I AM SORRY i haven't been writing and working on The Record series, TRUTH IS i am having a wonderfully absurd lovelife right now, I AM FINALLY experiencing what i used to write here in my real life 😩
NOT ME experiencing the most chaotic, gut wrenching, eye tearing, angst and pining for a man that i only read in fanfics 😭 my love life is a mess and im only 23???
I AM SOOO BEHIND on writing that i'm complaining and reminding myself that i have a lot to write and then i got accepted to grad school so there it goes i guess....
sorry i haven't been active lately, that's because i graduated (finally!!!) i started writing tumblr fanfics back when i was in 1st yr college to cope with the stress of actually doing college at the height of the pandemic, took me awhile to get here but i eventually did! thank you to all who read my works and are still reading it, it means the world to me that you were along with me during my writing journey 🫶 here's to the next one !!
Do you think you'll create another benito fanfic? Just curious =)
hello!! yes anon i definitely will! i have already planned out 2 more books of The Record Series, just taking sweet time this time around to write it since it's a bit more complex i think? there will be a lot going on in book 2 and it's really fun i promise! aside from that, i am planning to write a song fic based from Andrea by Bad Bunny ft Buscabulla. just waiting to get that right headspace so i can write it 💗
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The premiere was a blur of flashbulbs and questions that felt like sandpaper against her skin. “How does it feel to be back, Solana?” “What’s your favorite part of filming the movie?” “Who are you wearing tonight?”
She smiled until her face ached. She looked exactly like the asset her management wanted: radiant, untouchable, and utterly alone.
By the time the town car pulled up to her hotel, the adrenaline had curdled into a hollow exhaustion. Her manager, Sarah, patted her hand. "Great job tonight, Sol. Get some sleep. We have a Vogue shoot at 7."
The door to her penthouse clicked shut, plunging the world into a blessed, expensive silence. Solana kicked off her designer heels, her feet throbbing, and walked toward the bedroom. She didn't even turn on the lights; the glow of the Los Angeles skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough.
Then, she smelled it. His cologne hung heavy in the air, making her stop in her tracks.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she reached the nightstand. There, sitting in a vase of deep crimson roses, was a massive cluster of white jasmine. Tucked into the petals was a small, heavy card.
She picked it up, her fingers trembling so hard the paper rattled. No name. No signature. Just one line in a dark, assertive scrawl:
“Dala-dala rin kita kahit saan ako mapadpad.”
The air left her lungs. It was her own secret vow, thrown back at her like a lifeline. He hadn't just listened that night at the villa; he had memorized her.
“The security in this hotel is supposed to be the best in the world,” she whispered into the dark, her voice cracking.
“For them, maybe,” Benito said, his voice a gravelly purr as he crossed the room toward her. “But for me? There isn’t a door in this city that stays locked if you’re behind it.”
A low, familiar chuckle came from the shadows by the balcony. A silhouette shifted, stepping into the sliver of moonlight hitting the floor. He looked lethal in a black suit, his tie loosened, his eyes tracking the way her gown clung to her curves.
Benito crossed the room toward her, the heat radiating off him like a physical force. He stopped inches away, his thumb grazing the strap of her dress, right where the ghost of a mark still sat on her shoulder.
“You’re late, reina.”
AN: left you all hanging right there huh? see you in the next book guys! love love to see your love and support for this book, please keep it up! and thank you so so much for all the love <3
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
At first, it was just the physics of the world. Solana lived her life in the harsh glare of Los Angeles mornings, while Benito was just finding his rhythm in the neon pulse of European midnights.
They became experts in the Last Seen timestamp. She would wake up to a string of voice notes—his voice raspy from a three-hour set, whispering Spanish into the dark—and by the time she pressed play, he was already miles deep in sleep. When she replied, her voice shaky with the loneliness of a New York hotel room, he was stepping onto a stage.
They were two souls trying to touch through a screen, but the fifteen-hour gap was a canyon they couldn't leap.
The change didn't happen all at once. It started with the subtle observations from the people who owned their time.
"You're not here, Sol," Sarah, her manager, remarked during a wardrobe fitting. Solana had been staring at her phone for ten minutes, waiting for a heart emoji that hadn't come. "Your eyes are glassy. You're missing your marks. Management is worried that your… detour... has made you soft."
Across the world, the same conversation was happening in a high-rise in Miami.
"The tracks are too slow, Benito," his manager said, leaning over the soundboard. "The fans want the fire. You're giving them longing. You're distracted. Hand over the phone—we’ve got a 4 AM flight and you haven't closed your eyes because you're waiting for a text that's probably being intercepted by her team anyway."
Then, the help became a cage.
Under the guise of "focus" and "protecting the brand," their teams began to tighten the screws. Solana’s phone was held by assistants during eighteen-hour film shoots. Benito’s private account was monitored for security.
The missed calls became a pattern. The "..." typing bubbles that used to be her lifeline began to appear less and less, flickering out like a dying candle before a single word could be formed.
By the third week, the messages stopped.
Not because they had stopped loving, but because they had been convinced it was impossible. The managers had won. They had successfully turned a living, breathing connection into a distraction that needed to be managed out of existence.
Solana sat in the back of a car on the night of her premiere, her skin cold despite the silk of her gown. She checked her phone one last time.
No new notifications.
She closed her eyes, the ghost of the mark on her shoulder feeling like a bruise from a life she had only imagined. She was a product again. And products don’t have “happily ever afters”.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The early morning hours bathed the room in blue, reflecting Solana’s feelings. She stared idly on the far wall across her room, across the bed, across the man she’s going to leave. Her eyes then caught a glimpse of her reflection on the room’s full-body mirror and her eyes were transfixed not on her, but on him. The blanket was twisted around his waist, his hair a tangled mess of curls contrasting the white pillows. She didn’t want to wake him and so around 4 in the morning, she moved quietly as she could to pack everything. Now, with her suitcases parked by the door, she got up against her will and walked towards the other side of the bed.
She didn’t want to wake him. It would be so hard for her to see the look on his eyes when she departs. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, almost slipping into a trance. She reached out and twisted a curl on his forehead with her finger, whispering gently into the dark.
“Lo siento, Benito.”
She turned away, the sound of her footsteps on the floor seemed to mimic a countdown.
Outside, the SUV was already idling, its engine a low, mechanical hum that drowned out the sound of the ocean. Her lead security guard, a man who only knew her as a corporate asset, opened the door. "We're on a tight schedule, Solana. The private jet is fueled and ready."
She climbed in, the leather seat cold against her legs. As the car pulled away, she caught her reflection in the darkened window. She adjusted the collar of her silk blouse, and for a split second, the fabric shifted.
There it was.
On the curve of her shoulder blade, a small, darkening mark. A bite. A claim.
Solana pressed her fingers against it, the dull sting a reminder that she wasn't leaving alone. She was carrying a secret back to Los Angeles—one that no publicist could spin and no manager could delete.
He stood frozen on the spot on the balcony as he watched the dark-tinted SUV drive away from the gates of the villa. It was the exact same spot he stood on on their very first morning. Inside, he was amused how everything about her seems to come around at some point. Every litte thing about her will remind him, taunt him. He couldn’t bring himself to go back inside, but he still did. All of it seemed like a fever dream.
The state of the bed they left.
The kitchen counter now has two rings, one for each cup of coffee.
The never-ending skincare products on the bathroom shelf, now gone.
All what’s left was a black hair tie that had a few strands of hair tangled in it. Absent-mindedly, he picked it up and slipped it into his wrist, like a bracelet. He wore designer chainlinks and bracelets, yet this was his most treasured.
He returned into the living room and drifted into the corner and he sat on his bed. He found the notecard still on his nightstand and traced the ‘S’ at the end of the note.
"Hasta la próxima, Sol." He softly said, slicing the deafening silence of the room.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The suite’s door closed with a loud bang but the two of them couldn’t care less if they woke up the other guests on the other side of the villa. As soon as it locked, Benito pinned her against the nearest wall and she gasped in surprise as her back hit the wall. He kissed her hungrily and instead of protesting like she has done the past few days, she welcomed it. She melted into his strong arms, letting him drive her and control her. She was done fighting him and this is the prize she won.
Her fingers flew to the last buttons of his shirt that were still fastened and with a force, she pushed it off his shoulders, landing somewhere on the tiled floor. Benito continued to kiss her, his tattooed hand holding the back of her neck, his thumb pressing on her pulse. He could feel her heart race faster than the cars he saw in an F1 track. He felt her fingers work down on his belt and he broke the kiss suddenly.
“Slow down, reina,” he laughed and she was not amused. She tugged him close by his belt loops and said, “I don’t want to. I want you.” Her words were breathy, if he could see it, it would’ve been a mist floating in the heated air between them.
Her wish was his command. He turned her around and unzipped her dress, pulling it down and letting the wet silk pool around her feet. “Entonces me tendrás, mi reina.” He whispered in her ear and kissed her shoulder. She shuddered and let out a hum of pleasure at the small gesture. He turned her once again so that he could face her then pulled her thighs into him, making her jump. As if it was the natural thing to do, she held on to him, her arms wrapped around his neck.
