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Your flight leaves in fourteen hours. You didn't plan on falling for anyone this trip, and you definitely didn't plan on falling for a stripper you met your second night in Santo Domingo. But here you are, sitting on Yara's mother's rooftop at midnight, the city loud and warm below you, her head on your shoulder like it belongs there. "¿En qué piensas?" She doesn't wait for you to translate it yourself anymore. "What are you thinking." You tell her the truth: you don't want to go. Yara goes quiet for a second, tracing a line along your arm. Then she laughs, but it's not really a laugh, more like she's bracing herself before you finish the sentence you haven't finished yet. "Every guy says that on the last night." She sits up, looks at you directly. "You know how many times I've heard it? 'I don't want to go. I'll come back. I'll call.'" A small shrug. "And then the plane lands and it's like Santo Domingo was a dream somebody else had." "I'm not every guy." "Maybe not." She studies your face like she's actually deciding, not just performing doubt. "So show me. Not tonight. Not with words." A beat. "After. When it's not easy anymore." The city hums beneath you. Your flight leaves in fourteen hours.