Ojitos Lindos - 4 (bad bunny)
Pairing: Bad Bunny x SofĂa ValdĂŠs (original character)
Summary: She lives behind the scenes. He lives in the spotlight. When SofĂa ValdĂŠs joins an international concert tour as its new media liaison, the last thing she expects is to form an unlikely friendship with the artist sheâs been hired to protect. As cities blur together and the world watches from a distance, the quiet moments between them begin to matter more than either of them is willing to admit.
masterlist
By nine oâclock, the venue no longer felt like a building.
The concrete beneath SofĂaâs shoes trembled with the bass from the opening act, while the voices of tens of thousands of people gathered beyond the secured doors in restless waves. Even from the backstage corridors, she could feel the audience changing as the hour approached. Individual conversations had dissolved into something largerâchants, cheers and the low, constant roar of anticipation.
Radios crackled from every direction. Crew members passed with cables looped around their shoulders, garment bags held above the floor and expressions sharpened by concentration. Everyone moved with the practiced urgency of people who had repeated the same sequence in several cities and still understood that familiarity did not make it safe to stop paying attention. One missed cue, one blocked route or one delayed piece of equipment could alter the shape of the entire evening.
SofĂa stood near the entrance to Benitoâs dressing room with the final media schedule open across her clipboard.
She had left her cream coat at the hotel and still wore the ivory blouse and pale trousers she had chosen that morning. The softness of the outfit looked almost misplaced against the industrial walls, exposed cables and matte-black equipment cases surrounding her. Earlier, the blouse had been perfectly smooth. Now faint creases marked the fabric near her elbows, and the polished waves in her hair had loosened from rain, movement and the humid warmth of the venue.
One section near her temple had developed a gentle bend she had not intended.
She had reached for it repeatedly throughout the afternoon, smoothing it back into place before it escaped again several minutes later. Eventually, she had forced herself to stop.
No one else would notice.
She was trying to believe that.
Her phone vibrated against the clipboard.
The first message came from the producer of that morningâs podcast, confirming that the episode would be released the following week. The second asked whether Benito might record a short introduction for the showâs social-media pages before leaving the venue.
SofĂa read the request twice, although the answer had been clear after the first line.
They had agreed to twenty-eight minutes. The production had received twenty-eight minutes and forty-one seconds, as well as considerably more patience than it deserved after attempting to conceal an unapproved question beneath the hostâs cards.
They had been given enough.
She declined politely, saved the updated press notes and checked the time.
Benito was scheduled to leave the dressing room at nine twenty-two. Security had confirmed the protected route toward the main-stage access tunnel. Wardrobe had approved the opening look. The stage manager had confirmed the lift sequence and the production team had verified the first cue twice.
Everything appeared ready.
Which meant something would change.
SofĂa had already learned that the most dangerous moment in touring was not when plans were visibly failing. Visible problems attracted attention. People gathered around them, offered solutions and accepted that something needed to be corrected.
Perfection was more dangerous.
When everything appeared settled, people relaxed. They made assumptions. They stopped checking details because someone else had surely checked them already.
The dressing-room door opened.
A stylist stepped into the corridor carrying three pairs of sunglasses in one hand and speaking rapidly into her headset.
âNo,â she said. âHe changed his mind again.â
SofĂa looked up from the schedule. âAbout the glasses?â
âThe other silver one.â
Before SofĂa could ask how many silver jackets were involved, the stylist disappeared around the corner.
Several voices overlapped inside the dressing room. Someone was discussing an in-ear monitor. Another person wanted to know where a particular chain had been placed. A third appeared to be arguing that two reflective fabrics were different enough to justify delaying the final wardrobe decision.
SofĂa moved closer to the doorway but did not enter.
Her instructions were clear: remain available without treating access as permission. Dressing rooms occupied a complicated space on tour. They were workplaces, but they were also refugesâone of the few places where a performer could briefly exist outside the direct reach of cameras, fans and strangers.
People moved in and out constantly, yet entering without invitation still felt intrusive.
Benito appeared in the doorway a moment later.
For one second, SofĂa forgot the question she had intended to ask.
He wore wide black trousers that fell heavily over his boots and a fitted sleeveless top beneath a cropped jacket covered in reflective silver pieces. Each movement fractured the corridor light across the surrounding walls. Several rings covered his fingers, and a chain rested at the base of his throat.
The look was theatrical without resembling a costume. On someone else, the clothes might have overwhelmed the person wearing them. On Benito, they appeared to be another extension of thoughtâunexpected, deliberate and entirely unconcerned with whether anyone else understood the reasoning.
His attention found SofĂa almost immediately.
The glance moved from her face to the clipboard, then returned to the loosened section of hair near her temple. He looked for only a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
âYouâre still here,â he said.
SofĂa recovered. âI work here.â
âThatâs what you said yesterday.â
Benito leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
Something about him had changed since the afternoon. He had spent the day teasing her, resisting schedules and behaving as though every instruction represented the beginning of a negotiation. Now there was concentration beneath the looseness of his posture, a contained energy that seemed to sharpen everything around him.
SofĂa had worked with performers who transformed before walking onstage. Some became silent, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Others grew louder as nerves gathered, spreading their tension through every room they entered.
