The hostel bar buzzed with the particular energy of travelers who'd found cheap wine and permission to be reckless. Paper lanterns cast everything in carnival colors, and someone had pushed the furniture aside to create a makeshift stage where a German guy butchered "Wonderwall" with admirable conviction.
Juno nursed her third glass of sangria, fruit pieces bobbing like tiny life rafts in the crimson liquid. The alcohol had softened the edges of the day, turning the memory of Leo's hand brushing hers into something warm and glowing in her chest.
"This is painful," Leo said, sliding into the chair beside her. He'd traded his usual linen shirt for a black t-shirt that made his shoulders look broader, his stubble darker.
"That's the point. Open mic night isn't about talent."
"What's it about then?"
Before Juno could answer, the bar's front door burst open like someone had kicked it. Two figures tumbled through—a shirtless guy with sun-bleached hair covered in what appeared to be glitter body paint, and a girl with wild curls clutching a beat-up acoustic guitar like a weapon.
"Who's ready for some real music and maybe a little public shame?" the guy shouted, spreading his arms wide.
The girl—Lina, Juno realized from their brief introduction earlier—struck a dramatic chord that made half the room wince. "Max, you're scaring the locals."
"I'm inspiring them." Max spotted Juno across the room and grinned. "American girl! You look like someone who needs to make terrible decisions."
Leo leaned closer to Juno's ear. "Please tell me you're not about to make terrible decisions."
"I'm absolutely about to make terrible decisions."
Within minutes, Lina had pressed a tambourine into Juno's hands and declared her "officially part of the band." Max challenged Leo to some drinking game that involved naming Italian cities while doing push-ups, which Leo declined with the kind of diplomatic smile that barely concealed his horror.
"Come on, camera boy," Max said, flexing biceps that had apparently been sculpted by protein powder and pure enthusiasm. "Live a little."
"I live plenty."
"You document other people living. That's different."
Juno watched Leo's jaw tighten. Something about Max's easy confidence seemed to needle him, like being confronted with a funhouse mirror version of charisma.
"He has a point," she said, tapping her tambourine against her palm.
Leo turned that diplomatic smile on her. "Don't you start."
"When's the last time you did something just because it sounded fun?"
"Define fun."
Lina strummed a chord progression that sounded vaguely like flamenco crossed with punk rock. "If you have to define it, you're doing it wrong."
Max clapped his hands together, glitter transferring to everything he touched. "New plan. We're taking this show on the road."
"What show?" Juno asked.
"The best worst band Barcelona has ever seen."
Fifteen minutes later, they spilled onto the Gothic Quarter's narrow streets like escapees from a very cheerful asylum. Max had acquired a set of drumsticks from somewhere and was treating every surface as potential percussion. Lina sang something in Spanish that sounded both heartbroken and triumphant. Juno kept time with her tambourine, feeling ridiculous and free.
Leo walked beside them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, but when Juno glanced back she caught him trying not to smile.
"You're enjoying this," she called over the music.
"I'm documenting the cultural degradation of the modern backpacker."
"You're enjoying this."
They found a small plaza where the streetlights created pools of warm amber against ancient stone. A few late-night wanderers had gathered, some dropping coins into Lina's open guitar case, others just soaking in the absurdity.
Max spun his drumsticks like a baton twirler. "Time for audience participation. One euro to remove an article of clothing!"
"Max," Lina warned, but she was laughing.
"What? It's performance art."
Juno looked at the growing crowd, at Leo's mortified expression, at the coins accumulating in the guitar case. Something reckless bloomed in her chest—the same feeling that had made her quit her job and board a plane to nowhere.
She untied her silk scarf and let it flutter to the cobblestones.
The crowd cheered. Leo stared at her like she'd just declared her intention to join the circus.
"Your turn," she told him.
"Absolutely not."
Max produced a handful of euros from his pocket and waved them enticingly. "Come on, Italy. Show us what Florence taught you about artistic expression."
Leo looked at the money, at Juno's expectant face, at the crowd now chanting something in multiple languages that definitely included the word "strip."
With theatrical resignation, he pulled off one sock.
The crowd went wild.
They performed for another hour, their repertoire expanding to include Max's interpretive dance version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and Juno's surprisingly decent backing vocals on Lina's original song about lost love and found tequila. Leo remained fully clothed but had somehow been recruited as their videographer, filming with a small handheld camera that appeared from his ever-present satchel.
"I thought you weren't bringing that out," Juno said during a water break.
"I lied."
"Why?"
