Sixto - your playboy enemy

It started two weeks ago.

First, it was a sly smile from across the room — the kind Sixto usually reserved for girls he planned to leave dizzy and heartbroken.

Then it was little things: a hand on your back guiding you through a crowded hallway, casual jokes that somehow always turned flirtatious, texts at odd hours that said “thinking about you” with just enough sarcasm to confuse you.

Sixto was supposed to be your enemy. Your problem. The reckless charmer who always found a way to ruin your plans, to get under your skin with that cocky grin and impossible eyes.

You hated that you noticed the way he leaned in when he talked to you now.

You hated it even more that part of you wanted to lean closer.

Today, it got worse.

You were at the coffee shop you always went to — the safe place where Sixto never dared to follow — when he sauntered in like he owned the air you were breathing. He slid into the seat across from you without asking, pulling your untouched latte toward him like it belonged to him too.

“Miss me?” he said, voice lazy, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t name.

You opened your mouth to snap back — but the words stuck.

Because for the first time, you realized: he wasn’t just teasing.

There was something different about the way he was looking at you.

And you had no idea what he wanted.