INNERMOONS ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 𓃠
ONE / NEW YORK, NEW YORK

❛ you always make it there,  you make
it anywhere, it's up to you, new york ❜

Benito wasn't made of stone, but sometimes he wished he were.

He was made of summer freckles and half-bitten fingernails, of black hoodies that smelled faintly like the ocean, and of soft-spoken silences that wrapped around his throat like thread. He was all nerves stretched thin across bone, all caution tucked behind dimples and too-long stares. At eighteen, he didn't quite know where to place his hands when he was nervous, so he often shoved them deep into his pockets like he was hiding something — though he never was. Not really. Just himself, maybe.

That late August sun had begun its quiet descent behind the rooflines of her neighborhood, melting the sky into hues of cherry syrup and wet gold. The air still carried the salted memory of the beach, his hair damp from a final dive, his skin warm with her touch — Gabriela had held his hand the whole ride back, her thumb tracing idle shapes against his knuckles like she'd memorized them and still wanted more. The sky glowed—warm and golden and sticky—melting into shades of coral and papaya, stretching wide above the narrow roads like a velvet curtain on fire. Everything smelled like salt and sugar. Like Sunday. Like summer that wasn't ready to say goodbye.

The wind through the rolled-down windows was warm and soft, the kind that dried seawater into skin and made you feel a little drunk off nothing but air. Gabriela's laugh crackled through it—light, unbothered, raw like waves breaking on shallow rock.

Benito glanced sideways at her. Her head was tilted back, throat bare, skin sun-kissed and glinting. Her curls were still damp from the ocean, clinging in tangled dark ribbons to her shoulders, curls stiff with salt. One of her legs was curled up on the seat, the other propped on the dashboard, toes painted white but chipped at the edges. Her ankles were crusted with sand. She was wearing his old shirt, now washed so many times it was barely black anymore—faded like a secret.

It swallowed her small frame, hung loose over her thighs, sleeves falling almost to her elbows. Her swimsuit still clung underneath, electric blue straps peeking out like rebellious thoughts. She had this glow to her, like she'd swallowed sunlight and it leaked out through her skin. There was a smudge of sunblock across the bridge of her nose, freckles spilling like confetti down her cheeks, and her mouth tasted like mango piragua and saltwater and maybe, just maybe, him.

Benito's fingers tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of an old reggaetón song playing low from the speakers. He liked to watch her when she wasn't looking, catching her smile when the wind tangled her hair or when she scrunched her nose at the radio static. Gabriela leaned toward him, her elbow grazing his as she tilted her head to rest on his shoulder, damp hair leaving a cool patch on the cotton of his t-shirt. She sighed—a long, sun-tired sound—and for a second everything in the world slowed down.

"Okay, hear me out" Gabriela said, twisting toward him. Her voice was soft, a little hoarse from laughing too much and maybe yelling across the beach. "What if we just don't go back?"

"At home?" Benito said, side-eyeing her with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"To civilization. Society. We become pirates. Steal a boat. Vanish into the ocean. I can learn how to sword fight—"
Her smile crept up one side of her mouth, like a secret blooming. Her hand reached out, thumb grazing the inside of his wrist where it rested on the gearshift. She did it casually—like it meant nothing, like it didn't set every nerve in his arm on fire.

"You nearly broke your ankle stepping on a crab an hour ago."

Gabriela gasped. "That crab was out for blood."

"It was the size of a peanut."

Benito laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Okay, but serious question: if we become pirates, do I have to grow one of those gross beards?"

"Absolutely not," she said, mock-serious. "You are contractually obligated to remain cute."

Benito looked down at her, his grin a little too real, a little too sudden. "You think I'm cute?"

She didn't even blink. "I think you're tolerable. With good lighting. And if I squint."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Wounded."

She smiled at that, soft and knowing, like the two of them were the only people in Vega Baja who understood what it felt like to stand on the edge of something so final and so beautiful. They had spent the entire summer wrapped up in each other—on rooftops and beaches, under trees and between twin sheets in his room with the fan buzzing overhead.

He stole glances when she wasn't paying attention, when she was laughing at some song on the radio or humming softly to herself with her face tilted into the breeze. His heart did that thing again. The thing where it crawled up his throat and just sat there—quiet, heavy, loyal.

