There was something about rooftops in Madrid. The way they sat above the chaos, humming
with music and cigarette smoke, but still felt a little detached — like the city couldn't touch you
up here.
Lena leaned on the balcony railing, wine glass sweating in her hand. Below, the street pulsed
with weekend life — neon signs blinking, scooters zipping past, laughter bouncing off buildings.
It was beautiful. And lonely in a way beauty shouldn't be.
"You're doing that thing again," Clara said, stepping beside her with a fresh drink in hand.
"What thing?" Lena asked, not looking away from the skyline.
"Brooding like you're the main character in an indie film." Clara's voice was half-tease, half-
truth. That was her gift — slicing you open with a smirk.
Behind them, the rooftop was full: groups gathered around low tables, someone playing soft
Spanish guitar, string lights swaying above. Nina sat on the couch sipping something pink,
probably her second — maybe third. Camila was dancing, obviously. Camila danced through
everything — heartbreaks, hangovers, Tuesday mornings.
Tonight was supposed to be a reset. A distraction. Something light.
Instead, Lena felt like her skin didn't fit right.
"You talked to your editor yet?" Nina asked, approaching with her drink.
"She emailed me about the pages.""And?"
Lena took a long sip of wine. "She said they were… raw."
"Raw's not bad," Clara said, raising a brow. "Raw means honest. Or horny. Either works."
Camila joined them then, glowing with sweat and tequila. "What's horny?"
"Lena's novel." Clara smirked.
Lena rolled her eyes. "It's not—okay, maybe a little."
They laughed, but Lena's stomach tightened. Because it wasn't just a novel. It was him. All of it.
The nights she couldn't talk about. The man she wasn't supposed to remember.
And then — the air changed.
Clara's laugh cut off. Camila went quiet. Nina blinked, wine glass mid-air.
"Don't freak out," Clara muttered, already stepping in front of Lena.
"What—
""He's here."
Lena froze.
"Who?" she asked, but her voice was smaller now.
Clara didn't answer. She didn't have to. Because Lena saw him.
Across the rooftop, talking to someone near the bar, was Julian Vale.
Older. Sharper. Still wearing black like it was made for him. Same jawline. Same hair. Same
impossible, dangerous eyes. He hadn't seen her yet. But even from across the space — she felt it.
The past didn't knock. It walked in, uninvited.
"Do you want to leave?" Nina asked softly.
Lena didn't move. Couldn't. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was so goddamn loud.
And then — he turned.
Their eyes met.
Two seconds. Three.Not long enough to say anything. But more than enough to say everything.
Lena's grip tightened on her glass. Her stomach coiled — tight, hot, remembering.
"Shit."
"You okay?"
Lena looked away, breath shallow.
"I'm fine."
It was a lie.
And it was only the beginning.