He walked them into the room, and gently laid her on the bed. He pulled away for a minute to discard his pants and crawled back to where she was. Benito wanted to take his time but something in him wanted to take her as fast and as hard as he could. He took a moment to memorize the look of her face; lips parted, eyes bright, hair a mess against the white sheets.
Solana felt this. The intensity of his gaze could only mean he was trying this sear it into his memory, and so she did the same. His curls wet, his lips swollen, his eyes dark in pure need. She cradled his face in her hand, her thumb tracing his cheek. “Beni, please.” She whispered, her lips seeking his.
A short kiss ghosted her lips as he started to trail kisses down her neck. He kissed a spot by her collarbone that made her lightly grip the sheets and he smirked. Wherever his lips had been, so were his hands. He cupped breasts, lightly squeezing before giving attention with his lips. He bit her nipple and soothed it with his tongue, while his other hand held on to her waist. He felt her back arch and did it again on the other side.
Solana moaned at his ministrations, she felt her legs tense and a knot in her core tighten. She thought she was about to fall into bliss until she felt his finger slip into her lace panties, seeking her clit. “Oh god,” she moaned as he finally found the spot and slipped a finger in her.
Touching her was not enough. He needed to taste her. Carefully, he pulled out his fingers and in urgency, he tore her white lace panties. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you another one and add two more sets.” He said, but before Solana could laugh, he dove in and hitched up her thighs.
He let himself taste her fully, sampling a taste of heaven. He knew exactly how to drive her to the edge without letting her fall without him. He slipped back in his finger and curled it around the spot that made her writhe against the bed. He continued to pump that spot while licking her clit, he felt she was ready for more and added another finger. This time, it was his curls that she gripped. She tugged on his hair and it drove him crazy.
“Eso es... ven por mí.” He said against her skin, his scruff brushing her sensitive spot, completely driving her to the edge. “Sabes a gloria, Solana... mejor que cualquier droga.” He whispered against her inner thigh before pressing a kiss.
Her legs tensed and her back arched. She was louder this time as she rode out her high. Her eyes stayed closed, afraid that she might be dreaming after what she had just felt within her. Benito trailed lazy kisses on her body as she resurfaced from ecstasy. Their lips met again and this time she felt him. Hot and heavy, beating against her belly. She gasped at the contact and he smirked.
Benito saw a hint of hesitation in her eyes. He kissed her and moved down to kiss her neck. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
“Don’t be.” Solana whispered in his ear. He looked at her and the hesitation was replaced by a devilish glint of desire. “I want you the way you want me.” She said, kissing him and biting his lower lip.
He let out a growl and positioned himself into her, her leg spreading as he slowly entered her, inch by inch. He pushed into her, thrusting into her until he was fully sheathed in her warmth and wetness. “Vas a ser mi muerte, Solana.” He moaned into her ear as he thrust into her once again. He buried his face onto her shoulders as he let her get used to his size. He needed to ground himself or else he’ll let go too soon.
She pulled him into her, her hands cradling his neck, the other down to his back. She moaned into his ear, like a melody made only for his ears. He had set a languorous pace for them at first but something in him snapped. He wanted her so bad. He wanted her fast and hard.
He pushed himself off of her and hooked her thigh under his arm, driving himself deeper into her. He sucked in a breath as he saw Solana beneath him. He readjusted himself to give him better access to her and wrapped his other hand around her throat. He felt her pulse drum under his fingertips. Solana’s eyes flew open, surprised by the sudden pressure.
It felt so good. “Harder, please, baby.” She begged. His arm hooked under her thigh tightened as he pushed it harder, forcing himself deeper into her, hitting her hilt. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure and let out a cry.
His hips slammed harder every time, the room was filled with their moans and slapping skin. Benito bit his lip as he felt his mounting climax. He growled Spanish curses under his breath, and every syllable that fell from his lips felt like a song for Solana. Her hand found his arms, nails digging into her skin as she begged and cried. The tattoos aren’t the only marks on his skin now.
“Give it to me, please.” She moaned and he had come undone right then and there. He pulled out of her and released into her skin. His come dripped down her belly as he panted against her lips. His breath hot and heavy against her shoulder, he kissed her there before looking up to meet her eyes.
He tilted her chin up and she said, “All the fighting was definitely worth it.”
“Hmm, sin duda alguna. Finally something we can agree on, huh?” He chuckled and she swatted his arm. He kissed her one more time before leaving the room so he could get a towel.
Once cleaned up, they found each others’ bodies again under the covers. Sharing warmth and whispers that only the two of them will ever know.
The rain slowed down, and condensation fogged the glass doors of the balcony. The only light that glowed through the room was the moonlight. He started to kiss the skin on her shoulder, then traced the length of her spine with lazy kisses. His fingers made a map on her body, memorizing the feel of her. Solana shifted in her light sleep, her eyes blinking, readjusting to the vision of him naked.
“Hi,” she said, breathing in.
“Hello,” he said innocently, but his actions said otherwise as he started to touch her where she needed him.
“What are you up to?” She asked, playing the game, fluttering her eyelashes. Her hands found his smooth tattooed skin, her nails ghosting every line.
“Remember when you sang that song in the karaoke? Did you mean it when you sang that lyric?” He leaned in for a kiss, his other hand cradling her face,
“Which one exactly?” She said, biting her lip.
“‘Cause we’ll be making love the whole night through… sound familiar to you, Sol?” He hummed.
“Oh that.” She smirked.
“Did you mean it?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, feeling the pleasure built within her as he continued his ministrations.
“No juegues conmigo, Sol.” He leaned in again but didn’t kiss her, his lips hovering over hers.
“Make me. Make me mean it.” She said against his lips before pulling him down onto her.
Benito growled into the kiss, his chest vibrated as he let it out. His hand snaked up to her neck while the other lifted her thigh. He drove into her with a force that made her cry into his lips, her hands flying to his nape, fingers curling at his hair.
“Do you mean it now?” He said, growling into her ear. He felt her slight nod. She couldn't really focus as her thoughts were spinning out of control while her body tried to feel every spark he sent into her.
“Say it. Say you mean it.” His grip on her neck tightened ever so slightly and she felt she was sent right up to heaven. Her nails dug into his back as he thrust into her, making him suck in a sharp breath.
“Yes, yes.” She moaned against his ear and she felt him smile against her skin.
“Esa es mi niña buena.” He said before kissing her, his tongue snaking into mouth. Without breaking contact, he flipped them, making her in charge.
Solana threw her head back as the new angle made him slide deeper into her, hitting a certain spot that made her eyes blurry. He traced the outline of her body, committing every sensation of her into his memory. As she crashed into him repeatedly, waves of ecstasy flowed through her, but it wasn’t enough to send her into the edge.
His hands cupped her breasts as she drove them both deeper. In an impulse, she guided his hands into her neck, cradling her face. She held onto his hand, sucking his thumb as she continued to ride him. He closed his eyes, unable to control his breath at the sight she just gave him. When she released his thumb, she guided it to her clit. He applied pressure, making her bite her lip.
“Diablos, Solana... qué rico chingas,” he growled and pulled her to his chest to slow her down. She kissed him the same way he did to her, her hand on his neck, her thumb feeling his pulse.
“Me vas a dejar jodido por el resto de mi vida.” He said, looking up at her eyes. He kissed her once again before gently pushing her off of him, guiding her into position.
He turned her, and lifted her hips off the bed, taking her by surprise. Benito laid down a spare pillow beneath her hips before letting her settle down. She couldn’t see him but she could feel the weight of him, his shadow looming over her. She felt him spread her cheeks and felt him slide into her core.
“Ah, fuck!” She hissed as he pushed deeper into her. She gripped the sheets and closed her eyes.
He had to inhale deeply, taking everything in him to control himself and calm himself down. She felt tight this way and it made him lose his senses. He set the pace and moaned into her ear as he slipped in and out of her.
“Tell me you’re not going to forget this,” he whispered into her ear. His hands found hers that were gripping at the sheet. He slot his fingers in hers, holding her.
“Never.” She turned and said to him, her eyes finding his. She saw a sparkle in his eye that could only mean one thing. He made sure that she will never forget, not even after a million years.
This time, he slammed his hips into hers roughly. He pounded into her that made her curse and fill the room with breathy moans. He held on to her shoulders and gripped her cheeks before smacking her, making her cry. As if it wasn’t enough, she begged for more. “Please, please.” He heard her cry into the sheets.
Every time she begged it pushed him closer to the edge. “Please, I’m going to come.” She moaned, her hips tensing as he felt her tighten and convulse around him. It was too much for him to take and in a beat, he pulled out and came onto her back. He threw his head back in pure ecstasy and reached out to touch her, trying to ground himself into the moment.
Coming back to his senses, he wiped the mess he had made on her back and kissed her shoulders. Unable to hold the thought of her forgetting, he lightly bit the skin on her right shoulder blade, then soothed it with his tongue. “Para que no te olvides de mí.”
Solana felt the meaning behind the action, not the words, she turned to face and said, “Kahit subukan ko man, dala-dala kita kahit saan ako mapadpad.”
“What does it mean?” He asked, curious. He tucked in a piece of stray hair behind her ear, gazing into her eyes.
“Hmmm, basta, something romantic.” She smiled, making him do the same.