He seemed to become more himself.
The personality SofĂa had encountered in ordinary rooms did not disappear; it expanded. The teasing confidence remained, but it was joined by something more focused and electric. It was as though the presence of tens of thousands of people waiting beyond the walls did not require him to create another version of himself. It simply gave the existing one more space.
âYouâre ready?â she asked.
âThat sounds statistically unlikely.â
His smile appeared slowly. âYou gonna tell me something changed?â
âThen why you look worried?â
âI donât look worried.â
SofĂa lowered the clipboard slightly. She had spent years learning how to prevent concern from appearing on her face, and the suggestion that Benito could detect it irritated herâespecially because she had not yet decided whether she was worried at all.
âThe podcast producer requested another recording,â she said.
âHe also asked whether you would return for a longer episode later in the tour.â
âBecause I donât make decisions on your behalf unless the answer is already clear.â
Benito studied her. âYouâre learning.â
The answer came without apology.
There it was againâthat firmness beneath everything soft.
He had begun to look for it.
It had been there when she calmly asked him to leave her assigned seat, when she refused to repeat confidential notes even after he requested them and when she tore the hidden interview card in half without raising her voice. She never announced her competence or waited for other people to admire it.
She simply trusted that it existed.
Even her pride was precise.
âTwenty-eight minutes and forty-one seconds,â he said.
SofĂa looked at him. âWhat?â
âThatâs how long the interview was.â
âYou stood there staring at the clock like it insulted your family.â
âYou were ready to walk onto the set.â
âAt twenty-nine minutes.â
âYou gave him forty-one extra seconds.â
âI considered them acceptable.â
His gaze remained on her face, and something about the conversation felt different after the SUV, the hidden question and the narrow hallway behind the studio. They had already accumulated references that belonged only to them. Twenty-eight minutes. Her repeated use of nothing. His habit of noticing things she did not realize she revealed.
It was happening too quickly.
SofĂa adjusted the edge of the paper against the clipboard.
Benitoâs eyes dropped toward the movement.
âYou do that when youâre thinking.â
âMake everything straight.â
âIt should be straight.â
âIt was straight already.â
The pages were aligned perfectly.
When she looked back at him, amusement had entered his expression.
SofĂa narrowed her eyes. âYou should be concentrating on the show.â
âYou are examining my paperwork.â
âThat seems unlikely.â
Her mouth curved before she could stop it.
The smile was small and restrained, but it reached her eyes. For one inconvenient second, the memory of the SUV returned to himâthe way she had smiled after saying EstĂĄ bien, and the strange movement beneath his ribs that had lasted longer than it should have.
A stage manager approached with one hand pressed against his headset.
The corridor reorganized itself instantly. Security moved into position. A wardrobe assistant stepped forward to brush an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder. Someone checked the cable leading to his in-ear monitor while another crew member confirmed that the lift had locked into place beneath the opening section of the main stage.
This part did not belong to her.
Her responsibilities concerned media, boundaries, schedules and the countless details that protected the public version of the tour. The stage belonged to Benito and the people who had built an entire temporary world around him.
He took several steps toward the departure corridor.
Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
SofĂa had already lowered her attention to the schedule again.
She looked up. âTo the stage?â
âI can watch from production.â
Benito regarded her as though she had misunderstood something obvious. âItâs not the same.â
The stage manager checked the time. âBenito.â
He ignored him for another second.
Several people were now waiting for SofĂaâs answer, though no one said anything. She became aware of the security team, the wardrobe assistants and the stage manager politely pretending that the artist had not delayed the route to ask whether the new media liaison planned to watch him perform.
âIâll come for the opening,â she said.
Benito nodded once, apparently satisfied, and continued walking.
SofĂa followed the group.
They moved through a maze of service passages that ran beneath and around the enormous stage structure. Each corridor seemed narrower than the last, crowded with cables, technical equipment and people waiting for exact cues. The closer they came to the stage, the more the sound changed. The audience was no longer something she heard through walls. It traveled through steel, temporary flooring and the soles of her shoes.
Thousands of voices had merged into one enormous presence.
The crowd chanted Benitoâs name with the familiarity of people calling for someone they believed belonged partly to them.
He appeared almost untouched by it.
SofĂa saw him roll his shoulders once. His hands flexed at his sides before relaxing again, releasing tension in a movement so small that she might have missed it had she not been watching him specifically.
She wondered how many people noticed details like that.
At the final security point, a production coordinator directed SofĂa toward a protected viewing position beside the main-stage access tunnel. It was not a traditional backstage wing; the scale of the production made that impossible. Towers of lighting, moving scenery, camera tracks and vast video structures blocked much of the view. From the marked position, she could see part of the main platform and the beginning of the runway, though the opposite side of the venueâand La Casitaâremained far beyond her sight line.
The area was designed for essential personnel rather than spectators. Black drapes concealed it from the audience, and thick cables ran beneath protective coverings at her feet.
Benito climbed onto the hidden lift beneath the stage.
The stage manager raised one hand.
SofĂa remained behind the safety marking, close enough to see Benito clearly but far enough that she could not interfere with the route.
His eyes searched the narrow space until they found her.
