The large cherimoya was a gift from Santiago—sweet in more ways than one. That morning, he’d plucked it straight from his mother’s lush, perfumed tree, cradling it like a relic between the binders in his backpack, as if sheltering some sacred treasure from the jostling chaos of the school day.
Jamie had wondered where Santiago had vanished to that morning. He’d missed first bell entirely—the moment Mrs. Gunther, unknowingly armed with a stick of glacial-blue chalk the children had mischievously swapped for her usual white, began scratching out the day’s lesson in her rigid, looping script.
When she attempted to erase it, a fine mist of sapphire dust exploded into the air, coating the blackboard in a ghostly sheen and dappled across her prim tangerine dress like pollen on petals.
The children battled valiantly to stifle their laughter, shoulders shaking in silence, as her face ripened into a vivid, volcanic shade of red.
Jamie wasn’t sure whether Santiago had skipped class just to bring him fruit from his mother’s garden—or if some other mystery had pulled him away. It wasn’t the first time Santiago had shared something from home—he’d once offered him granadilla and lúcuma, fruits native to his home country. Each new bite was a rare ambrosia, a small, luminous joy he knew he’d never stumble upon in the sterile aisles of their local grocery store.
Weeks earlier, beneath the chatter of lunch hour, Santiago had spoken of the cherimoya. Jamie had laughed at the name—there was something impish about it, as if “cherry” had danced with an invented syllable and made something wholly its own.
But after school, when he finally bit into the fruit—braces catching, hands sticky—the cherimoya’s custard-soft flesh yielded like a sun-drowsed banana left too long on the sill. Its mellow, nectar-rich flavor lingered like a secret. It summoned to mind those quiet mornings when his mother would slice ripe fruit over his steaming oats.
Santiago’s grin widened as he explained that his mother’s towering cherimoya tree had stood there long before they ever arrived from their homeland and bought the property with its little stucco house.
Jamie had immediately begged to see the enchanted tree, and any other wonder tucked inside his mother’s garden—vegetables, herbs, fruits whose names twisted languidly on his tongue like half-spoken spells.
Even when Santiago’s English slipped and stitched itself with Spanish—mamá, fruta, soft syllables that rolled like river stones—Jamie never minded. In truth, he loved it. The gentle cadence of those words in Santiago’s mouth made him sound like he belonged to someplace far away and important.
Jamie knew Santiago was still learning, even if the other seventh-graders weren’t so kind. He got here on a scholarship because he’s really smart, he would remind them, again and again.
But they hurled names all the same—ugly, barbed things, the kind Jamie’s mother once said could rot your soul if you used them too often.
Once, Jamie had told Mr. Montague. Not everything—just the part about the names. He hadn’t yet found the words for the other part: the way his chest twisted when Santiago smiled, or how a single cruel word aimed at him felt worse than any ever thrown at Jamie himself.
The school counselor had peered at him over his glasses, the deep lines in his face folding like creased parchment. He tapped two fingers gently against his chest.
“Jamie, remember—bullies say bad things because they feel bad inside.”
Jamie had nodded. It sounded like something adults were supposed to say. But it didn’t make the hurt go away. Not really.
Still, he liked being there. Mr. Montague’s office always smelled of vanilla tea and old books, warm even when the rest of the school felt like a walk-in freezer. There was something safe about that cluttered little space—its leaning towers of manila folders, the faded motivational posters sloughing from the walls, the way the silence didn’t press on you but settled softly.
Sometimes, Jamie spoke about Santiago, even if he didn’t say his name.
Like today.
“I just… I don’t get why they hate him so much,” he said, picking at a frayed seam in the beanbag chair. “He didn’t do anything. He’s—he’s just kind. And smart. Smarter than anyone in this stupid school.”
Mr. Montague raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “Someone you care about?”
Jamie’s cheeks flushed, red as his hair. “He’s my friend.”
“Of course,” the counselor said softly—not with doubt, but with a quiet kind of knowing that waited, patient, for the rest of the story.
If Jamie had his way, he’d have stayed in that office forever. He could shut his eyes and pretend the hallways didn’t exist. Pretend Santiago was safe. Pretend he didn’t always notice when their shoulders brushed in passing—how it sent some strange voltage skittering through him.
But rules were rules.
“Jamie, you’re missing too much math. Ms. Amy’s going to start asking questions,” Mr. Montague said gently, glancing at the clock.
Jamie groaned. “Can’t I just—five more minutes?”
