyebrow. “¿Cómo amaneciste?”
“Better than I have in a while,” I replied, taking a cautious sip.
“Any updates?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“I spoke with your father this morning,” Juan Camilo said, folding his hands. “He’s agreed to help Miguel get his accounts unfrozen — at least temporarily. But he also said that when he’s back in town, the three of us need to have a conversation. About Miguel. And about the future.”
My stomach knotted. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Or maybe I do. But I’m not at liberty to say.”
I exhaled sharply and dropped my shoulders. “Great. That’s really comforting.”
“Mira, Hunter … he respects how you feel about Miguel,” Juan Camilo said more gently. “And I’m on your side, too. It’s just a little bit complicated right now. But he’s listening and he wants you to be happy, like any parent. Just remember that. He knows you love Miguel, and he doesn’t doubt that what you’re feeling is love, not just a little crush. That’s a big deal. He’s not just blowing it up.”
“Blowing it off, you mean,” I corrected him.
“Yes,” he said, blushing slightly.
“Anything on that Mexican intelligence?” I asked, although not really expecting an answer.
“That’s classified,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.
I stared down at my coffee. “Well, make sure he understands this isn’t some stupid high school infatuation. We love each other. We’ve talked about building a life together. We’ve talked about marriage. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me, especially not my father. And I will fight him, however I have to.”
Juan Camilo looked up at me for several moments, but I couldn’t read his expression. I just hoped he realized I was serious. And I was. No more fucking around for me. I was going to start fighting for my happiness … and Miguel’s.
A few moments later, Miguel shuffled into the kitchen, yawning, his dark curls tousled and sticking up in every direction. He’d thrown on a pair of gray sweatpants and one of my oversized T-shirts. For some reason, the sight of him wearing my clothes sent a tiny jolt of giddiness through my chest.
Juan Camilo looked up at him. “You’re not a morning person, huh?”
“Not when I finally sleep for more than four hours,” Miguel mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” Juan Camilo asked.
Miguel perked up a little. “I was thinking about taking Hunter to El Hueco. He needs to see it. It’s an important part of our city’s culture.”
Juan Camilo stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Absolutely not. You two are not going down there alone.”
Miguel rolled his eyes. “It’s not bad during the day.”
“It’s chaos. And gringo bait,” Juan Camilo snapped. Then, after a beat, he sighed. “Fine. If you really want to go, I’m driving and coming with you. No exceptions.”
Miguel grinned. “¡Trato hecho, Juanca!”
“Don’t call me that, pelao,” Juan Camilo grumbled.
We showered (and yeah, Miguel might have sucked me off in the shower), got dressed, and had a quick breakfast. On the way to El Centro, traffic was its usual Medellín self — horns blaring, scooters and motorcycles weaving through impossibly small gaps, buses grinding gears like they were falling apart. It was hot, humid, and relentless. I felt sweat gathering under my shirt before we’d even arrived.
“So, explain El Hueco to me again?” I asked from the back seat.
Juan Camilo glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You’ll see. There’s nothing like it. Imagine Black Friday every single day, stuffed into a dozen city blocks.”
When we finally found a place to park between Estación San Antonio and Estación Cisneros — after circling for over twenty minutes and dodging a few aggressive parking attendants who were looking for kickbacks — we stepped into the heart of Medellín’s infamous urban bazaar.
“Be very careful of your wallet and phone here,” Juan Camilo warned.
I nodded. I could see how this would be a pickpocket’s paradise.
El Hueco was madness incarnate.
It stretched across multiple city blocks, a chaotic patchwork of indoor shopping centers, makeshift kiosks, street stalls, and mobile vendors pushing carts. There were alleys so narrow I had to walk sideways through them, flanked by tower-high stacks of knock-off sneakers, Bluetooth speakers, and sex shops. The air was thick with the smells of roasted meats, hot oil, cheap plastic, sweat, and exhaust fumes. Shouts of “¡A mil, a mil!” echoed from every direction as vendors advertised their bargains. It was a constant sensory assault.
“Welcome to El Hueco,” Miguel said with a smirk, grabbing my hand briefly before letting go again. “You wanted authentic. You don’t get more authentic Colombian than this!”
I was instantly overwhelmed but also fascinated. “This place is like… if a shopping mall had a baby with a flea market and then gave it an energy drink laced with cocaine.”
Juan Camilo chuckled. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”
I saw rows of counterfeit luxury handbags — Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton — all hung up like trophies. Miguel nudged me. “None of it’s real, obviously. But it looks good, right?”
A genuine Louis Vuitton handbag might cost over $5,000, but in El Hueco, you could pick up a convincing counterfeit for $50 or less. Even everyday items you would find at mega-stores like Éxito, Jumbo, or HomeCenter cost much less in El Hueco. Everything was a bargain, so it's no wonder there were so many people here.