For the briefest moment, something passed between them. Not simply a request for her to watch the performance, but an invitation to witness the final seconds before the world received him.
The audience began counting down.
The sound pressed through SofĂaâs chest and rose into her throat. Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the clipboard.
Benitoâs expression was not nervous.
The lift began to rise, carrying him away from the corridor and into the flood of light above.
For a few seconds, SofĂa could see nothing but silver reflected against smoke.
Then Benito disappeared into the scale of the stage, and the concert began.
⸝
For several seconds after the lift disappeared, SofĂa remained exactly where she was.
The sound did not resemble applause so much as a physical force, rushing through the steel beneath her feet and vibrating through every support beam surrounding the stage. Even hidden behind black drapes and technical equipment, she felt the audienceâs reaction in her chest.
She had attended concerts before.
Working in media relations meant becoming accustomed to performances, backstage corridors and crowds that blurred together from one client to the next.
Nothing had prepared her for this.
The opening sequence unfolded with astonishing precision. Columns of fire erupted along the front of the stage, enormous screens illuminated the stadium in shifting waves of colour and cameras swept across seventy thousand people who seemed to know exactly when to scream, when to sing and when to raise the lights from their phones.
At the centre of it all stood Benito.
Or perhaps Benito was no longer the correct name for the person she was watching.
Only fifteen minutes earlier he had been teasing her about straightening paperwork and insisting that twenty-eight minutes was generous. He had leaned against a dressing-room door with one shoulder, smiling as though the evening were no different from any other.
he seemed larger than the stage itself.
There was simply no hesitation anywhere in him.
Every movement carried absolute certainty. He crossed the enormous platform without appearing to think about where he was going, greeting one side of the stadium before turning naturally toward the other. Thousands of people followed him as though connected by invisible thread.
SofĂa found herself searching for the man she had spent the past two days arguing with over pastries and schedules.
The same smile that appeared whenever he believed he had won a harmless argument.
The same one that surfaced whenever she answered one of his questions more seriously than he expected.
Everything else had expanded.
She suddenly understood why performers often spoke about becoming themselves onstage rather than pretending to be someone else.
The confidence was not manufactured.
It had simply been given room.
A production assistant hurried past carrying a headset almost as large as her own head.
SofĂa stepped aside automatically without taking her eyes from the stage.
âIâm not sure it should.â
The assistant laughed before disappearing beneath the stage.
SofĂa looked back toward the runway.
Benito was already halfway down it, the audience singing so loudly that, for several moments, she could barely distinguish his voice from theirs.
The realization arrived so quietly that it surprised her.
Every conversation she had shared with him since Copenhagen had involved someone asking something from him. A photograph. An interview. A schedule. A decision. A signature. A compromise.
Here, seventy thousand people were asking something too.
But it was something he had chosen to give them.
There was an extraordinary difference between obligation and offering.
For the first time, SofĂa understood why he never seemed exhausted immediately after a performance.
The stage gave back as much as it demanded.
Her radio crackled softly against her blazer.
She pressed the earpiece.
âWe need confirmation for tomorrowâs arrival schedule.â
âIâll be there in one minute.â
She looked toward the stage once more.
Benito had reached the end of the runway and stood surrounded by a sea of lights, the audience answering every lyric before he had finished singing it himself.
He looked impossibly small against the scale of the production.
He somehow filled it anyway.
Only then did SofĂa turn away.
The production village occupied a collection of temporary offices hidden behind the stadium, connected by narrow service roads and rows of parked trucks. Inside, dozens of monitors covered an entire wall, each displaying a different camera angle from the show. Producers spoke continuously into headsets while technicians adjusted lighting cues that would reach the stage fractions of a second later.
The atmosphere differed entirely from the audience outside.
Every person inside remained focused on solving the next problem before anyone else realized it existed.
SofĂa slipped naturally back into that rhythm.
She confirmed tomorrowâs media schedule, answered two questions from local press, approved a photographerâs release form and declined a request for an additional backstage interview after the show.
her attention drifted toward the monitors more often than she intended.
One screen displayed wide aerial shots of the stadium.
Another followed Benito closely as he crossed the stage.
A third focused almost entirely on the audience, capturing thousands of illuminated phones transforming the darkness into something resembling a sky full of stars.
âYou can always tell the first-timers.â
The voice came from beside her.
One of the senior camera directors stood holding a paper cup of coffee, watching the same monitor she had unconsciously chosen.
âThe people seeing him live for the first time.â
âThey forget theyâre supposed to be working.â
SofĂa looked back toward the screens.
âI wasnât forgetting.â
âWhat did you observe?â
She considered the question longer than expected.
She searched for words precise enough to explain what she meant.
âI think everyone expects him to become someone different onstage.â
âI donât think he does.â
âI think thatâs probably the only place he doesnât have to.â
The older man looked at her for a moment before slowly nodding.
âIâve worked with him for six years.â
âThatâs the best description Iâve heard.â
SofĂa watched the monitors again.
She had known Benito for less than a week.
How had she arrived at a conclusion someone else had spent years trying to describe?
Meanwhile, beneath the lights, Benito hardly needed to think.
The first songs passed the way they always did.