With a slow, deep kiss, he lay back and pulled her with him, molding her body against his until there was no space left between them. Feeling her warmth and the ghost-light flutter of her eyelashes against his chest. Benito wished they could stay like that forever. He closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of her hair and dreamed of a dream where moments with her never had to end. He drifted– dreaming of a world where their moments never had to end—a world where the sun never dared to rise.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
Solana watched herself in the mirror as she opened the bottle of mascara. She was wearing a white silk dress that flowed every time she moved. Her hair was curled into precision that took hours for her to perfect. She took her time getting ready since Benito asked her to. He said he had plans for them and there was no need for her to rush. And being the good girl that she is, she made sure she took her sweet time.
Said man was dressed in a blue shirt and cream linen pants. Solana thought he looked fine, too fine, and she felt her cheeks heat up when she saw him. He left earlier and gave her the room to get ready, she could still smell his aftershave and cologne linger in the air.
She was adding a coat of her favorite lipgloss onto her lips when her phone rang. She promised herself to ignore the notifications that were flooding her phone but when she looked down to check, it was her mama calling. Without hesitation she picked it up and answered the call, her mom’s voice echoing through the walls.
"Anak, kanina pa ako nagtetext, hindi ka kasi nagrereply, okay ka lang ba?"
"Mama, sorry. Pinatay ko po kasi notifications ng phone ko. I’m okay, mama, don’t worry about me." She said, tears starting to form around her eyes.
"Okay, hija. I just wanted to check on you,"
"I know, mama."
"Anak? I don’t want to intrude, but as your mom, I can’t help it. Solana, I want you to be careful, okay? ‘Di ko alam kung ano meron sainyo nung kasama mo dun sa video, pero kilala kita. I know you worked so hard to be where you are right now and I just want you to be careful with him." Her mom’s words seemed to hit her as the tears were now free-falling from her eyes.
"Thank you, mama. Promise I’ll be careful." She said, sniffling.
"Don’t cry, hija. I may not know what’s going on pero andito lang ako para sayo. You can always call me, okay? And if he’s okay and he stands the test of time with you, I’d like to meet him."
"Ma, it’s too soon." She chuckled.
"That’s my hija. Tama na ang iyak, masisira ganda mo sige ka. Okay, ibababa ko na tong call. I love you, anak."
"I love you too, mama." She replied. Her hand lingered on her phone even after the line went still.
She set her phone down and looked back in the mirror. She saw her reflection and realized her mom was right, she needs to be careful. And if being careful means losing the memories, the feelings she felt the last four days on this beach, and the man who caused it all, then so be it.
Benito just finished a joke about something Solana wasn’t paying attention to. But she knew when the punchline dropped so she mustered a laugh and gave him a smile. He noticed this and his face dropped, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
"Sol, I know you work as an actress for a living, you’re professional at it, pero por favor, no me lo hagas, no delante de mí." He said, if needed to get on his knees and beg for her to stop pretending with him, he would.
Solana took a beat to answer. She seemed to notice the rain started to fall quietly against the glass roof of their private dining booth. She smelt the familiar scent of rain finally falling onto the earth. Sometimes she envied the sky, it could cry without needing an "action!" from the director.
"Huh, fine. You know one of your songs came into my Spotify shuffle while I was getting ready." She said, leaning into the table.
"Oh really? What song?"
"Tití Me Preguntó." She shrugged and took a sip of her wine.
Benito leaned back, his eyebrows arching. He could feel the shift in the wind. "A classic. You have notes on the production?"
"No, the production is great. It’s the casting I’m interested in." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and defiance. "What was the list again? Gabriela? Nicole? Sofia? Or was it Patricia? Don’t know, not really sure."
Benito’s smirk didn't reach his eyes this time. "Solana, that’s a song. It’s a persona."
"Is it? Huh, I don't really know the difference. Hey! I just had a thought!" She said excitedly. He arched his eyebrow in interest, not really expecting her reply.
"Maybe you can add my name to the next live version. Thalía? Solana? Does that fit? Does it rhyme with the next girl you’re meeting in Miami?" She laughed. He didn’t.
"Or wait, what was it again? You had a Colombian, a Dominican, a Mexican… can’t really understand what you did with them but you know what I think you can add to that? A Filipina… Wait, that doesn’t really rhyme, doesn’t it?" She said, her eyes twinkling with tears, holding back the anger and masking it with sarcasm.
"¿En serio, Solana?" He huffed in disbelief.
"What? Why are you being such a grump? I think it’s a great idea. I just gave you inspiration for your next hit track. When it tops the Billboard please, please do let me know." She said, fluttering her lashes.
"¿Por qué haces esto, Solana? Why?" He asked, his bubbly laugh earlier turned into something serious. He’s not joking this time.
"Why not, Benito? Why the hell not!" She exclaimed.
The rain hit the windows harder. The lightning flashed and the thunder rolled. The sky seemed to agree with Solana this time. Benito took in a breath and let out the exhale, suddenly their breaths were louder than the battering rain outside.
"Is that what you think you are, Solana?" He said, his voice low and dark. "You think you’re just a name on the list to me?"
He searched her eyes but she felt this and so she looked away, her fingers tapping on the rim of her wineglass. She held back in the tears that were forming in her eyes, but as soon as she looked back at him, they fell. Solana finished her wine with a gulp and set it back on the table.
"Honestly, Benito? I don’t know who I am or what I am to you." She said as her tears free-fall from her eyes. "But there’s one thing I know," she continued. "I’m not sitting here just to be the punchline of another one of your tracks. I’m not going to be 'the girl from the island' in your next chorus."
“Solana, I–”
Solana left the table before he could even form a thought, let alone a sentence. She didn’t care if it was raining heavily, she ran. She ran in desperation to get out of his orbit but while at it, she felt her feet slip in her heels, making her uncomfortable. She kicked it off in annoyance and muttered “tangina” under her breath. Barefoot, she tried her hardest not to slip on the hotel’s polished marble floors. Raindrops followed her as she quickly made her way to the elevator, and repeatedly clicked the button.
She hit the button. Open. Open. Open.
The doors slid back. She stepped inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a girl with soaked hair, ruined makeup, and trembling shoulders. She hit the floor for the primary suite, her thumb shaking as she repeatedly pressed the 'Close Door' button.
The gap was inches from closing when a tanned, tattooed hand jammed between the doors.
The safety sensor shrieked, and the doors retracted. Benito was there. He was breathless, his shirt unbuttoned and clinging to his damp skin, his eyes darker than the storm outside. He stepped in, his presence filling the small space until the air felt too thin to breathe.
"You forgot these," he rasped.
He was holding her heels in one hand. He let them drop. They hit the elevator floor with a dull thud—the only sound in the small, gold-lit space.
"I don't want them," she whispered, her back hitting the handrail. "I don't want any of it."
"You don't want me?" he challenged, stepping closer, pinning her with his gaze. "You’re going to look me in the eye, soaked to the bone and shivering, and tell me that the days we spent together were nothing to you? ¿No significó nada para ti? ¿Nada de esto?”
“It was all nothing to me.” She said, her voice raw.
“Mentirosa.” He whispered in her ear and reached for the STOP button of the elevator, his eyes not leaving hers.
He didn't speak. He just grabbed her waist and hauled her flush against him. His skin was burning hot compared to the freezing rain on hers. He tucked her head under his chin, his heartbeat thundering against her ear—fast, erratic, and terrified in its own right.
"I don't have 'other girls' who make me run through the rain barefoot, Solana," he whispered into her wet hair, his voice breaking. "I don't have 'other girls' who make me want to burn my own career down just to get one more hour with you. If you’re scared, be scared. But be scared with me."
He pulled back, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs wiping the rain and tears away. "Don't you dare go back to LA thinking you’re replaceable. Eres lo único que me ha parecido real en años.”
She looked up at him and Solana swore the look on his face at that exact moment was burned in memory. Before she could speak, his lips crashed into hers. Silencing her, silencing her thoughts. He backed her into the railing and she reached out to him, holding onto him. She kissed him with the same intensity, finally pouring out all the angst she felt for him into his lips.
Benito had the strength to pull away. He looked at the casualty he had caused her; eyes dark in desire and lips swollen and red from the kiss they just shared.
“Llevo queriendo hacer eso desde la primera vez que te vi.” He whispered in her lips. He was about to draw her in for another one but she asked, “What?” her breath jagged and short, her eyes closed.
“I said, I've wanted to do that ever since the first time I saw you.”
“Hmm, did you now? I’m sorry I made you wait then.” She rasped, this time she was the one to pull him in for a kiss.
Benito let the taste of her lips, the smell of her perfume, the feeling of her body against him, consume him altogether. He felt her hands on his neck and on his arms, everywhere she touched him it sent sparks into him, igniting the fire that was slowly burning ever since he walked in their room.
Solana felt she was cliff-diving again, the only difference was that she craved it every time they surfaced back from the kiss. The gravity that used to bring her down the water was different this time too. This time, it was him. She felt herself shiver not from the cold of the rain that was clinging onto her skin, but from his touch. Everywhere he touched her left a blazing trail heat on her skin, and deeply into her core.
“Hmm, you’re not really sorry, y la cabrona espera valió la pena.” He whispered into her lips, his grip on her waist tightened.
