Borja grinned, slipping his ruined loafers back on with a shrug. "Lead the way, Raquel. I’ve always liked a challenge."

"Since you've effectively branded me for the afternoon," Borja said, gesturing to the coffee stain, "the least you can do is let me buy you a replacement. One that stays in the cup this time?"

"Fine," she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "But we’re going to a place I pick. And if I see a single person wearing a sweater tied around their shoulders, I’m leaving."

"I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically grabbing napkins. "I was looking at my phone, and I just—"

As they walked toward the metro, the girl from the outskirts and the boy from the golden mile, the labels started to feel a little less permanent. Maybe he was a Cayetano, and maybe she was exactly who she thought she was, but under the Madrid sky, they were just two people walking toward a better cup of coffee.

He let out a startled, genuine laugh. "It’s Borja, actually. And the boat is named after my mother. My grandmother’s name was much too long to fit on the hull."

"Right," she said, straightening up and handing him a soggy mass of napkins. "Perdona si te llamo 'Cayetano,' but I feel like you probably have a sailboat named after your grandmother and a very strong opinion on polo shirts."