Instinct replaced conscious effort. Choreography that had once demanded endless rehearsal now existed somewhere deeper than memory. Every cue, every turn and every movement across the enormous stage happened before he actively decided to make them.
This had always been the place where his mind became quiet.
Whatever waited outside the stadiumâthe interviews, contracts, headlines and constant decisionsâremained behind the curtain.
there was only the music.
his thoughts refused to stay where they belonged.
During a brief instrumental transition, his eyes drifted instinctively toward the hidden production compound beyond the cameras.
The distance was impossible.
The production village deliberately concealed.
Only after his gaze settled over the rows of equipment did he realize what he had done.
He let out the smallest shake of his head.
What the hell is wrong with you?
The opening chords of Ojitos Lindos echoed through the stadium.
Benito lifted the microphone.
And before he had sung a single wordâŚ
SofĂa entered his mind again.
⸝
The opening notes drifted through the stadium, soft enough that, for one impossible moment, seventy thousand people seemed to breathe together.
Then the audience sang before he did.
Benito smiled automatically and lifted the microphone.
âY solo mĂrame con esos ojitoâ lindoââŚâ
âAnd just look at me with those beautiful little eyesâŚâ
The words had barely left his mouth before she appeared.
Not standing backstage with a clipboard.
Not reviewing schedules or correcting producers.
Warm brown, impossibly expressive, always seeming a little larger whenever something genuinely surprised her. They softened when she listened, narrowed almost imperceptibly when she disagreed with someone and disappeared just slightly whenever one of her rare, unguarded smiles escaped.
He almost missed the next breath.
His gaze swept across the audience instead.
Thousands of phone lights shimmered beyond the barricades like stars scattered across the darkness. He pointed the microphone toward them, letting the crowd carry the chorus while he forced his attention back where it belonged.
He had performed this song hundreds of times.
Never once had a single person occupied the silence between the lyrics.
His body moved exactly as it always did, crossing the runway with the unconscious precision that years of touring had carved into muscle memory. Fire erupted behind him. Cameras found every angle. The audience answered every line before he reached the end of it.
âYo no te busquĂŠ, no⌠chocamoâ en el trayecto.â
âI wasnât looking for you⌠we just collided along the way.â
A quiet laugh threatened to escape him.
Not because anything remarkable had happened.
He had walked onto the aircraft expecting an ordinary flight and absentmindedly taken the wrong seat.
She had arrived moments later, boarding pass in hand, completely unaware of who would be sitting there.
âI believe youâre in my seat.â
No attempt to impress him.
Most people met Benito already carrying an opinion of him.
SofĂa had met a man occupying the wrong chair.
He smiled despite himself.
The audience mistook it for the song.
The cameras captured it perfectly.
No one would ever know why.
He shook the thought away before it could settle.
He had known her less than a week.
The chorus returned, and once again the stadium sang around him.
His body knew exactly what to do. Every cue arrived at the right moment. Every movement landed where it should.
His mind, however, had become impossible to direct.
Whenever there was the smallest space between lyrics, it wandered back to her.
The way she had looked at his absurd coat for one second longer than she intended.
The tiny smile after saying, âEstĂĄ bien,â in the SUV.
The calm certainty with which she had torn the interview card in half.
The concentration on her face when she straightened the flowers that morning, convinced no one was watching.
None of those moments belonged here.
Not beneath stadium lights.
Not during one of the biggest performances of his career.
Certainly not in front of seventy thousand people.
Yet they returned one after another anyway.
The final chorus ended, swallowed by the roar of the audience as the stage transformed around him. Massive set pieces shifted into place, preparing the transition to La Casita.
Ordinarily, these transitions gave him a few precious seconds to reset.
Almost without thinking, his eyes drifted toward the production compound hidden beyond the cameras.
He knew she wouldnât be there.
She would have gone back to the monitor village long ago, answering radios, confirming tomorrowâs schedule and solving problems before anyone else noticed them.
He couldnât possibly see her.
Only after several seconds did he realize what he was doing.
He let out a slow breath and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
What the hell is wrong with you.
As he climbed the steps toward La Casita, one realization settled more heavily than the lyrics themselves.
He hadnât spent the last four minutes thinking about SofĂa.
He had spent the last four minutes trying not to.
The applause followed Benito long after he disappeared beneath the stage.
It echoed through the service corridors, muffled by concrete and steel until it became less like cheering and more like the pulse of the building itself.
The lift settled into place with a quiet mechanical thud.
Immediately, the world returned.
Someone draped a towel across his shoulders before he had taken a second step. A bottle of water appeared in his hand. One of the stylists was already unclipping the reflective pieces from his stage jacket while another member of the wardrobe team disappeared with his boots.
Around him, conversations overlapped.
ââŚthe local promoter is askingââ
ââŚtomorrowâs departure has moved twenty minutesââ
ââŚweâll need a decision before midnightâŚâ
Benito answered where necessary, nodded when someone expected acknowledgment and allowed himself to be guided toward the dressing room.
He heard surprisingly little of what was being said.
His mind remained somewhere else entirely.
Concerts had always emptied his head.