The counselor gave him a look, the kind with warmth baked into the corners. “Your grades matter too, Jamie. I know things feel big right now. But they don’t have to swallow everything else.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Jamie stood, dragging his feet toward the door like they were tied to cinder blocks.
He pushed into the math room and met his doom square in the face.
“Mr. Barnes,” Ms. Amy said, slicing each syllable like she was carving his name into stone. Her voice carried the weight of tenure and tiredness, and her frame all but eclipsed the whiteboard behind her. A coil of white hair was pinned tightly atop her head like a well-deserved crown of frost.
“Care to explain why you missed half the lesson?”
“I was with Mr. Montague,” Jamie mumbled.
She narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Well, take a seat. Hope you’re ready for the quiz I had planned.”
“But I just got here! I can’t take a quiz—I’ll fail.”
“Should’ve thought of that before skipping class to visit your buddy Montague.”
“If you call his office, he’ll tell you I was with him!”
She folded her arms, gaze flat. “Oh, I believe you. But you’re still taking the quiz.”
“But Ms. Amy, he’s the school counselor.”
“Yes, and you don’t have counseling minutes on your IEP. Reading minutes only—you know that.”
“I know, but I had to talk to him about… stuff.”
Her gaze sharpened, curious. “Stuff?”
Heat bloomed up Jamie’s neck. Don’t say Santiago’s name. Don’t say Santiago’s name.
“Yeah. Stuff,” he muttered.
Ms. Amy sighed, flipping through the quizzes. “Enough with the guff, Barnes. Sit down.”
Jamie slumped into his chair with the weight of a doomed man, unzipped his pencil case, and fished out the sharpest pencil he could find.
The class scribbled through a ten-question quiz in near silence. When it ended, papers shuffled forward in a lazy ripple.
Second period was next—science.
Mr. Brunswick greeted them at the door with his usual mellow energy, giving Jamie a soft pat on the back as he trailed in behind Karina and Kim.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, all warmth and flannel. He was one of the younger teachers—probably only in his early twenties—and one of the kinder ones too, even if his class was dull enough to keep Jamie in a perpetual battle with his own somnolence.
Santiago was already in his seat, second-to-last row. Jamie slid into the desk beside him.
It wouldn’t be long before he took up his usual pastime—angling his pencil and giving Santiago tiny jabs to the back of the head. Not hard, just annoying enough to be felt.
Santiago twitched and shot him a glance. Jamie grinned.
After a few more jabs, Santiago would usually sigh through his nose. He rarely turned around, but Jamie always caught the corners of his mouth tugging upward—half annoyed, half amused.
That was all Jamie wanted. That almost-smile.
St. Aelred Middle had paired them for nearly every class, lockers side by side, schedules knotted like twin shoelaces. Someone in administration had figured Jamie—a “lifer” at the school—would be the perfect guide for the new kid.
Jamie knew the building inside and out, along with nearly everyone who wandered its halls. He was popular in a sideways kind of way—the kind of boy every girl liked, even if none of them were exactly sure why.
Sure, he had bullies. No boy who chose ballet as an elective would escape unscathed. But most bullies knew better than to push too far; too many girls liked Jamie, and nobody wanted to blow their shot.
He had been Santiago’s first friend here. Probably still his best, even though Santiago had started branching out—new names at lunch, different partners in P.E.
Many kids teased him for his accent, or the way his English sometimes tangled. Other times it was his hair—thick black waves, usually overdue for a cut, sometimes dyed pink or violet on a whim. He matched his nails to the color too. That didn’t go unnoticed.
They called him names—crude ones. Words meant to bite, to shame. Queer. Fag.
Sometimes they joked that Santiago was Jamie’s boyfriend. Jamie tried to laugh with them, like Santiago always did, but the laughter didn’t sit right. It stuck in his throat. It burned in ways he didn’t quite understand.
Science, at least, felt easy today.
“Covalent bonds!” Mr. Brunswick declared, writing the words in green marker across the whiteboard. “Strong molecular relationships where atoms share electrons.”
Santiago’s shoulder was just a few inches away from Jamie, close enough to feel the ghost of warmth through his sleeve.
Shared space. Shared electrons.
Mr. Brunswick paused, then smirked. “Think of it like two people holding hands—not because they have to, but because they want to. Each one has something missing, and by sharing, they both feel whole. That’s what a covalent bond is. It’s not like an ionic bond, where one gives something away completely. This is a chemical romance—a connection that holds them together.”