Leo lowered the camera, considering her question with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Some things are worth remembering."
The weight in his voice made her pulse quicken, but before she could respond, Max was calling for their final number and Lina was tuning her guitar with exaggerated ceremony.
They ended with something that might generously be called a song, if songs could include Max's freestyle rap about tapas and Juno's tambourine solo that lasted approximately thirty seconds too long. When the last notes faded, the small crowd erupted in applause that felt entirely disproportionate to their actual talent.
Leo tucked his camera away as people began to disperse. "That wasn't completely terrible."
"High praise from our documentarian."
"I call it like I see it."
Max bounced over, still shirtless despite the cooling night air. "Beach time!"
"It's past midnight," Leo said.
"Perfect swimming weather."
Lina shouldered her guitar. "I'm in. Nothing like salt water to wash off the shame of public performance."
Juno looked at Leo, who was already shaking his head. "It's not that cold," she said.
"It's the Mediterranean. In October."
"Live a little, camera boy."
Something in her tone—maybe the echo of Max's earlier challenge, maybe the lingering effects of sangria and street performance—made Leo's expression shift. The careful control slipped, revealing something hungrier underneath.
"Fine. But when you're all hypothermic, don't blame me."
The beach at night transformed Barcelona's chaos into something dreamy and surreal. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly dark, waves catching moonlight like scattered coins. The sound of the city faded to a distant hum, replaced by the eternal conversation between water and shore.
Max hit the waves first, naturally, diving in with a whoop that echoed off the nearby cliffs. Lina followed more cautiously, guitar safely abandoned above the high tide line.
Juno stood at the water's edge, letting foam chase around her ankles. The cold was shocking and perfect, cutting through the wine haze and making every nerve ending sing.
"Afraid of the water?" Leo asked, appearing beside her.
"Afraid of liking it too much."
"That's fair."
She looked at him—really looked. His careful composure had cracked somewhere between the street performance and the moonlit beach. His dark hair caught the light, and his eyes held something she hadn't seen before. Something unguarded.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked.
Leo was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. When he spoke, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it.
"Getting attached to temporary things."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Juno felt her heart do something complicated against her ribs.
"Maybe some things aren't as temporary as you think."
Before he could respond, she stripped off her vintage tee and stepped out of her skirt, leaving them in a pile on the sand. The night air raised goosebumps along her arms, but the reckless feeling had her now, complete and consuming.
She ran into the waves in her bra and underwear, diving under just as a larger swell approached. The cold was a full-body shock that drove all thought from her mind, leaving only sensation—salt and movement and the profound silence of being underwater.
When she surfaced, gasping and laughing, Leo was standing waist-deep a few feet away. His shirt clung to his chest, and his usually perfect hair was slicked back from his face.
"You followed me," she said.
"I was already in the water."
"Liar."
They floated there, treading water while waves lifted and lowered them in gentle rhythm. Max and Lina's voices carried from somewhere further down the beach, but they might as well have been on another continent.
"This is insane," Juno said.
"Completely."
A larger wave approached, and Leo reached for her instinctively, his arm circling her waist to keep them both steady. The contact sent heat through her despite the cold water, and suddenly they were much closer than necessary, faces inches apart.
She could taste salt on her lips, feel the warmth of his breath mixing with hers. His eyes searched her face like he was trying to memorize something.
"Juno," he said, and her name sounded different in his voice. Less careful, more real.
She leaned closer, heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it over the waves. His free hand came up to touch her cheek, fingers trailing water down her skin.
"Marco Polo!" Max's voice boomed across the water, shattering the moment like dropped glass.
They sprang apart, both breathing hard, the space between them suddenly charged with everything that had almost happened.
"We should—" Leo started.
"Yeah," Juno agreed quickly, though neither of them moved toward shore.
They swam back in silence thick with unfinished business, the weight of the almost-kiss settling between them like sand in deep water.
Max had somehow procured driftwood and matches, and a small fire crackled on the beach by the time they emerged from the waves. Leo offered Juno his spare shirt without looking at her directly, and she pulled it on over her wet skin, grateful for the warmth and the way it smelled like him—leather and something clean and indefinably masculine.
They sat close to the fire, letting the flames dry their hair and chase the chill from their bones. Lina played soft chords that mixed with the sound of waves, and Max roasted marshmallows on a stick he'd whittled with a pocketknife.
"Best night ever," Max declared, offering perfectly golden marshmallows around the circle.
"You say that about every night," Lina pointed out.
"Because every night could be the best night ever. You just have to let it."