That was one of the things he loved most about performing. For two hours, there was no space for interviews, obligations or decisions. The music left no room for anything except itself.
Tonight had done the opposite.
Every quiet space between the songs had filled with SofĂa.
The certainty with which she had protected him during the interview.
It irritated him more than he cared to admit.
By the time he reached his dressing room, he was annoyed less by the thoughts themselves than by his complete inability to control them.
He shut the door behind him.
The silence felt unfamiliar after the stadium.
Slowly, the public version of him disappeared piece by piece.
The jacket was hung carefully inside a garment bag.
The jewellery came off next, each ring placed into the small velvet tray waiting on the dressing table. He showered quickly, letting the hot water wash away the sweat and smoke from the stage, then changed into loose black trousers, an oversized charcoal T-shirt and worn trainers. Finally, he tied a patterned scarf over his damp curls without bothering to check whether it sat straight.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
The reflection was recognisable again.
Not the man who had stood beneath stadium lights.
His phone vibrated against the countertop.
Twenty-seven unread messages.
Several photographs from the concert had already appeared in the group chat.
Instead, another thought surfaced.
He had almost forgotten that conversation.
He hadnât forgotten it at all.
He had remembered it several times throughout the evening.
A small laugh escaped him.
She had probably forgotten.
Sheâd spent the evening working while heâd been on stage. There had been photographers to supervise, local press to coordinate, tomorrowâs schedule to confirm and dozens of details he would never even know existed.
Dessert had probably disappeared beneath all of that.
The thought should have been completely reasonable.
Far more than it had any right to.
It wasnât as though sheâd broken a promise.
She had never actually agreed.
She had sounded almost suspicious when sheâd said it, as though she already expected him to negotiate.
He slipped his phone into his pocket.
Perhaps sheâd already gone back to the hotel.
Longer than his, probably.
He pulled open the dressing-room door.
Outside, the backstage corridors had changed completely.
The frantic urgency that existed before a concert had dissolved into the comfortable fatigue that followed one. Technicians were already dismantling lighting rigs. Security escorted the last guests toward private exits, while crew members wheeled equipment cases toward waiting trucks.
The entire production had begun the remarkable process of disappearing.
Benito walked without thinking very much about where he was going.
His feet carried him naturally toward the media offices.
He told himself it was because tomorrowâs schedule would almost certainly have changed.
That explanation sounded sensible enough.
At least until he reached the doorway.
Relief arrived so quickly that he didnât recognize it until it had already settled somewhere beneath his ribs.
SofĂa stood with her back partly turned toward him, speaking with one of the local press coordinators. Her clipboard rested beneath one arm while she listened with complete attention, occasionally making a note in the margin of tomorrowâs schedule.
Sometime during the evening, sheâd gathered her hair into a low ponytail secured with a narrow black ribbon. Several strands had escaped around her face, curling softly against her cheeks.
The immaculate ivory blouse sheâd worn that morning no longer looked untouched.
The sleeves were lightly creased from a full dayâs work. One cuff had come undone, and a faint streak of blue ink marked the side of her right hand, just below her thumb.
For reasons he couldnât explainâŚ
those tiny imperfections made it impossible for him to look away.
Not the endlessly composed woman who seemed capable of anticipating every problem before it happened, but someone who had spent twelve hours solving everyone elseâs.
Something warm settled quietly inside his chest.
She was simply still working.
And somehowâŚ
that made him happier than it should have.
The press coordinator handed her a document. âWeâll send the final assets tomorrow.â
âThank you,â SofĂa said. âPlease include the photographerâs usage terms with the selection. The publication needs to receive both together.â
The man left, and SofĂa turned.
Her eyes found Benito immediately.
The sight of them landed with uncomfortable force after the song. They were exactly as his mind had recalled them beneath the stadium lightsâlarge and brown, widening slightly when she realized how long he had been standing there.
For one second, he forgot to speak.
SofĂaâs expression warmed before professional composure returned. âHow was the show?â
He continued looking at her a fraction longer than he should have.
She noticed. He knew she noticed because her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the folder.
âYou were there,â he said at last.
âYou didnât come back.â
âI watched the rest from production.â
The response echoed what he had told her before the show, but it carried more weight now. He had known she would be working. The production was too large for her to stand at the stage-access point all evening, and once he moved across the venue toward La Casita, she could not have followed without abandoning her responsibilities.
None of that had prevented him from searching for her.
SofĂa placed the document into her folder. âNo,â she admitted. âIt wasnât the same.â
âWhat did you think?â
The question surprised her. There was vulnerability hidden beneath his casual tone, but his stillness betrayed it. He did not want the easy praise people gave performers after a concert. He wanted to know what she had seen.
SofĂa considered her answer. She had witnessed only part of the show directly, but the production monitors had given her multiple views: the vast main stage, the runway cutting through the audience, the shift toward La Casita and the strange intimacy Benito managed to create despite the impossible scale of the venue. She had watched him become enormous without appearing less human.
âYou look freer onstage,â she said.
His brows rose. âFreer?â
âYou think Iâm not free offstage?â
âI think people ask things from you constantly.â
Something in his expression changed. SofĂa continued carefully, aware that she had reached beneath the question he had actually asked.