Mr. Brunswick glanced around at the class, gauging their expressions. “Yeah, yeah, I know—kinda cheesy,” he added with a sheepish grin. “But hey, it’s almost Valentine’s Day! Even science deserves a little romance.”
Jamie hadn’t really been listening, but the mention of Valentine’s Day snapped his attention into focus like a sudden light flicked on in a dark room. It was only Wednesday, but Friday loomed ahead like a storm cloud.
A knot curled in his stomach just thinking about it.
The rest of Wednesday blurred past like the side of a moving train.
By Thursday, the school had been overtaken by reds and pinks. The halls were ribboned with cheap crepe paper and plastic hearts. Teachers had set out bins wrapped in glossy heart-patterned paper, ready for kids to drop in valentines. Karina and Kim flitted through the corridors like birds in spring, giggling and whispering about who liked who. Even Tommy—who normally acted allergic to feelings—was caught in the moment, loudly declaring he might ask out some eighth-grade girl no one believed he’d actually spoken to.
Jamie kept telling himself he didn’t care.
But by Friday morning, the school looked like a candy store had exploded inside it. Nearly every girl carried pastel bags of sweets, and pink foil-wrapped chocolates glittered on desks like offerings. Notes passed between hands, red envelopes tucked discreetly into backpacks. Even Ms. Amy, usually granite-faced, seemed almost… content.
Before homeroom, Jamie found a heart-shaped lollipop taped to a folded note on his desk. He didn’t need to read it to know who it was from—Katie.
With a sigh, he slipped it into his backpack before anyone could see.
Throughout the day, more gifts came—a cookie from Brianna, a candy bracelet from Melanie, a handwritten letter in cursive from Kim. He thanked each girl with a polite smile, his voice soft, his heart elsewhere.
Because the truth was, only one thing mattered today.
Santiago had invited him over.
For the first time.
They’d been friends for six months—close, inseparable—but Jamie had never once been to his house. He only vaguely knew where it was, somewhere six or seven miles north of the school in a neighborhood he’d never heard good things about.
The invitation had come yesterday. The pair were sitting on the steps by the front of the school, the sun a dull gold behind them. Santiago had been tying his shoe, head down.
“You should come over tomorrow,” he’d said. “If you want.”
Jamie had tried to match his casual tone. “Yeah, sure.” But he’d spent all night thinking about it. And all of today.
By lunchtime, he barely registered the Valentine’s Day noise around him. He wasn’t worried anymore about getting more treats or cards. He just wanted the school day to be over.
At the lunch table, Santiago was picking apart a sandwich, not really eating it.
“You still coming over?” he asked, glancing up.
Jamie’s ears flushed. “Yeah. My mom said it’s fine.”
Santiago’s grin was small but radiant. “Cool.”
When the final bell rang, Jamie’s heart thumped in his chest like it wanted to escape. He grabbed his backpack and wove through the crowd toward the front steps.
Santiago was waiting near the bike rack, slouched casually, his bag slung over one shoulder.
“Ready?” Santiago asked.
Jamie nodded, unsure why his palms felt damp.
The parking lot swarmed with parents in shiny SUVs and new electric sedans. Jamie stood beside Santiago, who shifted his weight from one foot to the other, checking his phone like he didn’t want to seem nervous.
Then came the sound of something heavier than a car. A low rumble. The ground seemed to pulse beneath them as a massive dump truck rounded the corner, its side emblazoned with the name of a construction company. Dust streaked its metal hide, and in the open bed, pale gray stones jostled with each gear shift.
The brakes hissed with a sharp exhale as the truck rolled to a halt at the curb. Behind the wheel sat a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and sun-worn skin. One arm hung lazily out the window.
He waved.
Santiago waved back.
Jamie thought it was cool. He’d never been in a truck like that before.
But beside him, Santiago let out a quiet groan.
“He could’ve picked us up in Mom’s car,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Jamie glanced at him. “Why?”
Santiago shot him a look, but before he could answer, his dad laid on the horn. Twice. Sharp, blaring honks that cut through the afternoon din.
A few kids turned to stare.
Santiago groaned again, grabbed Jamie’s wrist, and tugged him toward the truck before the gawking could gather momentum.
The passenger door was enormous. Jamie had to grab the inner handle and hoist himself up like he was scaling a wall. The cabin smelled of old coffee grounds and stale cigarette smoke, a scent both foreign and strangely comforting.
