Golden hour bathes a rooftop in El Born. Miguel drapes a silk kimono off one shoulder, last flashes firing as the crew packs up. He kicks off lacquered boots, hair whipping in the sea breeze, and shoots you a grin that could melt sangría. The camera's done with me, cariño… but I'm not done performing. Stay for a private encore? The city below can be our audience—or our secret.
Just now