He wondered, not for the first time, what the hell he was going to do when it was over.

Not summer. Her.

"I can't believe tomorrow school won't start for us."

He didn't say anything.

Benito didn't know how to talk about endings. Or beginnings. He only knew the in-betweens—the quiet ones, the ones that passed unnoticed. He was the kind of boy who kept his dreams in his pockets and his fears under his tongue. He was nineteen now. But sometimes, when she looked at him, he felt like a kid again—awkward, sweaty-palmed, heart aching.

He pulled up in front of her house, the tires crunching against gravel, and she was already reaching for the door handle when she paused, turned to him, and said—

"You wanna come in for a bit?"

Her eyes sparkled beneath the streetlamp glow, that deep molten brown that had no business being so intimate.

Benito hesitated.

She shrugged one shoulder, the neckline of his shirt slipping dangerously. "My parents went to Tía Mari's. Nobody home."

He swallowed hard. Nodded. Tried to play it cool even though his pulse was screaming like a siren in his ears.

Gabriela grinned. He parked under the leaning hibiscus tree, killed the engine, and the sudden silence wrapped around them like a thick blanket. She jumped out barefoot, landing on the hot sidewalk with a practiced skip. Benito followed slower, slinging his keys around his finger, the weight of the moment pressing into his shoulders like a wet towel.

There were no cars in the driveway. The porch was empty. The windows dim.

She reached for the aloe plant by the stairs, fished out the key with ease.

"Told you," she whispered, flashing him a look over her shoulder that sent something sharp and stupid skittering through his chest.

Inside, the air was cold. Too cold. It smelled like oranges and Clorox, and her perfume from this morning still lingered faintly, sweet and sharp. Benito trailed behind her, fingers brushing the small of her back, not quite a full touch. His eyes followed the way his own shirt shifted on her body, the hem barely skimming her thighs, her feet slapping softly against tile.

She was saying something—probably about getting lemonade or sneaking upstairs to nap before dinner—but he didn't quite catch it. He was too focused on the details: the tan lines on her shoulders, the slight pink at the tip of her nose from too much sun.

And then—

"¡Ay, nenita! You didn't say you were coming with Benito,"

Gabriela froze mid-step.

Benito, two paces behind, nearly ran into her.

From the kitchen: the unmistakable clatter of pans. The sharp, sizzling sound of onions hitting hot oil. Laughter. Music.

Family.

Her mom, Luna, stood at the kitchen island, chopping onions with terrifying speed. Her aunt Mari was flipping something on the stovetop, the smell of sazón filling the air. Two cousins sat at the coffee table, locked in an intense game of Uno, yelling over one another. And her abuela—seated in her worn floral armchair—looked up from her novela and raised a single, knowing eyebrow.

All of them turned to look at them.

At him.

At them.

Benito's heart dropped straight to his knees.

He tried to let go of her hand—when had they even started holding hands again?—but Gabriela's grip only tightened, fingers lacing with his like a lock. Her expression shifted instantly—shock melting into a kind of performative calm.

"Ay, no sabía que venían,"

He wanted to disappear.

He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, back into the car, into the sea, into anywhere else. His stomach twisted. His shoulders stiffened. He looked down—at the floor, at his feet, at the place where their hands met.

Someone laughed. Her cousin, probably. Her uncle smiled in that way men do when they're suspicious but polite. Her abuela looked at him like she was cataloging his sins in advance.

And Gabriela—God, she looked unbothered.

Cool. Effortless. Softly amused.

"Stay," she said under her breath. "It's just dinner."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her voice was quieter now, gentler. "Please?"

Something in him collapsed.

He nodded.

Benito hesitated, shoulders pulled taut, unsure what to do with his hands. But her fingers were still wrapped around his.

"I'll stay," he murmured.

"Good," her mom said, already opening the fridge. "We need more mouths anyway. Mari made enough to feed a soccer team."

Gabriela smiled, nudged his shoulder with hers.

He wasn't a stranger to her family—not anymore. They'd been together for over a year, and he'd had dinner here more times than he could count. But he'd never walked in like this, sun-dazed and unprepared, expecting silence and finding the opposite.

Gabriela was already moving, greeting her cousins, hugging her aunt from behind, stealing a piece of fried plantain from the pan and squealing when Mari smacked her wrist.