There was only one bench seat, so when Santiago squeezed in beside his father, Jamie ended up pressed against the passenger-side door, Santiago’s leg awkwardly draped over his own—a perch born of necessity.
He braced himself for discomfort.
Instead, he found a strange kind of warmth in the press of Santiago’s weight, as if it calmed something restless inside him.
“¿Cómo te fue, mijo?” Santiago’s father asked as they settled in.
“Hola, Papá. Tuve un día bastante bueno,” Santiago mumbled, his eyes avoiding his father’s. He and Jamie fumbled with the seatbelt, stretching it across them both, hands brushing in a brief tangle before the buckle clicked into place.
“Es el Día de San Valentín,” Luis said with a grin. “¿Tuviste una Valentine? ¿Tienes una noviecita, mijo?”
Santiago let out a laugh—quick, nervous. “No, Papá. No tengo novia.”
His purple-dyed streaks shifted with the movement, catching the sun in a flash of color.
Luis leaned slightly, peering past him toward the mop of red curls half-hidden behind Santiago’s shoulder.
“¿Y este quién es?”
“Este es mi amigo, Jamie,” Santiago said, so quietly it almost didn’t register.
Jamie, who didn’t know more than a handful of Spanish words—barely clinging to a C- in the class—heard his name and took it as a cue.
He extended a freckled hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Luis blinked once, then laughed, gripping Jamie’s hand in a firm, calloused shake. His palm was broad and rough, nearly swallowing Jamie’s completely.
“Sir? Ah, buen chibolo. Call me Luis.”
Jamie nodded. “Cool truck.”
Luis raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been in a dump truck before.”
Santiago sighed, like he wanted to vanish into the dashboard. “It’s not that interesting.”
But Jamie was already leaning forward, eyes roaming over the console, the heavy-duty gearshift, the industrial switches lined like soldiers in formation across the dash.
“What do you haul?” he asked.
“Limestone, mostly. For roads, foundations, new builds. You ever seen those big gravel pits just outside town?”
Jamie nodded.
“That’s where I pull from.” Luis tapped the dashboard. “You like trucks, huh?”
“I mean, yeah,” Jamie said. “My dad drives a Porsche, but this is way cooler.”
Luis barked out a laugh. Santiago turned to look at Jamie, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“You serious, bro?”
“Yeah. Porsches are cool and all, but they all look the same. This thing’s different. Feels like it does something.”
Luis nodded, satisfied. “A Porsche doesn’t build things. This does.”
Santiago rolled his eyes, but Jamie saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he was trying not to smile.
The truck lumbered forward, rumbling onto the road. It was loud and uneven, the kind of ride that made your teeth chatter, but Jamie liked it. It felt alive.
As they drove through town, Luis spun stories—hauling stone through thunderstorms, trucks stuck in the mud, the time a tire exploded mid-haul and sent him flying half off his seat.
Jamie nodded along, eyes alight with wonder.
Santiago remained silent, arms crossed, but Jamie noticed he was no longer sulking out of embarrassment.
Santiago kept stealing glances at his guest, his hazel eyes more at ease now, realizing Jamie didn’t mind that his dad didn’t drive something sleek. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
When the truck finally rumbled to a stop in front of Santiago’s house, Jamie craned his neck to look. It was a small, single-story place with sun-faded shingles and a front yard full of verdant life.
Tall stalks of amaranth and sunflowers flanked mismatched clay pots overflowing with herbs. Mint, oregano, epazote—Jamie didn’t know their names, but he knew the scent. The leaves rustled softly in the late-afternoon breeze.
Luis killed the engine. “Bueno, ve entrando. Y dile a tu mamá que esta vez, I’m not late for dinner,” he said with a wink.
“Seguro,” Santiago replied, as he helped Jamie down from the truck.
Before they even reached the porch, the front door burst open.
“¡Hijito! Por fin estás en—”
Santiago’s mom stopped mid-greeting when she saw Jamie behind him. Her face lit up, eyes crinkling with warmth.
Before Jamie could even say hello, she was pulling him into a flour-dusted embrace—tight, full of warmth, like they weren’t meeting for the first time.
Jamie stiffened for half a second—then melted into the hug. He felt less like a guest and more like someone who had finally come home.
“Ay, ¿este es tu amiguito Jamie?” she asked Santiago, pulling back just enough to get a proper look at him, her hands still cupping his shoulders like he might float away if she let go.
Santiago’s face flushed scarlet, embarrassment radiating off him like heat from pavement.