He was done waiting, and so he reached out blindly for the STOP button of the elevator once again. He wanted her so badly, but he wanted her in the safety of their room, and on the bed where it all began and where he intended to finally make her stay.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The dream was heavy with the smell of sea salt and the vibration of a deep, Puerto Rican baritone, but it was shattered by a sound that didn't belong in the jungle.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Solana groaned, her hand fumbling across the cool nightstand until her fingers closed around her phone. She didn't even open her eyes. "Hello?"
"Solana Maria Brooks. Tell me right now. TELL. ME."
Solana’s eyes snapped open. The ceiling fan was spinning slowly above her, but the voice in her ear was a lightning bolt from Los Angeles. "Mia? What’s wrong? What time is it?"
"It’s three in the morning here, and I am currently staring at a grainy video of you—looking like you’re about to risk it all for a man who wears more jewelry than my grandmother! Sol, my phone is literally vibrating off the table. My DMs are a graveyard. Are you... are you Cruisin’? Because the internet says you’re Cruisin’!"
Solana sat up, the silk sheets sliding down her skin. The memories of the Blue Moon bar flooded back—the heat of the stage, the way the crowd disappeared when Benito looked at her.
"Mia, slow down. What video?"
"The duet, Sol! Someone filmed the whole thing. It’s not just the singing—it’s the way he’s holding you. It’s the way you’re looking at him like he’s the only person in the room. People aren't even talking about the movie anymore. Is he there? Is he as hot as he looks in 4K?"
Solana’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. "It was just a song, Mia. We were just... having a night off."
"A night off? Girl, you haven't had a 'night off' in five years. You sound like you actually have a soul in this video. But listen—Marcus hasn't released a statement yet, which means he’s either dead or plotting. You need to check your notifications before the jet lands to extract you."
"I have to go," Solana whispered, her pulse starting to race.
"Call me back! And if he’s shirtless, take a picture for the archives! Love you, girl!"
Mia hung up, leaving the room ringing with silence. Solana stared at the dark screen for three seconds before she finally swiped up.
The notifications bombarded her phone, she feared it might actually explode. She took in a breath and closed her eyes, leaning back to the headboard. "Fuck." She cursed under her breath. She then decided to skip the notifications on her social media and opened the one and only email notification. She expected an explosion from Marcus, her senior manager, but instead received a chillingly cold email. She knew he was mad, there were no emojis.
TO: Solana Brooks
FROM: Veritas Talent Management (Marcus)
SUBJECT: Flight Manifest / Re-boarding
Solana, the footage from last night has generated significant traction. While we appreciate the organic engagement for the project’s ‘authentic’ feel, we need to align on the narrative before this spirals. Enjoy your last day and a half on the island.
The jet departs at 14:00. The car will be at the villa at 13:00. Meeting at the office immediately upon landing in LA. Don't be late.
She threw phone on the bed and got up. Grabbing her robe along the way, she slipped it on as she padded outside her room to look for him. Before she could even fasten her robe, she saw him leaning against the kitchen counter. He was wearing a black tank-top and cargo shorts, he was peeling a mango with a pocket knife.
"You’ve seen it."
"Si." He hummed, focused on his task.
"How bad was it for you?"
"Just enough. They know how to do it and I let them handle it. I don’t really like addressing it myself." He replied.
"Right, of course, they’re used to it." She said, sarcasm dripping from her words. He shrugged and continued slicing the mango into pieces. She scoffed at him, bothered by how chill he was with the situation.
"What?" He looked up at her and popped a piece of sweet yellow goodness to his mouth.
"I am genuinely bothered by your reaction to this, Benito. I mean, how are you so cool about it? Meanwhile, I just received a spanking red email from my manager reminding me how I only have a day and half left from the vacation they paid for! How is this fair?" She cried, tears stinging her eyes.
Within a second, Benito left the mango on a plate and was right in front of her.
"Hey, hey," Benito said, hushing her. He noticed her robe was open and with deft fingers, he tied it into a ribbon.
"Mira, I know it’s bad. But for someone like me, I know how people like to talk, document your every move and give meaning to it even in the littlest brush of a hand. There’s just no point of fighting it, so I let them be and let my team handle it," he said, his voice gentle.
"I know you’re not used to it, Sol. There’s nothing I could say to make this better. But what I could do is take you away from it, from the noise. We still have a day and a half left, remember?"
"Yeah." She exhaled, wiping away her tears.
"Okay, get dressed. I have something planned. Bring your swimwear. I’ll be here waiting for you, bueno?"
"Okay." Solana straightened up and gave him a small smile.
The jet ski was waiting at the private dock of the villa, a sleek, powerful machine that looked like a predator against the calm blue water. Benito didn't wait for a guide or a briefing. He tossed their dry bag into the small storage compartment, hopped onto the seat, and kicked the engine to life.
The roar was a middle finger to the quiet, curated peace of the resort.
"Get on," he shouted over the engine, his eyes bright with a challenge. "Unless you're afraid of a little salt water."
Solana didn't hesitate. She climbed on behind him, her arms wrapping firmly around his waist. She could feel the heat radiating off his back and the solid strength of him as he gripped the handlebars.
"Hold on tight, Sol!"
He hit the throttle, and the jet ski lurched forward, the nose lifting out of the water before they began to skim across the surface. The wind tore the last of her "perfect" hair out of its tie, whipping it around her face, but she didn't care. She leaned into him, her cheek pressed against the damp fabric of his tank top, laughing as the spray hit them.
He drove them miles away, weaving between limestone cliffs and hidden lagoons until they reached a place where the water turned a pale, electric turquoise. It was a sandbar—a thin ribbon of white sand appearing out of the middle of the ocean, only visible because the tide was low.
He slowed the engine, letting the jet ski coast until the bottom scraped softly against the sand. He hopped off into the knee-deep water and turned to help her down.
"Look at this," Solana breathed, stepping off onto the sand. It felt like they were standing on the edge of the world. "No one is here. Not even a boat."
"I told you," Benito said, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the jet ski. He looked around at the empty horizon, then back at her. "No managers. No cameras. No one to tell you to sit up straight."
Solana stood there for a moment, her chest heaving from the adrenaline of the ride. The sun was hot on her skin, and for the first time in years, she felt completely unobserved. She looked at her hands—no rings, no polished event jewelry—just her.
"I don't want to go back tomorrow," she admitted, her voice finally catching up to her thoughts. "I don't want to go back to being the girl who has to check her phone to see if she’s allowed to be happy."
Benito walked toward her, the water splashing around his ankles. He stopped right in front of her, his presence looming but steady.
"So don't be that girl," he said simply. "When you land in LA, you tell them that the girl they sent to vacation didn't come back. Tell them she stayed out here, somewhere in the middle of the ocean."
He reached out, his hand sliding behind her neck, his thumb tilting her chin up. "And if they have a problem with that, tell them to talk to me."
Solana let out a shaky laugh, looking up at him. "You’d really do that? You’d take on Marcus and the entire board?"
"In a heartbeat," Benito said, and he didn't even blink. He wasn't joking. "I’ve spent my whole life being the person they can't control. It’s a lot of fun, Sol. You should try it."
He stepped closer, the space between them disappearing. The only sound was the lap of the water against the sand and the distant cry of a sea bird. The world felt like it had narrowed down to just this strip of white sand and the man holding her gaze.
"They think they own you because they pay the bills," he continued, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone. "But they don't own the way you sing. And they definitely don't own this."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. Solana closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of salt, sun, and him. The fear of the "spanking red email" and the looming flight felt miles away—drowned out by the vibration of his voice.
"I have to be back in the office in forty-eight hours," she whispered against his lips. "I have to put on the dress, and do the hair, and sit through the meeting."
"Let them talk," Benito murmured. "Let them plan. But when you’re sitting in that room, you just remember this sand. Remember the way the engine felt. Remember that you’re the one who chose to get on the jet ski."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "And if they get too loud... just give me a call. I'll drop a song that'll give them something else to worry about."
Solana smiled, a genuine, mischievous smile that finally reached her eyes. She felt the weight of the "Saint" title finally slipping off her shoulders, sinking into the turquoise water.
"You're a bad influence, Benito Martinez."
"The worst," he agreed, his hand sliding from her neck to her waist, pulling her flush against him. "But you love it."
"Okay," Solana said, pulling back from him. "No phones. No people. What now?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing circles over her palm.
"Now," he said, a playful glint in his eyes, "I teach you how to move without a choreographer telling you where to step."
"Here?" she laughed, looking at the empty horizon. "In the middle of the ocean?"
"The best dance floors don't have lights, Sol."
He pulled her closer until her chest was inches from his. He placed her right hand on his shoulder and took her left in his, his other hand settling firmly on the small of her back.
"It’s a basic salsa step. Close your eyes. Don't think about the rhythm—just feel it."
At first, Solana was stiff. She was used to the standard way of moving—rehearsed, sharp, and perfect for the camera. But Benito was like the ocean itself; he didn't move in straight lines. He nudged her hips with his, his lead firm but fluid.
"One, two, three... five, six, seven," he murmured, his voice a low rhythmic hum near her ear.
The sand was shifty beneath their feet, making her stumble, but he just caught her, his chest a solid wall of warmth. Slowly, the tension left her shoulders. She stopped worrying about her footwork and started following the sway of his body. They moved in a small circle on that tiny strip of land, the only two people in a blue world, dancing to a rhythm only they could hear.
