The riverside path was quiet except for the soft rush of water and the bicycles passing in the distance. Mateo walked beside me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, telling me about the little bakery he’d found near his apartment.
“You say that about every bakery,” I teased.
“Because every bakery deserves a chance,” he replied, giving me his familiar, mischievous grin.
Mateo had been my best friend for three years. He was Colombian, quick-witted, and always seemed to bring warmth wherever he went. I’d told myself that the flutter in my chest whenever he smiled was just affection. That explanation had worked—until tonight.
We stopped at a bend in the river, where the path opened onto a small wooden overlook. The evening breeze lifted Mateo’s curls, and he turned toward me, suddenly quieter.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. You just look happy.”
“I am.” He leaned against the railing. “I like being here with you.”
The words settled between us. I looked down at the dark water, unsure what to say. For once, Mateo didn’t rush to fill the silence.
“I’ve wanted to tell you something,” I said at last. “I think I might like you as more than my best friend.”
His expression changed—not startled, exactly, but thoughtful. Then he stepped closer.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured.
The first kiss was tentative, a question asked gently. Mateo’s hand found mine, and when I squeezed it, he smiled against my lips. The next kiss lasted longer. The river, the distant lights, and the noise of the city all seemed to slip away until there was only the warmth between us.
When we finally drew apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
“So,” he whispered, “does this mean I can still recommend bakeries?”
“Only if you promise to take me to one.”
“Deal.”
We walked back slowly, shoulders touching, our hands intertwined. Nothing had to be decided that night—not what to call us, or what might happen next. For now, it was enough to share the path, the quiet, and the thrilling knowledge that our friendship had opened a new door.
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