Medellín

I knew there was going to be drama. I set it up that way. Maybe that was a bit manipulative, but I needed the truth. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe what I really needed was to learn how to let things go – to stop being such a paranoid drama queen. But those were thoughts for another day.

 

For now, I needed answers.

 

I needed to know whom I could trust. Who actually cared about me? Who maybe didn’t. Or if I was just some stupid "gringo prize" in a competition between Yeison and Miguel. The idea made my stomach churn. I hated myself for even thinking it, but the doubts and paranoia were loud, and they had claws.

 

As soon as Juan Camilo dropped me off that morning and I walked through the gates of school, Miguel was waiting. No warning. No pretense. Just him, standing by the columned wall with that tight expression he wore when he was pissed. The moment he saw me, he pushed off the wall and stalked toward me like a storm in motion.

 

“Tengo que hablar con usted,” he said, voice low and tense, already pulling at my sleeve. Well, I needed to talk to him, too. But I barely had time to nod before he dragged me toward a quiet stretch behind the courtyard. A few students glanced our way, whispering. Everyone could see us. Not hear us – but see. So much for keeping things discreet.

 

As soon as we were out of earshot, he turned on me. “Yes, Yeison and I hooked up before you came to Medellín,” he said without hesitation, eyes narrowed. “And no, there was no fucking competition to see who could get the gringo. Is that enough for you?”

 

My jaw tensed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

 

“Because it didn’t matter!” he snapped. “It was two stupid weeks. It was never serious; we were having some fun and getting off together. We never even fucked. I ended it. I didn’t even think about him after that until you showed up!”

 

“First of all, don’t you dare yell at me ever again,” I shot back, voice sharper than I expected. “And it does matter, because he’s the one I broke up with to be with you. You don’t know how hard that was. How much it hurt him. And me. And now, suddenly, it’s like all that pain might’ve been over something stupid. A dumb game. Some unspoken war between you two. But it’s something I’d have liked to be able to consider before deciding to be with you!”

 

Miguel’s lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw clenched. “You think I’d do that? Play some game with Yeison to mess with you?”

 

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said. “That’s the problem. And then when I first started hanging out with Yeison, you were very cruel to him, you kicked him out of your group, stopped helping him pay for his lunch that you knew he couldn’t afford. It was cruel, and for what? You were just being an immature jerk.”

 

He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “Obviously, I was jealous, because I liked you, too. I wanted you to be with me, not him, so I lashed out. I even apologized to him for that. So, what do I have to do, Hunter? What’s it gonna take for you to believe I’m serious about this? About us? That I’m not the same person I was before, that what you and I are starting is the most important thing in my life right now.”

 

I looked at the ground. “I don’t know. Most of the people here don’t like you for a reason. They pretend to like you and try to be your friend because they want to be on your good side. But they fear you, they don’t respect you.”

 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Or is this just your excuse to run away? To break it off with me before I break your heart?

 

“Well, then let me give you some advice, gringuito,” he continued, his voice taking on a cruel edge I’d never heard before. “Entonces vete de aquí, yanqui. ¡Regresa a Estados Unidos y disfruta de la vida! ¡Tal vez todo esto fue un gran error! Blanco de mierda …”

 

He spoke so quickly and so angrily in Spanish that it was hard to keep up, but I think I caught the gist of it, and it was … mean. Really mean and hurtful. He basically told me to get out of his country, said this was all a big mistake, and called me a “white piece of shit.”

 

I was stunned. This was the opposite of the Miguel who lovingly and tenderly held me all weekend, who told me that he loved me, and wanted a future with me. It really spooked me. Which one was the real Miguel now?

 

“No,” I said quickly, looking up. “That’s not what I want. I want you. I can’t stop thinking about you. But you scare the hell out of me! I don’t want to get hurt by someone I’m so … into.”

 

“Then stop pushing me away,” he growled.

 

“I’m not pushing you away,” I said. “You’re not letting me in.”

 

Miguel sighed deeply. “What is one thing I can do right now to give you more confidence in our relationship?”

 

I hesitated for a few moments and then whispered, “Be my boyfriend. Be exclusive with me. No other boys.”

 

“I thought we already were boyfriends,” he said without missing a beat. “Do you want to spend more time together at school, even though it means people might talk? Tell me what more you want me to do!”

 

“Yes,” I said. “I want to try. But aren’t you worried about getting outed?”

 

“Okay, then that’s what we will do from now on. Somos novios. And I don’t give a fuck what other people want to think about me, just as long as my father doesn’t find out.”

 

After a few more uncomfortably silent moments, I bit my lip, then asked, “Did you love him?”