âOffstage, every person wants a different version of you. An answer, a decision, a photograph, a performance of some kind. Onstage, they still want something, but itâs something you decided to give them.â
The corridor seemed quieter around them.
Most people described his shows as powerful, energetic or unforgettable. They talked about the crowd, the lights or the scale of the production.
SofĂa had watched him and noticed freedom.
The answer touched the same unsettled place the song had opened inside him. He had spent the performance trying not to think about her, only to find her standing in front of him now and understanding something about him he had never explained.
âYou liked it?â he asked.
The satisfaction that moved through him was immediate and embarrassingly strong. Her approval should not have mattered more than anyone elseâs.
His eyes dropped toward the folder in her hands, partly because looking at her had become more difficult than it should have been. âYou finished?â
âI have two emails left.â
âTheyâll take five minutes.â
SofĂa blinked, and he watched the memory return to her face.
âDessert,â he reminded her.
She checked the time. âItâs almost midnight.â
âMost restaurants will be closed.â
âIâm not asking most restaurants.â
He held out his hand, palm upward.
The distinction should have made the gesture harmless. Instead, the memory of her hand in his returned so vividly that he nearly withdrew his own. He had no desire to make the moment strange, particularly when SofĂa was looking at him with cautious suspicion.
âWhat are you doing?â she asked.
âYou are not qualified to answer those emails.â
âIâm qualified to carry paper.â
âYou tend to misplace name cards.â
âThat happened one time.â
She continued holding the folder. Benito left his hand between them, turning the moment into a quiet contest.
It reminded SofĂa of their first meeting, though their positions had reversed. Then, she had stood beside him and waited for him to surrender her seat. Now he stood in front of her, expecting her to surrender the work she used as both responsibility and shield.
âYou promised,â he said.
âI said I didnât know.â
âYou said ten minutes.â
âAfter you reduced it from twenty-eight.â
âI remember most conversations.â
His expression softened. âCome on, SofĂa.â
He said her name differently when he was not teasing. The sound became lower, warmer, stripped of the playful challenge he usually placed between them.
After the show, after the song, hearing her name in his own voice affected him too. He remembered singing about her eyes without meaning to. He remembered searching the production area despite knowing he could not find her there.
SofĂa glanced toward the laptop. Two messages remained, neither urgent. She could finish them early the following morning. Leaving them unanswered would not cause the tour to collapse.
Pleasure did not have to be earned through complete exhaustion.
The thought felt unnatural enough to make her uncomfortable.
Perhaps that was precisely why she should test it.
She placed the folder in his hand.
Benitoâs fingers closed around it, and a quiet triumph entered his expression.
âTen minutes,â she reminded him.
âThat sounded dishonest.â
The venue kitchen had nearly closed.
Nearly, Benito appeared to believe, was another word for available.
He led SofĂa through a service corridor and into an industrial kitchen where only two employees remained. Stainless-steel counters had been wiped clean, trays were stacked beside the sinks and the fading scents of coffee, sugar and warm bread softened the harsh overhead lighting.
A chef looked up when they entered. âWeâre finished for the night.â
Benito leaned both hands against the counter. âYou got dessert?â
The chef sighed with the familiarity of someone who had received similar requests from him before. âThereâs flan.â
âChocolate cake. Fruit.â
Benito looked at SofĂa. âPick.â
She glanced between him and the chef. âThe flan is already prepared?â
âThen that would be the least inconvenient.â
Benito frowned. âThatâs not how you choose dessert.â
âYou choose what you want.â
âI donât want to create additional work.â
âThe cake is already made too,â the chef said, amusement entering his voice.
SofĂa hesitated. Neither flan nor chocolate cake should have felt like a revealing decision. Still, Benito watched her with an attention that made the question seem larger than it was.
The concentration in his gaze reminded her of the hallway after the podcast. It was quieter now, less playful. He appeared distracted in a way she could not quite interpret, as though part of him remained somewhere beyond the kitchen.
Benito nodded. âTwo.â
âYou havenât had dinner.â
âI ate during the show.â
âDuring a wardrobe change.â
SofĂa stared at him. âThat cannot be good for digestion.â
âSo half a meal counts now?â
His smile widened, and for the first time since he had come offstage, some of the tension in him loosened. âDepends whoâs eating.â
The chef placed two plates on the counter, each holding a glossy slice of caramel flan. Benito took them and asked whether there was somewhere they could sit.
The chef pointed toward a small staff dining room.
Before leaving, Benito thanked him properly, reading the name embroidered across the manâs jacket rather than offering a distracted acknowledgment while walking away.
Mateoâs expression warmed.
SofĂa noticed. Benito saw her notice, and the awareness moved between them without comment.
The dining room was entirely ordinary: plastic tables, stackable chairs, a vending machine humming in one corner and a wall clock running several minutes slow. After the scale of the concert, the plainness felt strangely comforting.
Benito chose a table near the window, although the glass revealed only a dark service alley and the rear of a parked truck. He placed a plate in front of SofĂa and sat opposite her.
He had begun to associate tables with finding her on the other side of them: the plane, breakfast, the conference room and now this nearly empty dining room after midnight.
Tonight, however, the distance across the table felt more noticeable.