A man selling phone chargers and vape pens waved a box in my face. “¡A cinco mil! ¡Barato, gringo!”
I stumbled back, caught off guard. “This is insane.” Juan Camilo and Miguel moved in like bodyguards, trying to shield me from the swarm of overzealous street hawkers. To them, I was just another clueless gringo with deep pockets, a prime target for cheap plastic lawn chairs, knock-off sunglasses, and the ever-present Colombian men’s underwear brand, Geordi — none of which were even remotely my style. I did see some knock-off Versace underwear that I thought would look great on Miguel, though.
We squeezed past women hawking gold-plated jewelry and bootleg DVDs. Kids darted through the crowds like fish through coral reefs. Street musicians played accordions. Somewhere in the distance, a mariachi band was randomly performing.
After about two hours of browsing and sensory overload, Juan Camilo said, “Let’s get lunch before you both pass out.”
We found a sit-down restaurant on the second floor of one of the indoor shopping centers. It had an outdoor terrace that overlooked the chaos below. I collapsed into my chair. My legs ached from all the walking, I was sweating profusely from the tropical heat, and my brain was overstimulated.
Miguel sat right next to me — really close — and draped his arm over the back of my seat.
Juan Camilo gave us both a suspicious side-eye and said, “You two are trouble. Big trouble.”
I grinned. “We prefer ‘dynamic duo.’”
Miguel giggled.
I ordered a whole fried red snapper with coconut rice and patacones. Miguel got sierra, a type of oily mackerel, and Juan Camilo opted for a solomito steak with fries. The food was surprisingly decent.
Miguel, being cute and probably trying to annoy Juan Camilo, picked up a flaky piece of his fish and held it up to my mouth. “Say ahhhhhhh.”
I played along and bit down… and immediately regretted it.
“Ugh,” I choked. “That’s… a lot of fishyness.”
Miguel laughed. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic is eating that and expecting me to kiss you later. This tastes like 60-year-old pussy that hasn’t been washed or ‘de-crusted’ in decades,” I gagged.
Juan Camilo nearly choked on his mango juice. “¡Dios mío, usted sí es muy asqueroso, hombre!”
“We’re very sensitive when it comes to strong fishy flavors and odors,” I explained, as Juan Camilo rolled his eyes at us.
After lunch, we walked a bit more. When the crowds were at their thickest, Miguel reached for my hand. The sea of people around us made it feel invisible. Secret. Ours. And my heart, already bruised and bandaged from this week, fluttered like it was brand new.
Around 3:00 PM, I tapped out. “I’m done. I’m sticky, dehydrated, I think someone tried to sell me a car battery, I lost count of the number of times people squeezed my ass, and I think I might have agreed to sell someone my kidney — I can barely understand their Spanish in there!”
“Okay, okay,” Miguel said, laughing. “Although that might have been me squeezing your ass.”
“That’s the real Medellín street Spanish — and it shifts a lot by age and crowd,” Juan Camilo added. “Let Miguel coach you; you’ll sound less textbook and fit in faster.”
Miguel smiled playfully. “Parce, de una te enseño a hablar como un nea. Te juro que te verías re tierno y bien sexy.”
“Okay, I only got about fifty percent of that,” I laughed, “but I’d love to learn more!”
On the way back to find the car, Juan Camilo took us past Parque de Bolívar. It looked nice — trees, shade, grassy spots, a statue of Simón Bolívar — the liberador of Colombia — and in the center, a big fountain. Families lounged nearby, and birds flew through the thick trees.
“Don’t be fooled,” Juan Camilo said. “This place is dangerous at night. Avoid it after sunset. No exceptions. Even the policia don’t often venture here at night.”
Back at home, I grabbed two cold Gatorades from the fridge and tossed one to Miguel.
We chugged them in the hallway, sweat still clinging to our necks and shoulders. Then, without hesitation, we stripped down to our underwear and collapsed onto my bed. I was way too tired even to consider showering at that moment.
I didn’t bother closing the bedroom door. Let Juan Camilo roll his eyes all he wanted.
Miguel lay beside me, one arm draped across my chest. “Today was weirdly fun,” he murmured.
“It was,” I agreed. “But if I ever go back to El Hueco, I’m bringing a machete and a megaphone.”
He giggled softly, then pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks for coming with me. And thanks for making me feel better.”
“No, thank you,” I whispered, wrapping my arm around him and pulling him closer as our breathing began to slow in unison. “For letting me be part of your chaos. I always have fun when we’re together, whether we’re off on some adventure, like today, or we’re just cuddled in bed looking into each other’s eyes.”
“You read my mind,” he said, leaning forward and gently kissing the tip of my nose.
Copyright © 2026 Little Buddha
Posted 28 March 2026