Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“Always,” he says immediately, his expression softening with nostalgia. “When I was a kid, my parents would take me to see the ninots during the day, and at night, we’d watch the fireworks together from our home. Of course, things were very different for us then.”
Santi hasn’t spoken much of his father, though I know he passed away a few years ago, much like mine had. I squeeze his hand and smile softly at the memory he’s shared before we continue to wander through the narrow streets, pausing to admire the different displays.
Every neighborhood seems to have its own parade or street party, complete with traditional costumes and live music. We’re heading towards the central square and pass a group of men dressed in white shirts and red sashes, their voices harmonising in a traditional folk song.
“There’s a lot going on,” I admit as we stop by a stand selling buñuelos.
Santi hands me one, the twinkle in his eyes playful. “In the best way, though, right?”
I take a bite; the warm, sweet dough melting in my mouth.
“Definitely.”
The crowd around us is thick, but Santi doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask, gesturing to the packed streets. “All these people?”
He shakes his head, his tousled hair falling a little onto his forehead.
“Not today. Everyone’s here for the same reason - to celebrate. Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “there are much more famous celebrities around right now. Nobody’s paying attention to us. We blend in.”
Us.
Silly as it seems, my heart skips a beat at the word.
He’s right, though - while I’ve come to learn that Santi is one of Spain’s most famous rugby players, nobody has approached us or even seemed to have given us a second glance.
For tonight, we get to embrace tradition and just be ourselves without worrying about anything - or anyone - else.
We make our way to the central plaza and watch over the course of the next few hours as the large displays are pulled in and set alight. It’s a marvel to see, and I can’t quite get my head around the fact that people put in so much time and effort to create these beautiful pieces of art only to then set them on fire and let them burn.
Santi finds a spot for us near the edge of the crowd, guiding me gently through the sea of people until we’re standing in the perfect place with an unobstructed view of the sky. The hum of anticipation builds around us as everyone waits for the midnight fireworks display to begin.
“This is the Mascletà,” he explains as the first set of fireworks crackles into the air. His voice is low, barely audible over the sharp bursts of sound. “It’s not just about the visuals. It’s about the sound, the rhythm. You feel it in your chest.”
He’s right. As the explosions grow louder and more intense, the vibrations seem to ripple through the very ground beneath us, climbing up my legs and settling in my chest. It’s not just noise; it’s a symphony of light and sound, perfectly choreographed to create an immersive experience.
The crowd cheers, their excitement contagious, and I find myself grinning from ear to ear. People clap, whistle, and shout with joy as the fireworks paint the sky in vibrant streaks of red, green, and gold, and Santi joins in, more at ease then I think I’ve ever seen him. The smoke from the explosions drifts through the air, and even as I breathe it in, I feel so alive.
I’ve never seen anything like this back home. Back in Manchester, fireworks displays are subdued, orderly - but this feels wild and alive, like the city itself is celebrating.
Santi leans down from where he’s standing tall behind me, his lips brushing over the sensitive flesh of my ear.
“What do you think?”
My heart races from the combined closeness of him and the warmth of his breath tickling against my skin.
“I think I love it,” I admit.
He smiles, and I feel his hand find its way to my waist, his fingers curling just enough to hold me there.
“I knew you would,” he says, his voice tinged with pride.
As the display continues, Santi steps closer behind me until there’s not much distance between us at all, his arms wrapping around my shoulders in a firm, possessive but somehow casual hold. His chin rests lightly on top of my head, and I feel the solid press of his chest against my back, anchoring me as the sky above explodes in dazzling colour.
“You feel it?” he murmurs, his voice vibrating through me.
I nod, leaning back into him. “It’s incredible.”
He tightens his grip slightly, and I feel his thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles on my shoulders as the final crescendo of fireworks continues. The sky erupts into a breathtaking display of gold and silver, the sparks cascading like glittering rain over the city. The crowd roars in approval, their cheers echoing through the streets, but all I can focus on is the steady beat of Santi’s heart against my back and the warmth of his arms holding me close.