The next few days, they stayed in the hotel together. Their room had a tiny balcony where clothes could dry in the wind, and at night they'd sit there in silence, sometimes sharing a bottle of wine, sometimes just watching the city breathe.
Their days were slow but full.
At Park Güell, Selene twirled beneath the mosaics, laughing at the way her skirt caught the light. Evan stood back with his camera, clicking photos like he couldn't help it.
"Stop taking pictures of me," she said.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm taking pictures of this insane mosaic bench behind you. You're just… inconveniently in front of it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're annoying."
"You're photogenic," he said with a shrug.
She walked off in fake offense. He followed, grinning.
They wandered through La Boqueria Market, tasting everything—from sticky churros dipped in hot chocolate to spicy olives. Evan made her try roasted octopus. She nearly spat it out.
"Why would anyone eat that willingly?" she gasped, scrubbing her tongue with her napkin.
Evan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his skewer. "You trusted me. That's on you."
He licked his lips, slow and thoughtless, like he didn't even realize he was doing it, slowly leans in and stealing a kiss.
At Barceloneta Beach, they walked barefoot in the sand at dusk. Selene skipped stones. Evan failed miserably.
"Traveling with you," she said one evening, as they sat outside a small bar under twinkling lights, "feels like a montage in a film."
"You mean chaotic, confusing, and full of bad decisions?" he asked, sipping his vermouth.
She smiled. "I mean... weirdly peaceful."
There was a rhythm forming between them. An ease. He started noticing her silence before she spoke, and she began recognizing the way he tapped his fingers when he was thinking.
They didn't talk about what was building between them—not yet. But it was there.
In how their hands brushed accidentally on park benches and didn't pull away.
In the way he always made sure she walked on the safer side of the street.
In how she started taking more pictures of him without him noticing.
At the Museu Picasso, she stood quietly in front of a painting—her arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"I don't get it," she finally said.
Evan leaned in. "It's a man playing the mandolin."
"Are you sure? I thought it was a goat dancing with a chair."
They burst into laughter, people around them glancing their way.
They run through the streets in the rain… laughed as they rushed down the hallway, breathless from the night and the rain and everything in between. The hotel room door clicked open, and they stumbled inside, still laughing, flushed from the cold.
As Selene stepped in, Evan caught her gently by the waist — the laughter fading into something quieter, heavier.
He kicked the door shut behind them without looking, his eyes fixed on her.
With slow, deliberate hands, he pressed her back against the wall.
His forehead brushed hers. Their breaths mingled. Selene bites her lower lips trying to hide her face.
"God, you're making me crazy," he murmured.
Then his lips found hers — slow and sure — like he already knew exactly how she tasted, and had been waiting all night to remember it.