 

He blinked like I’d slapped him. “No. Not even close. He’s cute, sure. But we had nothing real. It was just... physical. That’s all. We jacked each other off and traded blow jobs a few times; nothing more than that.”

 

I wanted to believe him. I really did. But this ache in my chest kept growing.

 

“Maybe we should go get STD tests together, just to be safe. We’ve both been with a lot of guys, and I know I’ve rarely used condoms, and I’d rather not use them with you, either,” I said, waiting nervously for his reaction.

 

“Fine. We’ll go right after school today. I know a place where we can get it done, and we’ll get the results in 48-72 hours. They test for everything,” he replied. “Will that work for you?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I muttered. “It’s not that I don’t trust you; I don’t trust myself. And I don’t want to hurt you.” That last part wasn’t exactly genuine, though. I always got tested every 90 days like clockwork. I wasn’t stupid or reckless when it came to that, other than the rarely using condoms part, of course. But Colombian boys had a reputation for not using condoms either, and not even getting tested, and HIV was starting to spread rapidly in the country. And, when I eventually fucked him … and I would, that was a given … I wanted to do it bareback or not at all. I needed to feel all of him.

 

“Do you believe that I love you?” he asked quietly, having calmed down considerably now.

 

I hesitated, then nodded. “I think so. I’m trying. I know I already love you.”

 

“Then stop looking for reasons to sabotage it. Because I do love you, more than you realize, and we can have something amazing together. A real, serious, mature relationship. Partners. Lovers. Best friends. That’s what I want with you. And when your dad’s job is done here, we both get the fuck out and don’t look back.”

 

He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. “Escucha, mi rey. I’ve made mistakes. A lot of them. You know that. But I’m trying. For you. For us. You want honesty? Fine. You’ll probably meet others I’ve hooked up with – guys, girls – whatever. But none of them matter now. They don’t matter. You do. I was never in love with any of them, not a single one, not like with you. And I’ll keep showing you and reminding you all the time, because we’ve got to do something about this self-confidence and self-doubt problem you have.”

 

I nodded again, slower this time.

 

“So, are we good now?” he asked, his tone softening, a hint of pleading there.

 

I nodded one more time. “Yeah. We’re good.”

 

“And if you start freaking out again – next time, you come to me. No more drama, ¿vale?”

 

“Te prometo, Miguelito.”

 

He gave a weak smile. “So... when can I see you again? I miss you. I miss everything we had Sunday night.”

 

“Maybe after school one day this week,” I said. “Or the weekend. Sleepover, maybe?”

 

He smiled wider. “Perfecto. But today we go to the clinic for the tests, right?”

 

I nodded, a little uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

 

The bell rang in the distance, and we both flinched. We parted without another word.

 

The rest of the school day dragged. I passed Yeison in the hallways a few times. His expression was flat, unreadable. The brightness in his eyes was gone. And yet – I caught him watching Miguel once during lunch. Miguel was out on the soccer field, half-laughing and shirtless as he juggled the ball midair and showed off a little. And Yeison just stared.

 

He thought no one noticed. But I did. And so did Zack, who gave me a quiet look but said nothing. I was still trying to avoid Zack. I knew how to carry a grudge.

 

But now, maybe it seemed like Miguel might be the one that Yeison was having trouble getting over, and not me, which made for an interesting twist, and made me feel much less guilty about dumping him.

 

I spotted Yeison slipping toward the front gate. “Yeison,” I called, catching up. He turned like a kid caught after curfew.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

He looked terrified, but nodded. We went back to our tree – the one place that still felt like ours. The shade was cool; the campus was mostly empty. He sat, knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight.

 

“Is that why you broke up with me?” he asked quietly. “Because you found out about me and Miguel?”

 

“No,” I said. “I found out after. From Zack.”

 

He flinched. “Of course. Chismoso.”

 

“I asked Miguel,” I said. “I want your side.”

 

He looked away. “It was just messing around. I was lonely. He was… hot. That’s all. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even nice.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He’s selfish,” Yeison said, voice small. “At least with me, he was. He just wanted to get off. I felt like a prop. I was embarrassed after – guilty and… worthless.”

 

I let that land. It lined up with some things I’d heard, even if Sunday hadn’t looked that way. And Yeison had told me he’d never been with a boy, which clearly wasn’t true. My head felt like a courtroom with bad witnesses.

 

“I asked him if he loved you,” I said. “He said no. I believe him.”

 

Yeison’s eyes went glassy. “But I loved you. I still do. I don’t know how long this is going to hurt.”

 

“I know,” I sighed. “It sucks. But you have to try to move forward. People break up. It’s awful, and you survive it. I did.”