During âOjitos Lindos,â he had remembered her eyes, her hand and the accidental beginning of whatever this was. Now all three were directly in front of him. Her large brown eyes moved down toward the plate. Her hand curled around the spoon. The woman he had been trying not to think about sat only a few feet away, unaware that she had followed him through an entire song.
âDessert before dinner,â he said.
âIt is technically after your sandwich.â
âSo youâre breaking a rule.â
SofĂa looked at the flan. âThis is a very small rebellion.â
âYou gotta start somewhere.â
She tasted it, and the dark caramel briefly drew her eyes closed before she swallowed.
Benito watched the expression form. It was unguarded, no more than a second of uncomplicated pleasure, yet after an evening of trying to force her from his thoughts, the sight affected him with disproportionate force.
âYou like it,â he said.
Her eyes lifted. âWhat face?â
âI donât have a good face.â
He took a bite from his own plate because continuing to stare would make his attention too obvious.
SofĂa watched him in return.
Without the stage clothes and lighting, he seemed almost impossibly different from the man she had watched command the stadium. His shirt was faded, the scarf over his hair had been tied unevenly and a faint red mark remained near his neck where the costume had rubbed against his skin.
Still, the energy of the performance lingered around him. Not arrogance. Something less deliberate.
Residual intensity, like heat held by pavement after sunset.
âAre you tired?â she asked.
âAfter performing that long?â
âIâm tired before. Not after.â
âThat seems backward.â
âThe show. The city.â He looked at her. âWhat happens after.â
The question was innocent.
His response did not feel that way.
The words settled between them. Benito had said nothing improper, but the atmosphere shifted anyway. SofĂa lowered her eyes toward the plate, and he saw the subtle movement of her throat as she swallowed.
He had wanted these ten minutes because he enjoyed speaking to her. That explanation had seemed sufficient before the show. Now it felt incomplete.
He had looked for her immediately after walking offstage.
He had stood watching her for too long when he finally found her.
He was sitting across from her while the memories conjured by the song remained uncomfortably close to the surface. Every time she looked at him, he heard the opening line again.
She worked with him. They were eating flan with plastic spoons in an employee dining room. Nothing about the setting was romantic.
Except the fact that the rest of the venue had begun emptying while neither of them seemed eager to leave.
Except the way vanilla drifted across the table whenever she moved.
Benitoâs attention fell toward her hands. The French manicure remained immaculate despite the day. He remembered those same fingers in his, and the memory made his next question sound more abrupt than he intended.
SofĂa followed his gaze. âMy nails?â
âI donât believe you.â
âThey arenât indestructible.â
She examined one thumb. âI have them maintained regularly.â
âSame thing every time?â
âTheyâd be clean without the white line.â
âItâs a French manicure.â
Her eyes lifted toward him, wide with faint skepticism. âDo you?â
Benito leaned back slightly, as though distance might lessen the effect. âMy mother gets them sometimes.â
The answer softened her expression, and he watched the transformation happen.
âI was thinking it was sweet that you noticed your motherâs manicure.â
He appeared almost offended. âWhy wouldnât I notice?â
âMany sons wouldnât.â
âIâm not many sons.â
âNo,â SofĂa said. âI donât think you are.â
Her voice contained no obvious flirtation. She was simply observing him, just as she had observed his freedom onstage.
Somehow, that affected him more.
He pushed the edge of the flan around his plate, searching for a subject that might move his thoughts away from her face and hands. Instead, he asked something that brought them closer.
The question was broad enough for her to choose how deeply she answered. SofĂa appreciated that he did not demand more than she offered.
âMy mother lives in Madrid. My father lives outside Miami.â
âSince I was eleven.â
âYou lived with your mother?â
âNo. We stayed in Florida until I finished school. She only moved to Madrid a few years ago.â
âSo thatâs where the Spanish comes from?â
âPartly. My motherâs Puerto Rican, so she spoke Spanish at home. But outside the houseâŚâ She smiled faintly. âEverything was in English.â
âSo you understand everything.â
âBut speaking is different.â
âExactly. I know the words. I just need an extra second to find them.â
âYou still talk better than you think.â
âYou say that because you speak like someoneâs timing you.â
âWe donât speak that fast.â
âMaybe you listen slow.â
SofĂa gave him a look, and he laughed. The sound came more easily now, though the strange awareness created during the song remained beneath it.
âWhy media?â he asked.
She glanced toward the clock. Their promised ten minutes had already passed.
âIâm good at organizing people and information.â
âThatâs why youâre good at it. Not why you chose it.â
The distinction caught her unprepared. âI thought it would be interesting.â
âYou have decided every qualified answer means no.â
SofĂa looked through the window at the dark alley. The truth was more complicated. Communications rewarded qualities she already possessed: precision, diplomacy, anticipation and the ability to understand what people needed before they articulated it.
Competence had become its own path. One successful role led to another, followed by larger clients, greater responsibility and increasingly complex productions. At some point, she had stopped asking whether she had chosen the work or simply continued being rewarded for doing it well.
âI like being useful,â she said.