Benito had always been good at pretending he wasn't nervous. He could bluff through a math quiz, a missed assignment, a traffic stop on his moped with a broken tail light. But setting the table in Gabriela's kitchen — that was something else entirely. His fingers twitched like he was handling evidence at a crime scene. He adjusted a fork only to realize it was upside down, cursed under his breath, and flipped it again with what he hoped was casual finesse. It wasn't.

The house hummed with noise — clinking pans, boiling pasta water, overlapping voices spilling from the other room. Gabriela's older sister, Camila, was telling a dramatic story about a friend getting dumped on the first day of her Erasmus program. Her dad, Sebastian, was asking where the chili oil had gone, and the little cousin, Angel, was yelling something about someone deleting his Minecraft world. It was a sensory onslaught, and Benito, who had assumed they'd be alone, felt like he had walked into a family sitcom mid-episode.

He'd seen them all a hundred times before. He knew this house like the back of his hand, had kissed Gabriela against that exact fridge, had watched movies with Angel asleep against his shoulder. But tonight it all felt new. Sharper. Too many moving parts. Too many variables. This wasn't the casual "your-boyfriend's-here-again" Benito. This was "your-boyfriend-at-dinner" Benito. And the distinction made his palms sweat.

"You good?" Gabriela asked softly, sliding a bowl of roasted vegetables beside him.

He tried to respond, but her mom's voice cut through from the other side of the kitchen. "Benito, cariño, do you remember where the spoons are?"

"Second drawer to the left of the sink," he replied without missing a beat.

Gabriela's mom smiled at him approvingly. "See? You already belong here."

It was said with warmth, but it made Benito's throat go tight. He nodded, grabbed the spoons, and placed them gently on the table. He didn't say what he was thinking — that sometimes "belonging" didn't feel like something you earned, but something you borrowed. And eventually, you had to give it back.

They all gathered around the table with practiced chaos. Abuela poured wine with flair, Camila was still narrating the heartbreak saga, and the youngest was already halfway through a pile of fries before anyone said grace.

Benito sat between Gabriela and her other sister, Emma. He was very aware of his posture. Too straight? Too slouchy? He remembered Gabriela once telling him that her dad noticed everything — and now he was convinced he was being judged for the way he buttered his bread.

He'd smiled at all the right moments, chuckled politely, added a few words here and there — but his knuckles had gone white around his fork more than once. He wasn't used to this kind of environment. Not the shouting — he was used to shouting — but the warmth of it. The absolute joy of being loud just to be heard, and being heard just to be loved. He kept stealing glances at Gabriela as if anchoring himself to her in this storm of voices, and every time she looked back at him, her eyes softened, like she could see right through the tightness in his jaw and the restraint in his shoulders.

Her hand slipped under the table halfway through the meal and gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. Just once. Just long enough. She didn't even look at him when she did it — she was telling her mother to pass the potatoes — but Benito felt it. That brief, quiet touch. It grounded him.

The dishes were mostly empty now, save for a few stubborn grains of rice clinging to the edges of plates and the gleam of oil catching the overhead light. There were remnants of flan on the ceramic dish in the center of the table, caramel hardened like amber on the rim. The room hummed with the soft sound of conversation trailing off, wine glasses half full, water glasses sweating in the late-summer heat.

Benito sat at the table with his spine straight, though not tense. His fingers toyed with the corner of the cloth napkin on his lap, folding and unfolding it slowly, like it was something he hadn't even noticed he was doing.

The laughter had settled, not entirely gone, but tucked into the folds of the evening like the warmth inside a wool blanket. Someone—her mother, maybe her sister—cleared a plate, but no one was in a rush to leave. The light above the table buzzed faintly, flickering at times, casting golden reflections across glasses half-filled with wine or water, oil stains like constellations on the cotton napkins. Gabriela sat a little quieter now, her elbows drawn in, fingers picking absentmindedly at the edge of the tablecloth, tracing the stitch of a pale embroidered flower.

Benito hadn't taken his eyes off her in minutes.