 

He steadied his breathing. “Did you sleep with him?”

 

I shook my head. “No. Not yet.”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

I stared at the grass. “I don’t know. I think I might. I’m still figuring it out.”

 

He gave me a crooked, sad smile. “Buena suerte, Hunter. I mean it.”

 

I reached out and hugged him. He held on a second longer than I expected. Then we both let go.

 

As I jogged back toward the gate, Juan Camilo was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed.

 

“You get everything worked out with your friends?” he asked casually, not even looking up from his phone.

 

I sighed. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

 

He nodded. “I was thinking. Maybe we should invite Miguel for dinner on Friday night. Your dad will be here. It’d be good for everyone to meet him properly.”

 

My eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

 

Juan Camilo shrugged. “Better we judge him ourselves than rely on school gossip, and you’re obviously more biased now.”

 

I smiled faintly. “I’ll ask him tonight. Do you think we could spend the weekend together, too?

 

“I think that can probably be arranged, Mr. Hunter.”

 

“Awesome,” I said excitedly, “but I’m going out with Miguel this afternoon, so I won’t need a ride home today.”

 

“Where are you going?” he asked gruffly.

 

“We’re going to get STD tests,” I muttered. I actually did feel a little embarrassed admitting that to Juan Camilo.

 

“Is there a good reason for that? Do you think you may be infected?” he asked, showing genuine concern.

 

“No, don’t worry, hermano. I get it done every three months to be safe. It’s just routine.”

 

Just then, Miguel rode up on his motorcycle, handed me the extra helmet, and we were off, as Juan Camilo drove off in the opposite direction in his SUV.

 

***

 

Friday was approaching much faster than I’d hoped, ironically. Usually, school days crawled by like molasses, but this week felt like it was racing toward a collision. I wasn’t signed up for any clubs or activities – not that anything interested me. If they’d offered American football or baseball, maybe I would’ve considered it. But soccer? Not a chance. And the rest? A Spanish Literary Group? Please. My Spanish was still nowhere near the level where I could fake my way through García Márquez or Neruda.

 

Time was speeding up because of the knot in my stomach about dinner. Not just any dinner – the dinner – where my dad and Juan Camilo would meet my boyfriend, Miguel Arango. They’d call it “getting to know my boyfriend,” but we all knew they’d be sizing him up because his dad was a “person of interest” in their investigation into “El Chino,” the patrón of the Clan de Bahía Sur.

 

“Person of interest” sounded so casual for something so serious. Did that mean they thought Miguel’s dad was involved – criminally – or that he knew something? Where did that leave Miguel? Everything was so hush-hush, and it bothered me.

 

I wanted to believe this dinner was a formality, a gesture. But I knew better. Nights like this are where one poorly worded question – one slip-up – could make everything fall apart.

 

I didn’t want Miguel to feel cornered or disrespected. I didn’t want to risk losing him because of my father.

 

Still, the silver lining was that apparently, they were okay with him spending the weekend with me. That alone felt like a win, especially given how tight things had been since the shooting and all the cartel chaos. The city was still crawling with extra security, but it felt more … controlled now. Like the worst of the storm had passed, and that had been reflected in the additional freedoms I had been given.

 

But I wasn’t naïve enough to think it couldn’t return in an instant. That fear lingered in the background like a storm cloud.

 

And then, there was still Yeison.

 

Every time I saw him lately, which was constantly – before school, at lunch, at the park, when we got ice cream with the group – he had this distant, haunted look in his eyes. And sometimes, if he thought no one noticed, he would glance at Miguel, almost like he was watching something slip away. That quiet heartbreak, still fresh, still raw, but now that I knew it perhaps had as much to do with Miguel as with me, or more, it made me feel slightly better, but still guilty enough.

 

And maybe that’s why Miguel and I hadn’t crossed that final line yet, having sex, because of all the crap with Yeison. Perhaps it was subconscious.  I wanted to. God, I wanted to. And I knew Miguel did too. But guilt had a way of wrapping itself around my throat, tightening whenever things got too intense. Like some invisible leash.

 

But I figured (hoped) the sex would happen soon enough. We got our test results back quickly and were both perfectly healthy, Gracias a Dios. Now it was just a matter of patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for it to happen. We sure talked about doing it enough. Heck, by this point, I knew exactly what he wanted me to do to him. I thought we should just get it over with, but what did I know?

 

At exactly seven o’clock on Friday night, I heard a car pull up outside. Strange – Miguel never came by car. My heart jumped.

 

For half a second, I imagined some grim-looking DEA officer stepping out, ready to interrogate him. But then I saw the sleek lines of a black BMW X5 outside the gate, and my nerves shifted into surprise.