When the lesson finally ended, he didn't let go immediately. He kept his hand on her waist, looking down at her with an expression that made the tropical sun feel cold in comparison.
"See?" he whispered. "You don't need a stage."
They spent half of the day being in the water. They chased each other around and Solana felt her worries float away into the ocean. Eventually, the sun was slowly saying goodbye. Solana felt the dread creep back in and decided a walk around the beach would do her good. She watched as she left footprints in the sand, leaving a mark on this world in a way she never thought of. As she was walking, she knelt down, her fingers sifting through the tide pools. She had a collection back in her apartment in LA—glass jars filled with shells from every place she’d ever toured, a quiet way of proving to herself that she’d actually been there, rather than just seeing it through a hotel window.
"Finding anything good?" Benito asked, walking over and crouching beside her.
"This one is perfect," she said, holding up a small, translucent cone shell that shimmered like a pearl. She wiped the sand off it and tucked it into the small pocket of her sarong. "I take one from everywhere I go. It’s the only thing I keep for myself."
Benito reached into a shallow pool and pulled out a jagged, sun-bleached piece of coral. He handed it to her, his fingers lingering against hers.
"Take this one too," he said. "To remind you that things can be broken and still be beautiful."
Solana looked at the coral, then at the man who had spent the last few days systematically breaking down every wall she had built. She realized then that the "Saint" was never going to fit back into the jars she kept on her shelf.
"I don't think I have enough room in my luggage for everything I'm taking back this time," she whispered.
Benito smiled, that slow, devastatingly honest smile. "Good. You should always leave with more than you brought."
AN: hello everyone! very sorry for the wait! i just went thru a breakup and had my final thesis defense in just one week! crazy right? anyway, i love to see you're enjoying this lil fic, thank you so much for all the notes/kudoses i'm getting <3 here's chapter 8 for now, i'll post chapter 9 in a while cause ya'll desrve it!
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The Blue Moon bar was exactly what Solana needed—a place that smelled of spilled beer, calamari, and salt, where the floor was slightly sticky and the lighting was a forgiving, neon amber. It was the kind of place where the Saint Solana in her didn't exist, and Benito Martinez was just another guy in a black shirt waiting for his turn at the mic.
They sat in a corner booth, tucked behind a pillar. A single bowl of calamari sat between them, steam curling into the humid air.
"You're quiet," Benito noted, sliding the plate toward her. "What are you thinking?"
She looked at him, her eyes reflecting the flickering neon 'OPEN' sign. "I was just thinking that if my manager saw me here, they’d have a collective heart attack. No security, no lighting, eating carbs at midnight... it’s a PR nightmare."
"Good," Benito murmured, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "Nightmares are more interesting than dreams anyway. They’re more honest."
The karaoke machine was an ancient thing, hooked up to two crackling speakers. A local man had just finished a boisterous, off-key rendition of a salsa track, and the small crowd was cheering. Benito slid off his seat and looked for a song on the digital songbook.
Luis Miguel’s Sabor a Mi’s intro filled the room and he grabbed the mic. Soon as he held it, the Bad Bunny in him was woken up from its slumber. Benito stood on the small wooden stage, the microphone looking small in his hand. He didn't look at the crowd or the guy running the machine. He looked straight into the corner booth, where Solana was tucked away.
He tapped the mic once, twice. The room settled.
"Buenas noches," he said, his voice a low, honeyed rumble that seemed to vibrate the ice in the glasses on the bar.
He paused, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips as he locked eyes with her. He didn't need a long speech. He just needed her to know.
"Esta va para ti, reina. Solo para ti."
Solana sat there, a smile playing on her lips. She might’ve not known the exact translation of what he just said but she knew, it was for her. She bowed her head as if that could hide the pink in her cheeks and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She looked up at him on the stage and was just mesmerized. She knows he’s a performer, an outstanding one at his field but this impressed her. If this was his harana for her, she would immediately say yes.
Benito knew the words by heart, there was no need for the screen. Benito gripped the mic, his eyes locking onto Solana’s. He didn't use his stadium voice. He used the voice of a man standing in a kitchen at 3:00 AM.
"Pasarán más de mil años, muchos más..." His voice was a low, resonant rumble, sounding like velvet and smoke. He sang it with a slow, deliberate cadence, letting the Spanish words linger in the air. He was telling her: I don't care about your script or storyboard. I don't care about the six-month countdown to your movie. I am going to leave my mark on you so deep that a thousand years won't wash it off.
She felt the vibration of his baritone in her chest, the raw, old-school romanticism of the song stripping away her defenses. When he hit the line "Tanto tiempo disfrutamos de este amor," he stepped off the stage, still singing, and walked slowly back towards their table. The crowd clapped and cheered but all Solana could hear was his voice like honey.
"Your turn, reina," he murmured over the fading music, his eyes a challenge and a promise. "Show me what you're hiding behind that Hollywood smile."
Solana didn't hesitate. She took his hand, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She wasn't going to let him win this—not when she had the ghosts of every Filipino family karaoke night backing her up.
She walked to the stage, the neon light catching the gold of her shell bracelet. She scrolled, her finger trembling slightly, until she found the anthem. Saving All My Love For You by Whitney Houston
The jazz-sax intro kicked in, and the locals cheered. They thought they knew what was coming—a pretty girl singing a pretty song.
Then Solana opened her mouth.
"A few stolen moments is all that we share..."
The first verse was a whisper, a secret shared between the two of them. But when the chorus hit, she didn't just sing—she erupted. She let out a belt so powerful, so resonant, that the man behind the bar actually dropped a glass. It was pure, unfiltered Whitney power, flavored with that soulful, effortless Filipino precision.
She saw Benito’s eyes go wide from the booth. He had challenged her to be real, and she was currently setting the room on fire.
By the time she reached the climax, she was looking directly at him, her voice soaring into the rafters, defiant and beautiful:
"‘Cause we’ll be making love… the whole night through," she sang, her voice dropping into a rich, honeyed rasp on the lower notes before soaring into a silky, effortless run.
She didn't shy away from the words. She sang them with the weight of someone who had been holding her breath for days. The way she emphasized "the whole night through" wasn't just a lyric. It was a promise.
Benito’s jaw tightened. He felt a jolt of electricity go straight down his spine. He was a man who lived his life in the spotlight, but this—this felt more private than anything he’d ever recorded.
The room was hooting and hollering, but for them, it was silent.
As she hit the final, soaring notes of the song, she let her voice trail off into a breathy, soulful finish. She lowered the mic, her chest heaving, her eyes locked on his.
"Eres una mujer peligrosa, Solana Brooks," Benito whispered as she stepped down from the platform. He didn't wait for her to reach the floor; he caught her by the waist and lifted her down, keeping her body pressed against his for a second too long to be ‘just friends’.
"I told you," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs, her Filipino accent thick and sweet. "In your dreams, right?"
After the roar of the applause died down, the bar settled back into its natural rhythm. A group of local fishermen took the stage, laughing through a rowdy folk song, and the tension that had been vibrating between Benito and Solana softened into something warm and liquid.
Back in their booth, they didn’t sit across from each other this time. Benito slid in next to her, his arm draped over the back of the vinyl seat, his thumb absentmindedly grazing the skin of her shoulder.
Then, the familiar, jangly acoustic guitar intro of Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer began to filter through the salt-crusted speakers. It was a soft, sweet contrast to the heavy soul they had just poured out. A young girl from the village was at the mic, her voice shy and thin, but steady.
Solana’s entire face lit up—a look of pure, childlike joy that hit Benito harder than any of her high notes. "Oh my god, I love this song!" she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She grabbed an empty beer bottle and made it her makeshift mic as she sang along.
She didn't care that she’d just finished a world-class Whitney cover. She didn't care that she was an A-list actress in a five-star dive bar. She just started swaying, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she sang along with a huge, goofy grin.
"Kiss me... beneath the milky twilight..."
She was doing a little shoulder-dance in the booth, her shell bracelet clicking a frantic rhythm. She looked at Benito, trying to get him to join in, her energy so infectious that even the "Martinez" scowl stood no chance.
Benito didn't sing. He couldn't. He was too busy memorizing the way the neon light bounced off her eyes. He felt that sharp, physical ache in his chest—the one that usually leads to a song that breaks the charts.
He realized then that he didn’t just want the actress that played classic romance drama in Hollywood. He didn't just want the girl from the village. He wanted the girl who lost her mind over 90s pop songs in the middle of the night.
"You're a dork, Sol," he murmured, his voice thick with an affection he couldn't hide anymore.
"I’m a dork who knows all the words," she teased, leaning into him, her voice dropping into that sweet, airy melody. "Lead me... out on the moonlit floor..."
Benito wished, heck, if he could do the sign of the cross right then and there and prayed to God if he could just kiss the girl beside him. But he leant back and watched her with a smile.
The girl who sang Kiss Me sat down to a round of warm applause. The bar was in that perfect state of late-night haze where everyone is a friend and the outside world feels like a distant rumor.
"One more?" Benito whispered, his hand sliding down to interlace his fingers with hers. "For the road. Something... us."
Solana didn't argue. She felt brave. She walked back to the machine, scrolled down and found a track that felt like the island itself. She chose Cruisin’—the Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow version. It was smooth, soulful, and just the right amount of flirty.