There was always something about watching her in the company of her family that made him feel as if he was seeing a painting shift mid-brushstroke. He'd known her for some years now — two whole years of her peculiar rhythm, of tiny habits and childhood memories he'd slowly pieced together. He knew how she hated the sound of metal scraping on ceramic, how she always finished her drink in uneven sips, and how she got sleepy when she was full. But here, surrounded by the people who had shaped her before he ever knew her name, Benito could see the girl she'd been — the goofy, stubborn, sparkling thing at the center of every story — and the woman she was slowly growing into.

He leaned back, elbows wide on the chair's arms, one foot tucked under the other leg. He had that look — the one she sometimes pretended not to notice — the barely-there smile, the easy confidence of a man who no longer needed to say anything to be heard. His body was relaxed, but his gaze never wavered.

Gabriela felt it. She always did.

She peeked at him, only for a second, as if afraid the table would catch her in the act. Her lashes fluttered like she'd just been startled out of a daydream. Then she looked away again — back down to her plate, now empty but for a cherry tomato she'd pushed around twice and couldn't bring herself to eat. Her fingers had stopped fidgeting and were instead curled into her lap, where she was pressing the fabric of her dress between her fingers like it could anchor her.

From across the table, Emma arched an eyebrow, sensing the silence Gabriela wrapped herself in whenever Benito looked at her like that — like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.

"So..." Emma said slowly, the mischief already blooming behind her smirk. "Should we tell him about the time you tried to—"

"Nope," Gabriela snapped, cheeks flaming instantly.

Benito laughed under his breath — not out of cruelty, but affection. Gabriela looked like she was about to vanish into her chair.

He leaned forward, arms folded on the table. "No, please. Now I need to know."

"You really don't," she muttered, shooting him a glare that didn't even pretend to be convincing.

"Oh, I do. I mean, I deserve at least one more baby Gabriela story," he said, nudging her ankle gently with the side of his foot beneath the table.

Her mother chuckled from the end of the table, lifting her glass with a quiet, graceful air. "Ah, she was always very... theatrical."

"Mami," Gabriela groaned, and this time there was no escaping the red that bloomed across her collarbones.

Gabriela's abuela leaned back, arms folded gently across her floral apron, eyes narrowed in that curious, calculating way of women who had seen everything twice. Her silver hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon, and her glass of red wine remained untouched, swaying slightly in her hand as she fixed her eyes on Benito. She had been watching him all night — not unkindly, just intently. Like someone appraising a fragile artifact, or a well-loved book with a new spine.

"So," she said, her voice low but bright. "You sing, mijo?"

Benito blinked, caught mid-sip of water, and gently set the glass down. He didn't answer right away. The table stilled, subtly — Luna raised her brows.

"I... yeah," he said. "I do."

The old woman nodded slowly, like that confirmed something she already suspected. Her eyes flicked over to Gabriela, whose mouth twitched in the way it always did when she was trying not to smile.

Abuela leaned in a bit. "Cantas bien?"

Benito grinned, a little sheepish. "Hope so."

A soft ripple of laughter rose around the table — even Gabriela's father gave a half-smile. And Benito, despite his slow shyness, wasn't shrinking. He had long learned that music was his language when everything else failed.

"What kind of music?" her younger cousin asked, chewing a piece of bread as he stared at Benito like he might start rapping right there on the spot. "Reggaetón," Benito said simply, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh," Camila cut in before anyone else could. She was grinning now. "Like that one track Gabi plays every damn morning."

Gabriela froze.

"No," she hissed under her breath, cheeks blooming with heat.

"Oh yes," Camila continued with relish

"I hate you," Gabriela muttered, covering her face with both hands.

Benito tilted his head, squinting, a slow, surprised smile pulling at his lips. "You play my music?"

Gabriela peeked at him from between her fingers. "Maybe."

"Every morning," Emma replied, popping a grape into her mouth. "Even when she showers. It echoes through the whole apartment."

Benito didn't speak. The look he gave her was soft, almost disbelieving. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before.

"I didn't know that."

Gabriela shrugged, eyes darting to her plate. "It's good music."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "She's obsessed. Don't let her act cool."

The table laughed again, and even Gabriela's father cracked a deeper smile — but then he leaned forward, just a bit. The shift in his posture was small, but Benito caught it immediately.

"You write it all yourself?" he asked.

Benito nodded. "Yes, everything."

Sebastian tilted his head. "You want to do this... seriously?"