 

Miguel stepped out in style – black slim-fit chinos, a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, a charcoal gray blazer that looked like it had been tailored just for him, and loafers with no socks. His dark curly hair was gelled back perfectly, just tousled enough to suggest effortlessness, and his sunglasses were perched stylishly atop his head.

 

“Dude,” I said, jogging up the driveway, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

 

He smirked. “I have several. Perks of a spoiled childhood.”

 

“You always take the bike, though.”

 

He opened the back and pulled out a duffel bag. “Quicker in the city. Easier to park. And I like riding the motorcycle more.”

 

I gave him a playful shove. “So, tonight’s all about looking good for my dad?”

 

He gave me one of his trademark smirks. “Nah, it’s more about impressing you. I’m not trying to sleep with your dad.”

 

Oh my!

 

I led him inside, trying not to overthink everything. My dad was waiting in the living room, looking weirdly… calm? Friendly, even. He had a glass of scotch in his hand. Anything that had anything to do with the DEA, like his jacket and cap, documents, and other stuff, had been carefully hidden away. My dad wasn’t even packing heat for once, so at least it didn’t look like there would be a shootout at the dinner table. Doña Susana might take it as an insult to her food.

 

“Bienvenido. Mucho gusto,” said my dad, stepping forward to shake Miguel’s hand.

 

“Mucho gusto, señor Callahan. Gracias por invitarme,” Miguel replied.

 

“Do you prefer to speak in English or Spanish, Miguel?” my dad asked.

 

“English is fine,” Miguel said. “I can always use the practice.”

 

Even Juan Camilo offered a polite nod. I couldn’t tell if he was disarming himself to avoid being the “bad cop,” or if he was waiting for the right moment to pounce. He didn’t even have his gun either.

 

Dinner was already set – Doña Susana had outdone herself: deep-fried corvina with a homemade tartar sauce, coconut rice, thick patacones, a colorful salad with an unusually spicy dressing, and a sopa de menudencias. The scent alone could’ve calmed a war.

 

My dad poured wine – generously for Miguel, and then half as much for me, shooting me a look that said, “Don’t get any ideas.”

 

The first part of the meal went surprisingly smoothly. They asked about school, what subjects Miguel liked (economics and literature, of course), and how we met. That part was a little awkward, since the story included how we used to despise each other. But it made them laugh, and Miguel handled it with charm.

 

Then, the shift.

 

“So,” my dad said casually, swirling his wine, “your father. He owns an import-export business?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Miguel nodded smoothly. “Mostly agricultural products. Coffee, specialty goods. He also deals in ceramics, handmade tiles. A lot of it comes from the interior.”

 

“And he’s based here in Medellín?”

 

“Primarily. Though he’s almost always traveling. He has some other holdings too – real estate, a logistics company that moves freight across the country, and a few boutique hotels on the coast.”

 

Juan Camilo raised an eyebrow. “Which cities?”

 

“Cartagena, Santa Marta,” Miguel replied. “Small properties. Not chains.”

 

He didn’t flinch once. Every answer was steady, direct – but not defensive. Just enough detail to sound legitimate. And I had no reason to think it wasn’t. He was impressive, taking it all in stride. Much better than your typical sixteen-year-old answering questions from a boyfriend or girlfriend’s parents, where most responses consisted of monosyllable words at best. Miguel was polished.

 

My dad nodded slowly. “He sounds like a busy man.”

 

“He is. I barely see him. Kind of like Hunter with you.”

 

That caught my dad off guard. But he recovered quickly, and Miguel turned the tables.

 

“I heard you work with the USDA,” he said. “That must be fascinating, especially with all the recent aid program cuts. It seems like a huge shift in U.S.–Colombia cooperation. I believe around eighty USAID lifesaving programs have been terminated, and I'm aware that important USDA programs have been shut down or had their funding significantly reduced over the past few months. It could be a tragedy for Colombia.”

 

My dad blinked, surprised – but nodded. “It’s been frustrating, yeah. My position is technically with the Embassy in Bogotá, but I’m based here. I manage agricultural trade compliance, help implement sustainability projects, that kind of thing. It’s a lot of site visits, reports, and working with Colombian agencies. Mostly technical stuff. But yes, we’ve already had to cut back on staff and programs due to funding hiccups.”

 

“And now, the U.S. has decertified Colombia as a partner in the war on drugs,” Miguel added. “Which means many more millions of dollars in aid will be lost. It could destroy the economy here and worsen the drug problem.”