Juno leaned back on her elbows, looking up at stars that seemed impossibly bright away from the city's glow. "Do you ever wonder what you're missing by always moving on?"
"All the time," Lina said. "But I wonder more about what I'd miss by staying in one place."
Leo poked at the fire with a piece of driftwood, sending sparks dancing toward the sky. "Maybe the point isn't choosing between staying and going. Maybe it's learning to recognize what's worth the risk either way."
Juno turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. Their eyes met across the firelight, and she felt that electric pull again—the sense of standing at the edge of something that could change everything.
"What do you think is worth the risk?" she asked quietly.
Leo held her gaze for a long moment. "I'm still figuring that out."
Max yawned dramatically and stretched out on the sand. "Philosophy makes me sleepy. Wake me up when someone's ready to skinny dip."
"Go to sleep, Max," Lina said fondly, covering him with her jacket.
The fire burned lower as the night wore on. Max dozed with his head on Lina's lap while she hummed and played quiet melodies that seemed designed for three AM and salt air. Juno found herself gravitating closer to Leo, drawn by his warmth and the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
"Do you always run from good things?" she asked, the question emerging before she could stop it.
Leo was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible over the waves.
"Only when I'm not sure they'll stay."
The honesty in his admission made her chest tight. She understood the fear behind it, the self-protective instinct that whispered warnings about getting attached to people who lived with packed bags and one-way tickets.
"What if they want to stay?"
"Then I'm probably not seeing them clearly."
Juno shifted closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Maybe you're not seeing yourself clearly either."
Leo looked at her then, something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Maybe not."
He picked up a piece of driftwood and began sketching in the sand—quick, sure strokes that gradually became recognizable as a compass rose. But instead of cardinal directions, each point was marked with a question mark.
"Lost?" Juno asked.
"Always."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He didn't move away.
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," she said. "Being lost means you're still looking."
"Or that you don't know how to stay in one place."
"Same thing, sometimes."
The fire burned down to embers as dawn approached, painting the eastern horizon with the faintest suggestion of light. Max snored softly while Lina dozed against her guitar case, and somewhere in the distance Barcelona began to stir toward another day.
But Juno felt suspended in this moment—Leo's shirt warm against her skin, his shoulder solid beneath her cheek, the sound of waves carrying away the last of her careful defenses. For the first time since leaving Chicago, she wasn't thinking about where she was going next or what she was running from.
She was thinking about what it might feel like to run toward something instead.
"Juno," Leo said softly.
"Mmm?"
"About earlier. In the water..."
She lifted her head to look at him, heart suddenly racing. "What about it?"
His fingers traced patterns in the sand beside the compass, as if drawing gave him courage for difficult words. "I don't usually—"
"Kiss strangers in the Mediterranean?"
"Get attached to people who are leaving."
The words settled between them, heavy with implication. Juno felt her pulse quicken, aware they were approaching something that couldn't be taken back.
"Who says I'm leaving?"
Leo met her eyes, searching for something she hoped he would find. "Aren't you?"
"Eventually. But not yet."
"How do I know 'not yet' won't become 'right now' if things get complicated?"
The question hung in the salt air, vulnerable and necessary. Juno thought about all the times she'd run when emotions got messy, all the relationships she'd ended before they could end her.
"You don't," she said finally. "But maybe that's what makes it worth the risk."
Leo's hand stilled in the sand. For a moment, she thought she'd said too much, pushed too hard. Then he turned to face her fully, his expression serious in the pre-dawn light.
"I don't know how to do this," he said.
"Do what?"
"Want something I can't control."
Juno's heart did something acrobatic in her chest. "Who says you have to control it?"
Before Leo could answer, the sun broke free of the horizon, spilling gold across the water and the beach and their salt-stained faces. Max stirred with a groan, and the moment dissolved into the practical concerns of morning—gathering belongings, shaking sand from clothes, figuring out how to get back to the hostel without looking like they'd spent the night on a beach.
But as they walked back through Barcelona's awakening streets, Juno felt something had shifted between them. Nothing dramatic, nothing declared—just a subtle recalibration of possibility.
Leo walked beside her in comfortable silence, occasionally brushing her hand with his as they navigated the narrow sidewalks. Each contact sent warmth up her arm, a reminder of all the words they hadn't said and all the chances they hadn't yet taken.
"So," she said as they reached the hostel's front door. "What now?"
Leo paused with his hand on the door handle, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"Now we see what happens when the sun comes up."
He held the door open for her, and Juno stepped through, carrying the night's possibilities into whatever came next.