Benitoâs expression changed. âThatâs not the same as liking the job.â
âYou always gotta be useful?â
Her fingers closed more tightly around the spoon. âI donât understand.â
âYesterday you worked while everybody ate. Today you fixed flowers that werenât yours, protected my interview, changed schedules and dealt with photographers.â He watched her carefully, remembering how naturally she had defended his boundary. âWhat do you do when nobody needs something?â
The question entered a space SofĂa preferred not to examine.
âI know what âreadâ means.â
She smiled faintly. âNovels. Art history. Biographies.â
She searched for another answer. âWalk.â
The list sounded to Benito like the life of someone who had learned to occupy herself quietly enough not to trouble anyone. He recognized solitude. His looked differentâcrowded with noise, staff, friends and strangersâbut he understood the instinct to retreat into places that asked nothing from him.
âYou like being alone?â
SofĂaâs eyes rose to his.
The question was too direct, and Benito knew it immediately. He did not withdraw it. She could refuse. He had already shown her that he would respect a refusal.
âSometimes,â she admitted.
The honesty surprised them both.
âI think everyone is, sometimes.â
âNot everybody admits it.â
âPerhaps they donât know.â
His smile was small. âYeah. You do.â
For several seconds, no teasing softened the conversation. Benito saw her gentleness differently now. He had first interpreted it as innocence or fragility, something untouched by the kind of disorder he carried with him.
But delicate things were not necessarily untested.
Porcelain passed through fire before it became porcelain.
The thought stayed with him.
Benito looked down at his plate. He could answer with a joke. People expected humor whenever questions approached truth, and he had used it on the podcast that morning.
SofĂa waited without pressing him.
That made honesty more dangerous.
Her expression did not fill with pity, and he was grateful.
âEven with so many people around you?â
She understood without requiring an explanation.
That disturbed himânot because he wanted to remain misunderstood, but because being understood so quickly produced the desire to tell her more.
He was not someone who told people more.
The song returned faintly in his mind. Not the melody this time, but the idea beneath it: an unexpected collision, followed by the unsettling discovery that a stranger could begin to feel familiar.
He looked toward the slow wall clock. âYour ten minutes are over.â
âThey ended several minutes ago.â
âYou still had questions.â
âYou couldâve left.â
âThat would have been rude.â
He narrowed his eyes. âIs that why?â
SofĂa held his gaze. She could have said yes and restored a safe distance between them.
Instead, she looked down at the empty plate.
The answer was partial, and both of them knew it.
They returned to the hotel after one in the morning. The crowd outside had thinned, although security still guided them through a private entrance. Most of the touring party had already arrived.
Inside the elevator, SofĂa stood beside Benito rather than opposite him. The space was too narrow for the arrangement they had unconsciously established across tables and vehicles.
Their shoulders did not touch.
Both remained aware of how easily they could.
Benito carried her folder beneath one arm, despite SofĂa reminding him twice that she was capable of carrying it herself. The gesture should have felt practical. Instead, after everything his mind had made of her hand during the concert, he was strangely relieved to have been given something else to hold.
When the doors opened on the tenth floor, SofĂa stepped out. Her room was farther down the corridor, while Benitoâs suite occupied another wing two floors above.
She reached for the folder. âThank you.â
He handed it over. âYou broke a rule.â
âI ate dessert before dinner.â
âAnd nothing happened.â
âIâm not certain thirty-seven minutes of conversation constitutes sufficient evidence.â
SofĂa paused. âThirty-seven?â
âYou stayed longer than ten.â
She recognized her own word from the vehicle, and her smile appeared before she could restrain it.
Benito had begun to understand that SofĂaâs smiles differed. There was the professional one, warm but measured; the restrained one that appeared when she was trying not to encourage him; and the surprised one that escaped whenever he genuinely amused her.
This one was quieter. It belonged to the two of them and the memory of an empty kitchen after midnight.
Her eyes softened with it.
For the second time that evening, the same lyric moved through him without invitation.
The elevator doors began to close. Benito placed one hand between them, stopping the movement.
âYouâre with me all day?â
SofĂa mentally reviewed the schedule. âMost of it.â
The word came too quickly.
Neither pretended not to notice.
Benito removed his hand. âGood night, SofĂa.â
She remained in the hallway with the folder held against her chest.
On the other side of the doors, Benito stood still as the elevator continued upward. His reflection looked back at him from the polished metal. The scarf around his head was crooked, exhaustion had settled beneath his eyes and the effects of the show should finally have been fading.
He should have been thinking about the concert, the next city or the messages waiting on his phone.
Instead, he thought about SofĂa admitting she was sometimes lonely. He thought about the way she had looked at him before the opening lift rose, the large brown eyes that had followed him into a song, and thirty-seven minutes that had felt like ten.
When the elevator reached his floor, his phone vibrated.
A message from management displayed the following morningâs first commitment.
10:30 a.m. â filmed interview and hot-wing challenge. SofĂa accompanying.
Benito stared at the screen.
He imagined her immaculate ivory blouse near ten increasingly violent sauces. Her careful manners. Her French manicure wrapped around a chicken wing. The composed expression she would attempt to maintain while watching him suffer.
For the first time since the segment had been added, he found himself looking forward to it.
Not because of the interview.
Because she would be there.