 

Miguel leaned in slightly and continued. “The U.S. is cutting its nose to spite its face. You don’t fix rural poverty or coca cultivation by walking away. We’ve tried that. History doesn’t lie. Crop replacement, fumigation… none of this has worked. I think it is time for a new approach, because if there isn’t, I fear that the peace that we fought so hard to achieve could be lost, and more Colombian blood will be spilled. It would be a great tragedy.”

 

The discussion then turned to tariffs, particularly those imposed on Colombian exports. Then Miguel started rattling off other examples of economic strife in Latin America that the U.S. had caused – the trade shocks in the '70s, the Latin American debt crisis in the ‘80s (“the Lost Decade”), the “Washington Consensus” and structural adjustment in the 1980s-2000s, coups, and regime support with severe economic fallout. My jaw dropped. So did my dad’s. Miguel was a very sharp, articulate teenager.

 

When the topic turned to cartel violence, Miguel’s tone darkened, and I heard him speak with a quiet passion, intensity, and seriousness I had never heard before:

 

“I hate what they’ve done to this country,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “They’ve made the whole world think Colombia is just cocaine and blood. That’s all we are to them – a headline, a Narcos episode, a cheap joke. Pablo Escobar is a shadow we can’t get rid of, no matter how many years pass. It makes me sick. We’re always the bad guys in the movies, the villains with guns and cocaine. People forget how beautiful this country is.

 

“They don’t see Castillo San Felipe de Barajas or the Old City in Cartagena, with its colors and Spanish legacy. They don’t walk on our pristine islands or see the turquoise water there. They don’t go to Tayrona National Park in Santa Marta or go snorkeling and meet the Creole culture of San Andrés. They ignore Monserrate and the Gold Museum in Bogotá. They don’t feel the beauty of Medellín’s eternal springtime or take the hike of their lives to the Ciudad Perdida in the Sierra Nevada – our own version of Machu Picchu.

 

“And now the government can’t even keep its promises from Santos’ peace accords – they’re hanging by a thread. Colombia should be a world attraction, somewhere people dream about visiting, not the butt of a joke or something that makes people grimace when you say you’re from here. Not to mention the extra security shakedowns Colombians always get from airport security whenever we travel overseas. Colombia is so much more than what they’ve reduced us to. So much more. And the world needs to see that.”

 

There was a long silence. And I swear, even Juan Camilo looked moved by Miguel’s speech. I’d always known Miguel had a certain charisma about him, but I never realized how articulate he was, such an impressive orator, and how much he loved his country. But at the same time, if he loved his country so much, why was he still so insistent on leaving it as soon as he had the chance?

 

Finally, my father spoke. “Maybe people would see Colombia differently if it weren’t still the world’s top producer of cocaine, and if the cartels and other criminal groups like BACRIM didn’t still rule with impunity. Escobar has been dead for thirty years. Sure, many improvements have been made. Colombia has come a long, long way. But there is no end in sight to the drug problem and the violence that always comes with it.”

 

“Then maybe after more than thirty years of a failed policy, it’s time for something different, something more revolutionary. If we could bring peace to the countryside by disarming FARC and the right-wing paramilitaries, then we should be able to do something about the cartels,” said Miguel.

 

“The FARC weren’t brought down by any sort of ‘new policy.’ They were brought down by military force and the unshakeable will of one man, Álvaro Uribe. The FARC was begging for a peace agreement at that point because Uribe and the military had almost destroyed them. Their leadership had all been killed by the Colombian special forces. Their choice was to accept peace or to die,” my father insisted.

 

My Dad seemed just as passionate about the topic as Miguel. I really hoped this wasn’t a bad sign. They obviously had strong disagreements with each other.

 

After that, we didn’t feel like going out. Not after such an intense dinner. Instead, we decided to stay in and watch a movie. Miguel whispered to me as we left the table, “Do you think he liked me?”

 

I touched his hand. “He was impressed. I could see it. I mean… I was.”

 

That was a lie, of course. It was an absolute disaster. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. I wasn’t going to break his spirit that way. I loved seeing his passion, and many of his views echoed my own. I didn’t believe in the endless drug war that my father and the DEA supported. It was a useless failure. There had to be another way.

 

Miguel smiled at me, nervous again, in a way that made him look suddenly boyish beneath all that polish and charm.

 

We took turns showering. When he came back to my room, I was already in bed wearing only my boxer-briefs. He walked in wearing the tiniest, thinnest black briefs I’d ever seen – almost sheer, clinging to him like a second skin. He wasn’t playing fair.

 

My breath hitched. “That’s… not subtle.”

 

“I’m not a subtle person,” he said with a grin. Then, seeing my reaction, he strutted over, leaned down, and kissed me on the nose. “I like it when you look at me like that.”

 

“You mean like I might explode from horniness?”