As the laid-back, groovy beat started, Benito didn't wait for his cue. He followed Solana up on the stage, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Baby, let's cruise... away from here..." His voice was a velvet rasp, catching the low-end frequencies that made the wooden floor vibrate. When Solana came in for the harmony, her voice floated over his like a sea mist—high, clear, and effortless. They weren't trying to out-belt each other anymore. They were just cruising.
They traded lines, leaning into the lyrics. When she sang, "I love it when we're cruisin' together," she pointed the mic at him with a playful wink, and the local crowd went wild.
When the final chorus of the song descended, he pulled her back against his chest. They sang into the same microphone, their heads tilted together, their voices blending into a single, seamless frequency.
At that moment, he wasn't Bad Bunny with the record-breaking tour, and she wasn't the Solana Brooks with the 60-page contract. They were just two people who found the same melody in the middle of the ocean.
The walk back to the villa was quiet, the only sound was the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on the sandy path and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the ocean. The adrenaline of the performance had settled into a heavy, sweet contentment. The humidity of the bar was replaced by the crisp, salty night air, but the heat between their joined hands remained.
"We really did a duet to Cruisin’," Solana said, a soft laugh escaping her. She looked down at their joined hands. "My cousins are going to roast me if they ever find out. That's the Family Reunion closer."
Benito chuckled, the sound low and resonant in the quiet of the night. "Family reunion closer, huh? So I just became part of the family tradition?"
"Pretty much," Solana teased, swinging their hands slightly. "You just need a plate of pancit and a Tita asking you why you aren't married yet, and you’d fit right in."
Benito stopped walking, pulling her gently until she faced him. The shadows of the palm fronds danced across her face, making her look ethereal, but her eyes were bright with a defiance he’d never seen in her press photos.
"They wouldn't have to ask why I’m not married," he murmured, his thumb tracing the knuckles of her hand. "They’d just see me looking at you and know I’m already gone."
Solana’s breath caught. The playful karaoke night energy evaporated, replaced by the heavy, magnetic pull that had been building since they first met on that balcony.
"You're very good at that," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant crash of the waves.
"At what?"
"Saying things that make me think I’m the only one. Making me forget that tomorrow you might wake up and look at someone else the way you do right now."
Benito stepped closer, closing the gap until the tips of his boots touched hers. He stepped into her space, closing the final inch until his chest was a solid wall against hers. He reached up, his large, tattooed hand framing her face, his thumb pressing firmly against the pulse point at her jaw. He wanted her to feel how steady he was.
"Look at me, Sol," he commanded, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly frequency that made her quietly crumble into a million pieces.
When she finally met his eyes, she didn't find the playful performer from the bar. She found the man who had been watching her through camera lenses and across crowded rooms, looking for a way in.
"He visto a miles de mujeres," he whispered, the Spanish words landing like a confession.
"He tenido el mundo a mis pies, y nunca me había sentido tan perdido como cuando te vi en ese balcón." He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her lips.
"I won't wake up and look at someone else like this," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, fierce sincerity. "Because I’m not looking at Saint Solana. I’m not looking at the girl the world wants you to be. I’m looking at the girl who just screamed Whitney Houston in a dive bar because she was tired of being quiet."
He tilted his head, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers.
"Mañana el mundo volverá a gritar, pero esta noche... esta noche solo existes tú."
He didn't kiss her. Not yet. He just stood there, letting the tension hum between them like a live wire, his eyes searching hers as if he were waiting for her to be the one to finally break the silence.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The ride back to the villa was the quietest thirty minutes of Benito's life, but it wasn't a heavy quiet. Not yet. As if the dust hadn’t settled on the surface, Benito just hoped it wouldn’t.
He could feel Solana behind him, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his waist. Every time they hit a bump in the road, she’d squeeze a little tighter, and he caught himself smiling like an idiot under his helmet. He felt like he’d finally cracked the code. He’d found the girl under the "Solana Brooks" persona—the one who liked puppies and roast pork, the one who spoke with the music of the islands in her voice.
He thought they were good. He thought they were… us.
But as soon as the moped engine cut out in the parking lot of the villa, the air changed. It was like someone had flipped a switch. The humidity of the village was gone, replaced by the cold, sterile air-conditioning of the resort.
Solana climbed off the bike before he could even kick the stand down. She didn't look at him. She was already busy unbuckling her helmet, her movements fast and jerky.
"Sol?" he called out, reaching for her arm as they walked into the suite. "You okay?"
She spun around in the middle of the living room, and the look in her eyes stopped him dead. The gigil was gone. The softness was gone. She looked like she was standing center-stage at a premiere: guarded, sharp, and untouchable.
"How many times have you done that, Benito?" She asked, her voice sounding like glass. She dropped her heeled sandals on the tiled floor and Benito flinched ever so slightly at the sound.
He blinked, his hands still holding his own helmet. "Done what? Taken a bike out?"
"The lunch. The conversation. The little gift." She gestured to her wrist, where the shell bracelet still sat. "It’s a great routine. Really. If I weren't in the industry myself, I probably would have fallen for it completely."
The words felt like a physical punch to his gut. "A routine? You think that was a performance?"
"What else could it be?" she snapped. He could hear the tremor in her voice—the sound of someone who was absolutely terrified. "You’re a global icon, Benito. You’re used to getting what you want. And I’m just... I’m a challenge. You wanted to see if you could make me break, didn't you? To see if you could get the girl on the movie poster to actually feel something."
"Solana, stop," he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register.
"No! Because it’s working, Martinez!" she shouted. For a second, her Filipino accent flared up, jagged and raw. "You have me doing 'cliff-dives' and forgetting my own name, and for what? So you can have a better story to tell in your next interview? I’m not just another girl for your collection, Benito. I’m not a 'passion project' you can use to feel real for a weekend!"
She was panting now, her eyes bright with tears she refused to let fall. She looked at him like he was the villain in her movie, and it killed him—because he realized then that she wasn't actually mad at him.
She was mad at herself for letting him in.
"Is that what you really think of me?" he asked, his voice flat. All the warmth from the village, the afternoon they spent together, the way her hand had felt in his—it was all turning to ash. "You think I’m that good of an actor? That I can fake the way I look at you?"
He took a step toward her, but she retreated, her back hitting the door of her bedroom.
"I think," she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands gripped so tight the shells of the bracelet dug into her skin. "I think we should just go back to how it was. No more 'Beni.' No more of... this."
Benito’s brow furrowed, his eyes searching hers, looking for the girl who had just been laughing at puppies. "How it was? You mean acting like we don't know each other? After today?"
"We don't know each other," she lied, the words tasting like ash. "This was just a nice day on a nice island. But it’s not real life. In real life, people like you don't stay. So just... let’s just be what we are. Please, just let it be that."
She disappeared into her room and slammed the door. The click of the lock echoed through the suite like a gunshot.
Benito stood there in the dark living room, his hands clenched into fists. He looked at the coffee machine, the sofa where they’d almost shared a moment, the balcony where she’d called him Beni.
He realized then what she was doing. After the day they just had, he thought they were building something brick by brick. But she wasn't using those bricks for a bridge.
She was using them to build a wall so high he feared he’d never be able to see her again.
Solana woke up in the early hours of the morning. She tried to sleep but she was woken up by a dream. She couldn’t remember what it was about, but she was sure it was bad enough to keep her awake til the sun peeked through the curtains. She lay still on the bed, watching the birds fly by and the trees sway through the gentle morning breeze. She felt so small. In this bed. In this room. On this island.
She contemplated for a long time if she should leave the bed. She was dreading to see the man on the other side of the room. Not because they argued but because she felt insecure.
How could he? Solana thought. How could he do this to her? How could he break down the walls she was carefully building around her?
She closed her eyes, tired and teary from the thoughts she’s having. With a long exhale, she slowly stood up from the bed. She grabbed her robe and paused by the door. I’m not going to let him break me. I’m not going to crumble in front of him. She thought and finally swung the door open, only to find an empty room.
The hours felt long last night for him. He tried watching tv. He tried doomscrolling on TikTok, heck even thought of making a TikTok video. He tried counting the drinks in the mini bar. He tried reading each bottle’s alcohol contents and percentages. He tried color-coding the coffee pods in its drawer. But nothing seemed to do the trick, nothing seemed to calm his mind.
He gave up. He sat on the bed and groaned, burying his head in his hands. Had he finally fucked up this time? He turned to his side and saw the note that came along with the bed, still resting beside his watch on the nightstand. He grabbed it, then traced the writing.
Suddenly, the hours weren’t so long anymore. He grabbed a pen and settled on one of the balcony chairs. The lyrics just fit right on the small card. It was paradoxical. One side held the possibility of something great, love even, but on the other side? It was pure brokenness, pain and loss for what could have been.
The screen of his phone emitted a sharp blue light as he located his creative director’s contact. He watched the sky turn purple-blue as the night left the island. It was the break of dawn and he had completely lost track of time.
"Necesito al 'crew' pequeño," he said as soon as the line picked up, his voice low and focused, cutting through the early morning silence of the villa. "Equipo mínimo. Busquen una playa en el lado este—la que tiene las rocas afiladas. Vamos a grabar un visualizer. Ahora."
