Moscow Mule

The night smells of sweat, rum, and messages without photos. Everything is decided faster than a smiley can be sent - a couple of sips, a couple of movements, and the world shrinks to two people who are ‘not together, but have long been tied together.’ There is no room for feelings in this rhythm - only heat, play, and a slightly dangerous intimacy that blurs the lines between love and habit.

The music vibrates like a pulse, and the words sound like an exhalation - without promises, but honest. It's all about how passion can be temporary but real; how the body remembers better than the heart. And somewhere between a joke and a spark, that very ‘que se joda’ is born again - when you no longer think about who writes to whom first, because the night reciprocates anyway.