 

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

 

“So, what are you trying to tell me with that underwear?” I asked him with a cheeky grin.

 

“That they’re really uncomfortable and I’d like to get out of them as soon as possible,” he said, laughing.

 

We climbed into bed, the room lit only by the soft glow of the TV. His tight black briefs came off as soon as he got under the covers, and I realized he was naked in bed with me. We put on some random movie – I couldn’t even tell you what it was. I barely watched it. I was too busy memorizing the curve of his waist, the heat of his skin against mine. Our legs intertwined like vines. His chest rose and fell against my back when we spooned. His breath tickled my neck. His fingers traced slow circles on my stomach, sending tiny ripples of heat through my body. I gently squeezed his soft, round, fleshy butt, then spread his cheeks and found his tight hole, which I then teased gently with my index finger as he moaned softly.

 

“You can put it in me right now,” he whispered, his voice filled with lust. “Just use a little spit.”

 

“You can have it when you’ve been a good boy,” I whispered back with a wry grin.

 

“I’m always a good boy!” he laughed.

 

“But you want to do naughty things to me,” I said, giggling.

 

“Pues, sí,” he admitted, shrugging.

 

“Pronto,” I promised.

 

While tonight wasn’t going to be the night, every now and then, we’d pause the movie to kiss and grind against each other – slow, deliberate, warm. Nothing rushed. The air between us pulsed with desire and comfort, like we were speaking a language only our bodies knew.

 

Eventually, the movie ended, but we stayed tangled together. He whispered something in Spanish against my skin that I didn’t fully understand, but the feeling behind it said everything.

 

When I finally drifted off to sleep, I realized I was still smiling.

 

***

 

I was less than amused when a loud pounding on my bedroom door woke me at just past 7:00 AM on Saturday. Groaning, I cracked one eye open and looked over. Miguel was still asleep, curled on his side facing me, his chest rising and falling slowly, his lips parted slightly in the softest snore. He looked so peaceful. So beautiful.

 

Then the pounding came again.

 

With a growl, I rolled out of bed and grabbed the nearest t-shirt. I opened the door to find Juan Camilo standing there with that annoyingly chipper early-morning grin of his.

 

“Time to wake up, Mr. Hunter and Mr. Miguel,” he said. “We are going on a little trip today!”

 

I blinked. “Seriously?”

 

He nodded. “It’s a place called Guatapé. It's not far, but we want to beat the crowds, so hurry up. ¡Vámonos, muchachos! This is part of your education about Colombia, Mr. Hunter!”

 

Before I could answer, I heard a groan behind me. Miguel was stretching in bed, running a hand through his disheveled curls. “¿Qué pasa…?” he mumbled.

 

“We’re going to Guatapé,” I said, turning back to him with a half-smile. “Courtesy of Captain Sunshine over here.”

 

He groaned again and flopped back onto the pillow like a dead man. “Dios mío…”

 

But within thirty minutes – record time for us – we were both dressed and shoveling down breakfast burritos that Doña Susana had wrapped for us. Miguel wore khaki shorts and a fitted white t-shirt that made his flawless olive-colored skin glow. I wore my favorite navy shorts, a breathable tee, and a ball cap to shield me from the sun. Juan Camilo herded us into the SUV like we were kids on a field trip.

 

As we left Medellín, the scenery changed fast. Towering concrete gave way to rolling green hills, scattered farms, and narrow roads that twisted through the mountains. The sun had just cleared the horizon, casting golden rays across the valley. The air was cooler up here, and I cracked the window, letting the breeze whip through my hair.

 

We stopped at a little roadside cafetería for a tinto and some pandequesos, fresh out of the oven. I could have eaten about a dozen of them, but Juan Camilo only ordered six. Cheap bastard.

 

About an hour and a half later, we reached the outskirts of Guatapé. The first thing I saw was La Piedra del Peñol, a massive granite monolith shooting up from the earth like a prehistoric thumb. Its sheer face was streaked with moss and cracks, and the winding staircase carved into its side looked like something out of a nightmare.

 

“Want to climb it?” Miguel teased, nudging me.

 

I stared at it momentarily. “Oh, hell no. That thing looks like it was designed to give people vertigo and knee problems.”

 

He smirked. “Coward.”

 

“Yep,” I said, unapologetically. “Proud coward. I’m not ashamed.”

 

We parked on the edge of town and slathered each other in sunscreen – an intimate act that probably looked platonic to anyone passing by but had us both exchanging subtle smirks and glances and certainly got a rise out of me.

