The balcony was more terrace than anything else, wide enough for a dozen people and ringed by planters that overflowed with succulents. Kristina had staked out the best view, a seat on a low bench facing west. She cradled a glass of red wine, the stem gripped between two fingers, the rest of her hand loosely curled around the bowl.

  Theo joined her with his own glass, sat close but not quite touching. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence felt natural, almost heavy with the residue of everything unsaid.

  As the last of the day burned through the smog, the city below started its shift: traffic thickened on Sunset, the billboards flickered awake, and whole neighborhoods blinked to life in a slow, crawling tide of light.

  Theo sipped his wine, feeling the acid bite at the edges of his tongue. “If I’d known this was the view, I would have married you sooner.”

  She laughed, not loud but deep. “Don’t joke. I might’ve said yes.”

  He tipped his glass to her, then let his eyes wander over the horizon. For a while, they just watched as the colors ran together, the light bleeding from orange to electric blue. It felt like waiting for the future to call.

  Kristina was the one to break the spell. “You want to know something weird?”

  He turned, eyebrows up.

  “My dad,” she said, “used to bring me up on the roof every Sunday night. In Arkansas, the sky is pitch black. You can see all the stars, all the way to the Milky Way. He’d point out satellites, planes, sometimes even a comet if he thought it was worth waking me up for.”

  Theo pictured her as a little girl, curled up on some shingled rooftop, voice full of questions. “That’s beautiful.”

  She nodded. “It was. But he always made it a lesson. He’d say, ‘Mija, the sky is always there, even if you can’t see it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’” She rolled the words off her tongue, a perfect mimicry of Samuel’s warm, rolling baritone.

  Theo grinned. “Bet you were the only kid in the county who could explain the difference between a meteor and a satellite.”

  “Not even close,” she said. “But I could always tell when he was lying to make me feel better.”

  She sipped her wine, let her gaze drop to the glass. “After my mom died, my dad and I went to stay with my abeula for a while. Santo Domingo was so bright and loud, I couldn’t sleep for the first two months. All I remember is the noise, the music, and the smell of fried plantains. It was like living inside a carnival.”

  “I’d pay money for that,” Theo said.

  She laughed again, softer. “You think so, but the truth is I hated it. I felt so lost. I couldn’t keep up with the language, or the cousins, or the rhythm of the place. I just wanted to go home, but I didn’t know where that was anymore.”

  She set her glass on the bench. “That’s why I started singing. I’d hum these old boleros on the balcony, hoping someone would hear me and send me back to Arkansas.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  She looked at him, eyes shining in the afterglow. “I didn’t get good at it because I wanted to be famous. I got good because it was the only way to not disappear.”

  Theo thought about that, about the way her voice changed when she was unguarded, how it vibrated with something deeper than performance.

  He finished his wine and set the glass down, hands empty now. “Can I ask you something?”

  She nodded.

  “When did you become Mia Amor?”

  She smiled, but it was a tired smile. “I wish I could say it was a moment. But it’s more like…every day, a little less Kristina, a little more Mia. At first, it was just a stage name. A way to protect the real me. But after a while, you get used to the mask. And then it’s not a mask anymore.”

  She looked out at the city. “With you, it was different. The texts, the calls, the jokes—I felt like I could go back. Be the old me, just for a minute.”

  A long, slow silence. Below, the city stretched to infinity, a tapestry of lights and dark.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What’s your family going to think when they find out you married a stranger in Vegas?”

  He blinked, surprised at the question. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  She snorted, but with affection. “Liar.”

  He sighed, leaning back. “My mom is going to lose her mind. My dad will probably try to run a background check on you. My brother—” He laughed. “He’ll want to see proof. Probably an interview. Maybe a DNA test. But I’m glad we have a year to figure it out.”

  Kristina giggled, genuine and unrestrained.

  “They’re good people,” he said. “But they worry. A lot. I was always the safe one. The boring one. This—” he gestured at the apartment, at her “—is about as far from boring as you can get.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, let out a little sigh.

  Theo inhaled, took in the night, the scent of her hair, the faint ozone from the city below.

  After a while, he worked up the nerve to say, “I saw the pictures. From the afterparty. You and…Liam Wallace?”

  He felt her tense for a moment, then relax.

  “Did it bother you?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. “A little,” he admitted. “Not the pictures. The idea that someone else could write our story before we even get a chance.”

  She sat up, turned to face him. “Listen to me,” she said. “None of that is real. It’s all arranged, all for show. Liam’s not even my type. Victor’s the one who wanted the photo op, to sell the narrative before anyone noticed the real one.”

  Theo met her eyes. “So what’s real?”

  She took his hand again. “This. Right now. You and me.”

  He wanted to believe her, and he realized with a jolt that he did.

  A sudden chime from inside the apartment. Kristina turned, brow furrowed.

  Theo stood, slipped through the sliding glass door, and found a small white box on the floor, just outside the entryway. No name, no return address, just a strip of printed tape with a single word: “Enjoy.”

  He brought it out to the balcony, where Kristina waited.

  She opened the box with a nail, careful not to tear the packaging. Inside was a vintage record player, all chrome and polished wood, and a small note card.

  She read aloud: “For when the music needs to be just for the two of you.” Signed, “Leslie.”

  Theo grinned. “You think she bugged it?”

  “Definitely,” Kristina said, laughing. “But let’s give her a good show anyway.”

  They carried the record player inside, set it on the kitchen island. Theo checked the box for records—there were five, all sealed in plastic. He picked one at random: Etta James, At Last.

  “Old school,” he said.

  Kristina’s eyes lit up. “You know it?”

  He nodded, then peeled the plastic, slid the record from its sleeve, and set it gently on the platter. The needle hissed, then the room filled with the slow, aching opening bars.

  He turned to Kristina, offered his hand.

  She took it, and they danced, slow and easy, in the middle of the kitchen.

  There was no choreography, no expectation. Just the music, her cheek pressed to his, the wine warm in his blood.

  He closed his eyes, let the words of the song curl around them like a blanket.

  At last, my love has come along…

  They swayed in time, two people alone at the top of the world, the city below a blur of lights.

  He could have stayed like that forever.

  Her laugh brushed against his lips, small and breathless, and then there was only warmth—the taste of wine, the pulse beneath her skin, the sound of the city fading as they found their own rhythm.