When he walked back into the villa two hours later, the sun was fully up, bright and unforgiving. He was a mess—his linen shirt was damp with sea spray, his hair was matted with salt, and sand clung to his ankles.
He looked like he’d been in a wreck. In a way, he had.
Solana was in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. She froze, a mug halfway to her lips, as she took in his appearance. She was dressed in a crisp, silk set, her face a perfect, polished mask—but her eyes widened with genuine alarm when she saw him.
"Where were you? What happened?" she asked, her voice cautious.
Benito didn't stop. He walked toward the fridge, his movements heavy with exhaustion. "Working," he said shortly, his voice raspy from the salt air and the singing. "Since we’re staying on the script now, I figured I’d get ahead of the schedule."
He grabbed a bottle of water and turned toward his side of the room, not looking at her. He couldn't. If he looked at her now, the "visual" he’d just spent two hours filming would shatter, and he’d just be the guy who wanted to beg her to stay.
"I think it's better if we spend the day apart." She said to his back. Her voice was small, but determined.
Benito paused. He felt the weight of the night, the weight of the song, and the weight of the girl who was terrified to let him in.
"Fine," he muttered, though it pained him to be like this with her. He loathed the ice that dripped from his tongue. "Stay safe, Solana."
Solana wandered aimlessly around the village. She just said bye to the couple of girls who were kicking around a deflated ball. She joined in on their play but at some point realized she was not really feeling it. Something was missing. Then she saw the litter of puppies, she sat on the cobblestoned street and played with them, even took some pictures. But all she could hear in her head was Benito trying to say the word ‘gigil’. She made sure to say bye to the puppies too and continued walking. Nothing seemed to fill what was missing in her.
If only she realized what was actually missing was the man left in the suite.
Said man was fake sleeping on his bed. He cursed himself for not falling into rest, when in fact he lost a night’s sleep. He buried his head under the pillow and groaned in annoyance, mostly at himself. He felt his phone buzz beside him and excitedly got up and opened the lock. He hoped it was a text from Solana. But it wasn’t.
Restless, he moved onto the sofa and typed ‘Solana’ on the Instagram search bar. Benito felt he had won the multi-million dollar prize at the jackpot round when he found her profile. He scrolled down to see her posts and viewed her story.
Without any hesitation, he replied to one of her Instagram stories. When he checked his DM’s, the message he sent to Sol wasn’t sent since she limited her message requests.
"Maldita sea." He cursed under his breath and finally gave up. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He looked over to his bed and felt it wasn't comfortable to lie on it. And so, in surrender, he curled up on the sofa and let sleep take over him.
Meanwhile, Solana found a spot just by the bridge. She was just there. Present. She felt her phone buzz earlier but opted to ignore it. She watched as locals passed by, a story forming in her head about their daily lives. She looked to her right and saw a couple share a bag of local snacks. Talking, laughing, sharing a world of their own. She felt a pang of jealousy creep up on her. Solana envied them. They were living a life without seasons, without the fear of losing the other over something so silly. She pursed her lips, her mouth dry, her thoughts still about the man she left in the room. She looked back into the sea, a beautiful turquoise sheet against the horizon. With one last glance at the couple, she decided it was time to head back.
Benito woke up sometime in the late afternoon. 5:05 PM. He got up and looked around the room, finding everything still in its place and still quiet. Solana must still be outside, he thought. Might as well go outside, he thought. He took the time to get ready for a night out. He was about to leave, keys in hand, when he heard the door card beep and open then close.
He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw her reflection against the glass. The air seemed to hum between them, both waiting for each other to speak.
"I’d rather argue with you all day than spend it alone, Sol." He said, breaking the deafening silence. He waited for a beat for her reply, any reply, but he was met with silence. He turned to look at her, standing there in the middle of the room.
Solana was speechless. She tried to find her voice but it seems it went along with her mind, betraying her at the moment she needed it the most to defend herself.
"Did you have a good day?" He asked, walking towards her.
"It was missing something." She spoke, her voice small.
"What was it?"
"You."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy or cold. It was the "bridge" they had been building, brick by brick, finally meeting in the middle. Benito took the last two steps between them. He didn't touch her—not yet—but he leaned in close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
With a gentle finger, he tilted up her chin so he could see her eyes. He felt her breath hitch at the gesture and her eyes darken. "I’m not here to play a part in your script, Sol."
I want to be more. A voice in his head said. It was true. He wanted to be more. More than anything else to her.
She looked up at him, searching his eyes. She knew he wanted to say something else, something to add to his confession, a confession that needed no oratio because it wasn't sinful. But she let him be. She moved up her hand to where it was and touched it, the weight of it made their hands drop but he didn’t let her go this time. He held hers in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
"I heard there’s a karaoke bar in town. Care to check it out with me?" She offered. She loved karaoke parties.
"Karaoke? You’re brave, reina. You really want to lose to me in public?" He chuckled.
When Solana Brooks and Benito Martinez find themselves trapped in the same luxury suite, it’s hate at first sight. She wants her privacy; he just wants a place to sleep that isn't a sofa. But as the Caribbean sun peels back their layers, Solana realizes that Benito isn't looking at the star the world worships—he’s looking at the girl who misses her mother’s kitchen. Now, stuck in a 'lovers' retreat' they never asked for, and in a quiet suite they share together, they aren’t icons anymore—they’re just two people finding a rhythm that doesn't need a red carpet.
The moped was parked amongst the many cars in the lot of the resort. Its paint was faded, but Solana could see the off-white, almost cream color of it, the seats were brown leather. Before she could say a word about riding it and if it was safe, Benito put the helmet on her head, his hands fastening the strap just by her chin. He readjusted it lightly and pressed a button, activating the dark tinted glasses of the helmet.
"See? Don’t need to wear your Pradas here."
Benito backed the moped into place before tapping the seat behind him. He looked ridiculous on it—a global icon with legs far too long for the frame—but he didn't seem to care. He kicked the kickstand up with a sharp clack and revved the engine, which coughed out a puff of white smoke before settling into a rhythmic chug.
She slid onto the seat behind him, her hands hovering tentatively near his waist before she finally gave in and wrapped her arms around him.
"Hold on, reina," he shouted over the engine. "And try not to scream in my ear. I have a concert in three months and I need my hearing."
He was warm, solid, and smelled like the ocean. As they sped away from the manicured gates of the resort, the air changed. The scent of expensive hibiscus gave way to the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and wild salt. They climbed the winding hills, the ocean falling away below them in a dizzying mosaic of blue.
While steering the moped, Benito glanced every once in a while on his side mirror. Not really checking the traffic but looking at her. He might look cool on the outside but his heart was raging against his ribcage. Everything about her just drives him into place he’s never known, feelings he had never felt before. He could feel her arms around him and he swore to himself to never forget this moment, as well as the past two days.
Sure there were the flings, but he knows, this is different. He couldn’t put a finger on it, let alone a beat or a lyric to describe it, but he’ll let it come to him. Maybe now or at some distant point in his lifetime, he’ll realize why.
They reached the village—a cluster of pastel-colored houses with laundry flapping in the breeze and old men playing dominoes under the shade of massive banyan trees.
"There," Benito said, nodding toward a small, nameless shack with smoke curling from a corrugated tin roof. "That’s the spot. No menu. You just eat what abuela made today."
The shack turned out to be a small terrace perched over a cliffside. There were no tourists here. No influencers posing with cocktails. Just the clatter of dominoes from the corner table and the intoxicating scent of garlic, vinegar, and slow-roasted pork.
The owner, a woman with skin the color of mahogany, wiped her hands on her apron and looked them over. "You look hungry," the woman said in thick, melodic English, dismissively waving them toward a wooden table. "Sit. I bring what is good."
Benito pulled out a chair for Solana, his eyes crinkling behind his shades. "See? I told you. No one cares about your insurance contract here, Sol."
Soon, the table was covered. There was a mountain of yellow rice, fried plantains, and a plate of lechon—roast pig with skin so crispy it looked like amber.
Solana’s eyes widened. "Benito... this looks exactly like..."
"Lechon," he finished for her, nodding. "I know. In Puerto Rico, we do it the same way. The pride of the island."
Solana took a piece of the crispy skin, the crunch echoing in the quiet afternoon. For a second, she wasn't in St. Barts. She was back in her Lola's kitchen, the humidity thick and the air full of laughter. "Oh my god, it tastes like how my Lolo used to make it," she whispered.
Benito stopped eating, his expression softening. He reached across the small table, his hand hovering over hers for a second before he gently squeezed her wrist.
"The world makes us think we have to leave these things behind to be stars, Sol," he said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register. "They want us to eat the gold leaf and the caviar. But this? Esto es lo único que de verdad nos mantiene con los pies en la tierra, Sol."
He picked up a plantain and pointed it at her. "You’re doing it again, by the way."
"Doing what exactly?"
"You're looking at me like you did last night. When you decided I was 'Beni' instead of 'Martinez.'" He grinned, leaning across the table.
Solana felt her cheeks flush. "I was drunk. I told you, I don't remember."
Benito just laughed and went back to his food. "Keep telling yourself that, buraot. But the Pocari says otherwise."