 

Walking into the pueblo was like stepping into a box of crayons that had exploded all over colonial architecture. Every house, every tienda, every café was painted in vibrant colors – turquoise, canary yellow, blood orange, and sky blue. Murals covered the lower halves of the buildings, depicting pastoral scenes, folklore, animals, flowers, and strange, surreal designs. It was like walking through a dream.

 

“I feel like I just dropped into a Pixar movie,” I whispered.

 

Miguel laughed. “It’s cute, ¿cierto?”

 

I noticed a few girls openly staring at Miguel and giggling. One even waved. I slipped my hand into his for just a second before letting go, needing the contact, even if only for a moment. Miguel was mine, and those trashy whores needed to find their own man!

 

The narrow streets were packed with tourists – mostly Colombians, but also a few touristy gringos – dodging tuk-tuks that zoomed past like bumblebees on meth. Most of the shops were full of overpriced knick-knacks and souvenirs, but we found a few artisan stalls selling hand-woven hammocks, embroidered bags, and jewelry. I bought a small leather bracelet with a carved hummingbird on it for Miguel, and he smiled so wide I thought my heart might burst out of my chest.

 

We took tons of pictures – together, apart, goofy, and serious. Miguel climbed up on a short stone wall and spread his arms like he was flying. I snapped a photo just as the breeze caught his shirt, revealing a peek of his stomach and that smirking expression I was starting to fall in love with. Of course, we also got photos in front of the famous “Yo ♥ Guatapé” sign, which every tourist must do.

 

By late morning, we were hot, sticky, and ready for lunch. We found a lakeside restaurant with white umbrellas and a breeze coming off the water. Miguel ordered the most Colombian dish possible: bandeja paisa – rice, beans, chorizo, chicharrón, ground beef, a fried egg, and plantains stacked like some culinary Jenga tower. He ate the whole thing, and I didn’t understand how he could still walk after that (and maintain his boyish figure). I opted for the cazuela de mariscos, a creamy seafood stew in coconut milk that reminded me of summer nights by the beach.

 

After lunch, Juan Camilo led us to the dock where a wooden boat – weathered but sturdy – waited to take us around the lake. We climbed aboard and put on the life vests, which were far too snug for comfort.

 

The lake sprawled out like an emerald mirror, speckled with tree-covered islands and luxurious estates. The captain – oddly nicknamed Sucio, which means “Dirty” in English – took us around slowly at first, pointing out various landmarks in Spanish. Miguel translated in my ear. There were fincas owned by singers, soccer stars, politicians – people whose names I didn’t recognize but whose wealth was obvious from their massive mansions and private docks. One name I did recognize was James Rodriguez, the super-popular and sexy star of the Colombian National Soccer Team, whom I would let do unspeakable things to me. Everyone in Colombia knew James. Quite a few fincas and mansions were owned by wealthy gringos as well.

 

We then passed by a burnt-out villa on a small island.

 

“That was La Manuela,” Juan Camilo said, nodding toward the crumbling estate. “It used to belong to Pablo Escobar. The Cali Cartel blew it up back in the ‘90s.”

 

Even in ruins, it was hard not to be impressed. The skeletal remains of the main villa still dominated the hillside, its broken walls hinting at the grandeur it once flaunted. The outlines of a massive swimming pool shimmered with rainwater, its cracked tiles reflecting the light like shattered glass. Off to one side lay the ghost of tennis courts where Escobar’s guests once played, the net posts rusting away in the weeds. The gardens, now choked with vines and wild growth, had clearly once been landscaped into something opulent – a private paradise for Colombia’s most infamous drug lord.

 

Juan Camilo told us the place was full of hidden rooms and secret passageways, built so Escobar could slip away if the police ever came knocking. The stories clung to the ruins like the mist over the lake, every collapsed archway and scorched wall carrying the weight of whispered legend. Even destroyed, La Manuela felt like it was daring the world to forget it had once been one of the crown jewels of Escobar’s empire.

 

My stomach flipped. Even out here, in paradise, the shadow of Colombia’s bloody past was impossible to escape.

 

“And over there,” said Juan Camilo, pointing, “that finca belonged to the Ochoa Brothers, important business partners of Pablo Escobar in the Medellín cartel.”

 

Miguel leaned over and softly said, “We don’t like to talk about Don Pablo. Not anymore. The U.S. also recently released one of the Ochoa brothers back to Colombia, and he was set free after spending a couple of decades in an American prison. Many Colombians were unhappy about that. It was like when they released ‘Popeye’, Don Pablo’s top sicario some years ago. It brought back many painful memories, especially when he began to use his fame to get rich, and then he got arrested again for violating his probation. He died just a few years ago.”

 

I nodded, and without thinking, slipped my hand into his. This time, I didn’t let go. And neither did he.