Jamie offered a grin, amused by his friend’s discomfort and more so by the fact that his mother already knew his name. At first, he hadn’t even recognized it—it sounded different in Spanish, softened at the edges, reshaped by the vowels of another tongue. But the kindness in her eyes—and the word that sounded like amigo—told him everything he needed to know.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Flores.”
“I’ve heard so much about you, Jamie!” she said, her tone bright as tinsel, her hands still gently assessing him as though trying to determine if he was real. “Santiago talks about you all the time.”
Jamie glanced over at Santiago with a teasing sparkle in his eyes.
Santiago, groaned, already stepping inside.
“Mamá… por favor,” he muttered with defeat.
Santiago was already halfway down the hall, his backpack dangling from one hand by its strap. “Come on,” he said, giving a quick nod before nudging his bedroom door open with the side of his foot.
“Ah—wait, wait!” his mother called out before Jamie could follow. “Jamie, don’t go yet, come! Necesitas tratar algo—you need to try something!”
Jamie hesitated, glancing toward Santiago for guidance, but she was already beckoning him like a benevolent sorceress luring him into a fragrant spell. He followed her into the kitchen.
The counters were a vivid still life—jars of spices labeled in elegant script, a wooden board crowned with halved limes, and a bowl covered by a striped dish towel, something steaming gently beneath.
“You’ve never had Peruvian food before, have you?” she asked, though her smile said she already knew the answer.
“I don’t think so. I’ve had tacos—is it like that?” Jamie asked innocently.
She laughed—a crystalline sound—and reached for one of the pots.
“Not exactly. Here, try this.”
Jamie took the spoon with both hands. He tasted.
“Whoa.”
His reaction made her laugh again, full and radiant.
“Good, right? It’s ají de gallina—shredded chicken in a yellow pepper sauce. Santiago’s favorite.”
Jamie dove back in for seconds without hesitation. “It’s really good,” he mumbled through a mouthful, hand instinctively covering his mouth.
“Oh, you’re staying for dinner now, I don’t care what plans you had,” she declared, waving him off with mock seriousness as she turned back to the stove.
“I, uh… I’d like that,” Jamie said, already reaching for his phone. “Let me just text my mom, see if she can pick me up later.”
From the hallway, Santiago chuckled, “Dude, she wasn’t asking.”
Jamie grinned—this was the best Valentine’s day he’d ever had.
Later, sprawled across Santiago’s bed like lazy cats, controllers in hand, the two boys traded volleys on the screen, their elbows brushing from time to time.
Santiago leaned in close, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I wanna show you something later.”
Jamie sat up a little. “What is it?”
Santiago smirked. “Not now. Later. When it’s dark.”
“Why not now?”
“You’ll see.” He flopped back beside Jamie with exaggerated nonchalance.
Jamie groaned. “Dude, just tell me—”
“Nope.”
“Santi—”
“Be patient.”
Jamie huffed and crossed his arms.
Dinner was unlike anything Jamie had experienced. The table was a kaleidoscope of color and scent—vivid reds and deep ochres, steam rising from dishes that were both foreign and strangely familiar. Santiago’s mom set down a plate of lomo saltado: tender strips of beef stir-fried with onions, tomatoes, and crisp fries atop a bed of white rice. Beside it gleamed the golden ají de gallina, warm and inviting.
They ate in a hush, the clink of forks and soft murmur of praise the only sounds for a while.
“Do you like it, Jamie?” Santiago’s mom asked.
“This is amazing,” he said, then added with a crooked smile, “Me gusta.”
Luis chuckled—a rich, approving sound—and Jamie felt like he’d cleared a hurdle he hadn’t even known was there.
Santiago turned back to his plate, but the curl at the edge of his lips was there.
After dinner, Santiago’s mom brought out dessert—alfajores, two soft cookies sandwiched together with caramel-like dulce de leche, dusted with powdered sugar. Jamie took a bite, the sweet, buttery flavor melting on his tongue.
“Amazing,” he mumbled, licking sugar from his thumb.
“Right?” Santiago said, already reaching for another.
Santiago’s parents retreated to the living room to watch a black-and-white Spanish romance film, the kind so dated it didn’t bother with English subtitles.
With their plates cleared and the house dimmed except for the shadowplay of the TV in the other room, Santiago stood up from the dining room chair, his eyes flicking toward the back door.
“Alright,” he said. “It’s time.”
Jamie perked up. “Finally.”
