The morning after their terrace confession, Mike awoke to the scent of fresh orange blossoms drifting through an open window. Sevilla was alive with song—church bells chiming, street vendors calling, and distant guitar strums weaving through the air. He dressed quickly, eager to explore the city with Sarah by his side.
They wandered through the Alcázar's fragrant gardens, Mike marveling at the intricate tiles while Sarah recounted childhood memories of hide‑and‑seek among the fountains. At a bustling café in Triana, they shared churros dipped in chocolate, laughing as Mike's Spanish stumbled over "más caliente" when he meant "más caliente." Sarah teased him gently, but her eyes held a flicker of something—tender pride mixed with a hint of protectiveness.
As the sun climbed, they joined her cousins for a flamenco rehearsal in an old warehouse. Mike watched Sarah transform: her body swaying with fierce elegance, her spirit alight with every stomp and clap. When she beckoned him onto the floor, he hesitated—afraid to break the rhythm—but she took his hands, guiding him into the dance. Their footsteps faltered at first, then found a shared pulse, laughter bridging the gap between his awkwardness and her grace.
That evening, over a simple dinner of gazpacho and grilled sardines, Sarah grew quiet. Mike noticed the shift—the way she watched him, as though measuring how much of himself he'd left behind in New York. "Do you miss home?" she asked softly.
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Every day," he admitted. "But I don't regret being here."
Sarah's eyes glistened. "I want you to feel at home with me—completely."
Mike reached across the table. "Teach me everything. The language, the dances, your world."
She smiled, relief washing over her. "And I'll learn yours, too."
Under the soft glow of lanterns, they toasted to new beginnings—two hearts weaving a life together, ready to bridge every difference that lay ahead.