 

Eventually, the boat picked up speed. The wind tangled my hair, and Miguel’s sunglasses flew off, but he just laughed. “It's okay,” he shouted. “Now you see my real eyes.”

 

His eyes were impossible to ignore – the water kept catching in them, flicker after flicker, until I wasn’t watching the lake anymore, just him.

 

By the time we got back to shore and into the car, we were both sunburnt and exhausted. The ride back to Medellín was quiet – Miguel dozing with his head on my shoulder, Juan Camilo humming softly to the radio, the sun dipping behind the mountains like a melting mango.

 

That night, after long, hot showers and splitting a pizza, we ended up curled together on my bed in nothing but our underwear – Miguel, to my absolute horror, wearing a pair of American flag boxer-briefs that looked like they belonged in some cringey department store clearance bin. Still, he made them look unfairly good. Under the covers, he pressed up against me, our legs tangled, his arm draped over my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

We put on the original Jurassic Park and, for once, actually made it through the entire original trilogy – though not without pausing for kissing, some light petting, and the kind of grinding that made it hard to focus on dinosaurs. And yet what I loved most wasn’t the kissing or the sparks (though, yeah, those were amazing). It was how easy it felt. How we could flip from being ridiculously passionate one second to just lying there, relaxed, laughing, and hanging out like two normal friends. Except, of course, normal friends didn’t make my heart race every time they looked at me or played kissy face and rubbed their cocks together.

 

After the movies ended, we lay on our sides facing each other, our legs still tangled beneath the blanket. I found myself lost in his gaze – those dark, soulful eyes that burned with quiet passion. There was tenderness there, and something unspoken too, something elusive and enigmatic that made him feel like a beautiful secret I still hadn’t fully unlocked.

 

“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” Miguel whispered, tracing a finger along my collarbone. “I wish… I wish we had started like this. Not with all the drama. Just this.”

 

I turned to face him. “You weren’t ready. And honestly, neither was I. So much has changed in so little time.”

 

He looked at me. “But now we are?”

 

I hesitated. “I think so. I mean… yeah. I want this. Whatever this is.”

 

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against mine – slow, warm, tender. “Me too.”

 

We lay there for a while, just holding each other. The world felt quiet. Private.

 

“Do you think we’ll really last?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

 

I knew I sounded like a broken record – Do you love me? Are you sure? Forever, really? – but the static in my head wouldn’t quit. The anxiety, the dark little voices kept poking holes in everything, in me and in Miguel. I needed him to say it out loud, again and again. I’m sure it got annoying, maybe even exhausting, but I couldn’t help it; the reassurance was the only thing that shut the noise off.

 

Miguel thought for a moment. “I don’t know, no soy un adivino. But I want to. I want this to be real. Not just a school romance. Not just like a summer love. My intention is for this to be long-term, maybe even … forever.”

 

I nodded, throat tight. “Me too.”

 

“Then we have to work very hard,” he said. “We have to communicate our feelings, talk about things that may be uncomfortable, be patient, be understanding … and most important, never go to bed angry.”

 

I just hummed into the warm nape of his neck. With everything stacked the way it was, we’d need more than the usual work to build the kind of trust that lasts – but I was in. I’d do it. He was worth it.

 

He kissed my forehead. “No matter how much time we spend together… it never feels like enough. Does it?”

 

“No,” I whispered. “It really doesn’t. You always leave me wanting more.”

 

“Then I guess we’ll need to figure out how to spend even more time together, won’t we?” he asked, kissing the tip of my nose and causing me to giggle.

 

“You don’t think we’ll get tired of each other?” I asked, hesitantly.

 

“I guess, if we do, then it wasn’t meant to be; it wasn’t real. But I think it is real, and I think if we are together more, spend more nights sleeping together, do more silly boyfriend things together, have more serious discussions, and make love as much as we can, the feelings will get stronger,” he whispered as he nibbled at my earlobe, driving me crazy.

 

All I could think to do in response was to hold him tighter, gently rub his back, and give him tender kisses all over the soft skin of his neck. He was much better at putting his feelings and thoughts into words than I was, even in a language that was not his own. I really admired that about him, and I was pleasantly surprised at how mature and “adult-like” he had been acting lately. It seemed like he was serious about making those changes we talked about. At least, I hoped that was the reason.

 

We fell asleep like that – chests pressed together, breaths syncing, hearts slowly calming. Somewhere outside, dogs barked, and motorcycles revved. But in that room, in that bed, it was just us. And it felt right. It felt real. More real than any relationship I’d ever had – even with Rory.

 

Even if tomorrow brought more difficult questions, guilt, or even danger – tonight, there was just peace.

 

 

 

 

 

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