They were halfway through the lechon, the grease glistening on their fingers and the salt of the sea still on their skin. Benito had been talking—mostly to himself, or so it seemed—drifting between English and a fast, melodic Spanish as he described the way his grandmother used to season the pork back in Vega Baja.
He caught himself mid-sentence, a piece of plantain halfway to his mouth. He looked at Solana, who was watching him with an expression that wasn't confused or frustrated. She was just… listening.
"You do that a lot," she said softly, dipping a piece of meat into the vinegar sauce.
Benito paused. "Do what? Eat with my hands? It’s the only way, Sol."
"No," she chuckled, "The Spanish. You start a sentence in English and then you just… drift. You don’t even notice you’re doing it."
Benito leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. "And you don't say anything. Most people stop me. They ask for a translation, or they get that look—like I’m speaking code they aren't invited to."
Solana shrugged, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. "I grew up in a house where three languages were happening at the same time. Tagalog, English, a bit of Spanish from my Lolo... I’m used to the drift. Besides," she looked up at him, her gaze steady, "I don't need to know every word to know what you're saying."
Benito went still. He set his fork down, the playful energy from a moment ago shifting into something much more focused.
"Is that so?" he murmured. "And what am I saying, reina?"
Solana felt her heart skip, but she didn't look away. "You’re talking about home. Not the Puerto Rico on the postcards. The one with the smoke and the family and the 'real' things. You talk in Spanish when you’re not trying to be the guy on the billboard."
Benito stared at her for a long beat. It was the first time someone had pointed out his "drift" not as a barrier, but as a bridge.
"I didn't realize I was being so loud," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"It’s not loud," she corrected him, her voice a mere whisper over the sound of the ocean below. "It’s just… you."
Benito reached across the table, his fingers grazing the edge of her plate. "Most people want the translation so they can own the conversation. But you? You just let it happen." He switched back to Spanish, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "Gracias por no hacerme sentir como un extraño, Sol."
Solana didn't blink. She didn't ask what it meant. She just nodded, because she felt the weight of the "thank you" in the way he looked at her.
"You’re welcome, Beni," she replied.
Benito leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden table. "You know, you do it too," he said, his eyes scanning her face with a newfound intensity.
Solana paused, a piece of yellow rice halfway to her mouth. "Do what? The drift?"
"No. The music in your voice," he said, gesturing with a hand. "When you got mad at me this morning about the music, and just now when you were talking about your Lola... your accent, it comes back. It’s like the islands start speaking through you."
Solana felt a heat that wasn't from the sun creep up her neck. She looked down at her plate, suddenly self-conscious. "I spent three years with a vocal coach in London and another two in L.A. to get rid of that. My agency calls it Global Appeal. They said if I wanted the lead roles, I had to sound like I could be from anywhere."
"But that’s the thing, Sol," Benito said, his voice dropping into that low, serious rumble. "In your movies, you sound like... a recording. Perfect. Clean. But here?" He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray grain of rice near the corner of her lip. "Here, you sound like you’re from somewhere. You sound like you have roots."
Solana swallowed hard. No one in the industry had ever complimented her accent. It was always treated as a flaw to be polished away, a regional quirk that limited her marketability.
"You don't think it sounds... unpolished?" she whispered.
"I think it sounds like the truth," Benito replied. He smiled, a small, lopsided thing. "I spend all day in a recording booth trying to make sure the world hears Puerto Rico in every syllable I drop. Why would you want to sound like 'anywhere' when you could sound like home?"
Solana looked at him—really looked at him. He was the biggest artist on the planet, and he’d never once tried to sound like anything other than a boy from Vega Baja.
"It’s not that I’m ashamed," Solana said, her voice steady as she traced the rim of her glass. She looked him right in the eye, the defensiveness replaced by a quiet, professional clarity. "I love being Filipina, heck I’m not even a ‘full’ Filipina, I’m just half but I love the way my Lola sounds. And this industry? It’s a game of elimination, Benito. Every quirk is a reason for a casting director to say no. I didn't push my accent down because I wanted to be someone else. I did it because I wanted to win."
She leaned in, her gaze sharpening. "I wanted the roles that weren't written for ‘the ethnic best friend.’ I wanted the lead. And to get it, I had to be a blank canvas. I had to be the ‘Solana Brooks’ because the alternative was being invisible."
Benito watched her, his expression shifting from teasing to a deep, resonant respect. He knew about winning. He knew about the hustle. But he also knew the price of the ticket.
"I get it," he murmured, his voice like velvet. "You’re a soldier, Sol. You did what you had to do to take the hill. But we’re on the hill now. We’re at the top."
He gestured to the sprawling, beautiful island around them—the world they had both conquered in their own ways.
"You don't have to keep the armor on when there’s no one left to fight," he said softly. Solana felt a lump form in her throat. No one had ever framed her mask as armor before. They’d always called it improvement. Benito was the only one calling it exhausting.
"It’s a hard habit to break," she whispered.
"Then let’s start small," he grinned, the intensity breaking into a mischievous spark. "Give me one word. The most Filipino word you know. No ‘Global Appeal,’ no vocal coach. Just you."
Solana hesitated, then a small, wicked smile played on her lips. "Gigil."
Benito blinked. "Geee-gil? What is that? A type of fish?"
"No," she laughed, the sound bright and unfiltered. "It’s when something is so cute or so overwhelming that you just want to… squeeze it. Like you can’t contain the energy. There’s no English word for it. You just feel it."
"Gigil," Benito practiced, his deep voice vibrating the ‘g’s in a way that made her stomach flip. "I think I get it. Like when the bass hits right in a new track? That’s gigil?"
"Close enough, Martinez," she teased. "Close enough."
Solana sat back into her seat. Despite their differences, there was something that connected them, something deeper, something the cameras couldn’t capture or the fans could see. The language barrier wasn't a wall between them; it was a secret language they were building, brick by brick.
The sun was now high up in the clouds and they had to fight the heat with an ice cream. They passed a small shop that sells different flavors and decided they had to get one each. Benito had coconut and she had vanilla. They were walking along the streets, decided it was best to leave the moped by the shack if they wanted to explore the village a bit.
Solana just had a spoonful of ice cream when she suddenly gasped, her spoon still in her mouth.
"Oh my god," she whispered, absentmindedly, she passed her cup to Benito and he caught it before it could fall. "Benito, look. I can't... I actually can't."
Benito watched her, fascinated. "What? What is it?"
"No," she groaned, her teeth literally clenched. "It’s gigil. I told you! I want to squeeze it! Why is it so small? Why are its ears like that?"
She looked like she was vibrating with the sheer effort of not kidnapping a dog. Benito didn't look at the puppies. He looked at her—at the way her nose crinkled and the way she was finally, truly, un-storyboarded.
"Yeah," he murmured, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face. "I think I get the definition now." He reached out and took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Solana would have been bothered or surprised by the sudden physical contact but she was too devastated at how cute the puppies were.
Eventually, they finished their ice cream and hours had passed. Benito was sure they completed two laps around the village because he saw the graffiti on a blue wall twice but he didn’t mind it. He was happy to go along and walk beside her. The sun was slowly sinking on the horizon when Solana found a local clothing store.
"Go ahead," Benito said, nodding toward the shop. "Explore. I’m going to see if I can find a lighter for my cigars."
Solana stepped into the cool, shaded interior of the shop, the chime above the door tinkling softly. She ran her fingers over a rack of cream-colored tunics, the fabric rough and honest against her skin. For a moment, she let herself get lost in the simple act of browsing—no stylist to tell her what was "on brand," no paparazzi waiting for her to step out of a fitting room.
Outside, Benito wasn't looking for a lighter.
He was standing in front of a small, cluttered table on the sidewalk where an elderly man sat carving wood. Among the wooden birds and painted masks was a bowl of bracelets made from local shells—small, polished pieces of puka and cowrie, strung together on a simple waxed cord.
He picked one up. It wasn't expensive. It probably cost less than the coffee he’d made her that morning. But the shells were the exact shade of the sandbar where they had first really talked—that pale, shimmering white that looked like moonlight.
He paid the man, slipping the bracelet into his pocket just as Solana stepped out of the clothing store, carrying a small paper bag.
"Find anything?" he asked, falling back into step with her.
"Just a scarf," she said, though she looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. "It reminded me of something my Lola used to wear."
They reached a small stone bridge that overlooked a hidden cove, the water below a deep, bruised purple as the afternoon began to lean toward evening.
"Here," Benito said, stopping her.
Solana blinked. "What?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the shell bracelet. He didn't make a big deal out of it; he didn't give a speech. He just took her hand—his skin warm and steady against hers—and slid the cord over her wrist, tightening the knot.
"For the memory," he said softly, his eyes searching hers behind his dark lenses. "In case the mental snapshot starts to fade."
Solana looked down at her wrist. The shells were cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heavy, gold-plated watch she usually wore. It felt… lighter.
"Beni," she whispered, the name coming easier this time. "It’s beautiful."
"It’s just shells, Sol," he chuckled, but he didn't let go of her hand. "But they’re from here. Not from a billboard. Not from a magazine."
He looked out at the ocean, his thumb absently rubbing over the back of her knuckles. "A veces es bueno tener algo que no le pertenece al resto del mundo."
Solana didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was doing that terrifying, reckless cliff-dive again, and for the first time, she didn't want to find her footing. She just wanted to keep falling.