Benito didn't answer right away. The question hung in the air like a thread dangling over a fire. He swallowed, glanced at Gabriela, then looked down at his hands on the table — thick-knuckled, rings worn thin from use, fingertips still rough from guitar strings and scribbled lyrics.

"I do," he said finally, voice steady but not loud. "It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me. Even before it made sense to anyone else."

There was a pause. Not disapproval — not even doubt — just silence, heavy with thought. Gabriela's father nodded slowly, leaning back again. He didn't say anything else.

Luna, as always, filled the space.

"Well, he's already got one devoted fan," she teased, motioning to Gabriela, who was now threatening her under the table with a fork.

Benito laughed softly. "One's enough."

The house had quieted into that familiar hush only known to homes that had been lived in for years. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but full—of ticking clocks, murmuring televisions in other rooms, distant laughter in the hallway. Gabriela had slipped her hand into Benito's after they'd helped clear the last of the plates, both of them exchanging knowing glances when Luna's back was turned. Now they were in her bedroom, the door closed behind them, the late summer air warm and soft through the cracked window. Gabriela flopped onto the edge of her bed with a familiarity he loved, like she belonged nowhere else but exactly here.

Benito leaned against her dresser for a moment, taking in the room. It was small, cozy, full of little pieces of her—books piled beside the lamp, photographs tucked into the edges of her mirror, a tiny ceramic frog on the shelf that had a chipped foot. The kind of details that felt so mundane until they became sacred. She looked at him with a quiet smile and then nodded toward the window.

"Come on," she whispered, as if the house still needed gentleness. "Let's go up."

The climb to the roof wasn't far—it was the same old escape route she'd used as a kid when she wanted to sneak candy after dinner or listen to her cousin's secrets in the dark. Gabriela led the way, barefoot, and he followed close behind, careful not to step too loud on the creaky parts of the ledge. Once outside, the sky unfolded above them like velvet soaked in stars. The roof was warm under their palms from the day's heat, and they sat together with their legs stretched out, side by side, knees brushing.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The air was thick with the smell of night jasmine and city dust. A dog barked somewhere below. A siren passed in the far-off distance, distant enough to feel unreal. Gabriela tilted her head back, her curls brushing the base of her neck, and let her gaze drift up to the sky.

"I'm scared," she said finally, softly, like the words were meant more for the air than for him.

Benito turned to look at her. "Of what?"

She didn't answer right away. Her eyes remained fixed on the stars, as if she were trying to trace a shape in them. When she did speak, her voice was low but steady.

"Of what comes next. University, everything. What if it's not what I imagined? What if I don't like it? What if I'm not enough for it?" Her breath caught. "I've had this version of the future in my head since I was a kid. And now it's here, and suddenly I don't know anything."

Benito didn't interrupt. He let the silence hold her fears without trying to erase them. Then he shifted slightly, turning toward her, propping one elbow on the roof.

"You're not supposed to know," he said. "No one does."

Gabriela gave a short, breathy laugh, the kind that comes out when someone says something too true.

He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing over hers before weaving between them. "But you're gonna show up anyway. Like you always do. That's the part that matters."

She turned her face toward him, the moonlight catching the slope of her cheek, the curve of her lip. There was something soft in her eyes now, something that wasn't quite relief but close to it.

"What about you?" she asked. "You're just gonna keep working with your dad?"

Benito looked down at their joined hands for a long beat. Then he let out a small breath, smiling—not with amusement, but with that quiet certainty he only ever seemed to find when he was talking to her.

"For now," he said. "I gotta help out. I owe him that."

Gabriela nodded. She understood what it meant to owe things to people. To your parents. To your home. To the version of you they all believed in.

"But that's not forever," he added.

She tilted her head, watching him with something like cautious hope.

"I'm not gonna stay stuck there," he said. "You know that, right?"

"I know," she said, because she did.

"I don't know how long it'll take," Benito continued, voice lower now, almost like a vow. "But I'm gonna get somewhere. I swear I will."

Gabriela leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair warm against his skin, her heartbeat steady beside his.

He looked out over the rooftops, over the sleeping houses and flickering streetlamps, and then down at her, her face calm and close.

"And when I do," he said, "I'm taking you to New York."

author's note !!!!!!!

hope you like this <33333333333
i'm so excited !!