Chapter Sixteen
T he city is alive with energy.
I’ve seen Valencia buzzing before, but tonight, it’s on another level.
The streets are packed with people, laughter and music spilling out from every corner. The scent of churros and gunpowder mingles in the air, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of chaos and magic.
Las Fallas.
Santi keeps a firm grip on my hand as we navigate the crowd. His tall, athletic frame acts like a beacon, cutting through the sea of people. Every so often, he glances back at me, his green eyes alight with excitement.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice warm and steady despite the noise surrounding us.
“I’m fine,” I reply, smiling. “This is amazing.”
Fallas is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Around every street corner are ninots : enormous, intricately designed sculptures made of paper-maché and wood. Some are satirical, poking tongue-in-cheek fun at politicians or pop culture, while others are breathtaking works of art depicting mythical creatures, made-up characters and historical figures.
Santi pulls me toward one of the larger ninots, a towering figure of a dragon wrapped around a castle. The detail is incredible, from the scales on the dragon’s body to the expressions of the knights attempting to fend it off, and he points towards the sign in front of it.
“This one’s my favorite,” Santi says, his voice tinged with pride. “It’s from one of the neighborhoods I grew up near. They always put so much effort into their design.”
I tilt my head, taking in the spectacle.
“It’s beautiful. And it must have taken so much time and effort to make. Are they really going to burn it?”
He grins knowingly.
We’ve gone over this, of course, and I’ve heard plenty about it from my students. Still, I just can’t get my head around the fact that the entire city will be setting these beautiful creations alight.
“That’s the tradition. Tonight is the final night - la cremà - and everything gets set on fire. It’s symbolic. We’re letting go of the old to make way for the new.”
“Hmm,” I say, still unable to imagine it all in flames. “Have you always celebrated?”
“ 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 bunuelos.
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 any one - 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.
The last of the fireworks fade, leaving the sky hazy with smoke as the crowd begins to disperse around us. Neither of us is in a hurry to leave, and thanks to our position around the edges, we’re able to linger there, watching as the ninots continue to burn under the streetlights.
“This was a good idea,” I say softly, leaning my head against his shoulder.
His muscular arms shift as one slips down to rest around my waist while the other remains draped over my shoulders. His touch is steady and comforting, and despite the hustle and bustle around us, I feel like the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of us in this perfect little bubble.
“Every moment with you is a good idea, Olivia,” he says softly.
The sincerity in his tone makes my breath catch, and I glance up at him, my chest tightening with an emotion I can’t quite name. His green eyes meet mine, warm and unguarded, and there’s a mix of tenderness and longing there that pulls me in.
Before I can think or second-guess myself, Santi tilts his head and leans down. His lips brush against mine, soft and hesitant at first, but then the kiss deepens into something much more slow and deliberate, and the noise of the crowd fades into the background. All I can feel is him: the warmth of his lips, the steady press of his body against mine, the way his hand tightens at my waist as if anchoring me to him.
My hands move instinctively, one curling into the front of his jacket while the other finds its way to the back of his neck, my fingers threading into his hair.
The moment stretches, electric and endless, until he finally pulls back. Our breath mingles, warm and a little uneven.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Every moment with you feels like the best one yet.”
I smile. “You’re so good at this,” I tell him.
“At what?” he asks, his lips quirking into that familiar, teasing smile.
“At making me feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” I reply simply.
His smile fades slightly, replaced by something deeper, more serious.
“That’s because you are,” he says, his thumb brushing a light circle against my hip.
We stand there for a long time, his arms wrapped around me, the faint hum of the dispersing crowd and the distant crackle of fireworks blending into the night. The chaos of the city swirls around us, but here, in his arms, everything feels calm.
We finally start to make our way back towards my apartment, and Santi keeps his arm draped around me, his hand resting lightly at my hip. The mid-March air feels cooler now, but with him beside me, I don’t feel the chill. As I lean into him - my heart full and my head dizzy - I know without a doubt that this night will stay with me forever.