Santiago smirked, motioning for him to follow. He grabbed a well-worn hoodie from the chair and tossed another to Jamie. “You might need this.”
Jamie slipped it on, heart thrumming with bright, breathless curiosity, and followed him out into the night. The air outside was cool and fragrant, steeped in petrichor and distant city light. The yard unfolded before them, unexpectedly vast—wider than the modest house suggested—its perimeter marked by a splintering wooden fence. Tangled rows of fruit trees and crooked garden beds lay sprawled across the earth, their leaves lifting in the breeze like whispering hands.
Beyond them, the fence at the far end hovered in silhouette, half-swallowed by shadow.
“Come on,” Santiago whispered, his voice barely louder than the wind.
Jamie trailed him, excitement bubbling in his chest like carbonated fizz. Whatever Santiago had planned—whatever this nocturnal secret was—he already knew it was going to be something special.
They passed into a quieter stretch of the garden, where the moonlight pooled in pale silver and shadows grew dense and velvety. Santiago moved with care, guiding them along the uneven path. Jamie followed close, his breath clouding in the air, hands stuffed in his sleeves.
They stepped beneath the ancient cherimoya tree, its twisted limbs arched overhead like cathedral beams. Jamie reached up, brushing his fingers along the bark—rough and furrowed with age.
“This is where you got it from, huh?” he murmured.
Santiago nodded. “Yeah. And over here”—he gestured to a row of shadowed plants, their silhouettes faint in the moonlight—“that’s the granadilla. Over there, tomatoes. The lúcuma’s way in the back.”
Jamie took it all in—the secret architecture of Santiago’s world. He remembered each fruit Santiago had pressed into his hands in the school breezeways, laughing, insisting he try it, while they hustled from class to class.
“Didn’t think I’d ever taste half this stuff before I met you,” Jamie said, eyes lingering on a vine strung with fruit like lanterns.
Santiago laughed quietly. “Yeah, I know.”
They ventured deeper still, where the trees grew taller and the wind wove through their branches with a silken rustle. Jamie heard the chorus of crickets rise around them, the low drone of wings slicing the stillness.
“Where are we going?” he finally asked.
“Almost there,” Santiago said, not turning around.
Jamie’s heart thudded a little faster.
Finally, Santiago stopped in front of a squat, thorned plant with winding stems and dark, glossy leaves. Nestled at its center was a single pale bud—closed tight, but trembling faintly, as if dreaming of bloom.
“Now we wait,” Santiago whispered.
“For what?” Jamie asked, his voice taut with anticipation.
“Remember what I told you earlier?”
“No. What?”
“Patience!” Santiago shouted, seizing Jamie’s shoulders and shaking him playfully.
Jamie let out a theatrical groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.
They lingered side by side in the stillness, shoulder to shoulder, their breath rising and threading together like steam.
“Now, look!” Santiago exclaimed as the petals began to stir. Gently, they fanned out, embracing the starlight as if beckoned by fate. The bloom widened, revealing a honey heart at its center.
“It’s called la dama de noche,” Santiago murmured in a reverent tone. “It means ‘lady of the night.’”
Jamie snorted. “Wait—doesn’t that mean prostitute?” He burst into laughter. “Why the hell is it called that?”
Santiago rolled his eyes, though a reluctant smirk tugged at his lips. “No, not that kind of lady. It’s named that because it only blooms in the dark.”
He lifted the dainty flower and reached for Jamie, his fingers threading gently into the back of his hair. Santiago guided his head forward, pressing Jamie’s nose into the velvety petals.
“Smell.”
Jamie inhaled. The scent was delicate yet intoxicating—a sweet fragrance that drew him in, its softness imbued with a subtle plea for affection.
Santiago pulled back, but his hand didn’t drop. His fingers lingered, twirling a soft curl absently.
His gaze held a look Jamie couldn’t quite decipher— something he couldn’t name, yet didn’t hesitate to welcome. Before Jamie could make sense of it, Santiago tugged his head close, gingerly brushing his cheek with his lips.
Jamie’s eyes darted briefly, half-expecting a witness. But there was none—only the stars. Only them. Only the still night air, the perfume of the blossom, and Santiago’s fingers still gently caught in his hair.
Jamie didn’t speak. He only smiled, eyes dropping to the ground, cheeks blooming pink.
La dama de noche was in full bloom now, its delicate petals unfurling, its fragrance sweet and unashamed.
Maybe some things can only bloom in the dark.
The End