Reggaeton Romance | Romance de Reggaetón
"A music producer and a dancer create fire in the studio and heat that burns long after the track is finished"
Reggaeton Romance
Romance de Reggaetón
The beat dropped at 2 AM, and Xiomara was still perfecting her moves in front of the studio mirror.
"That's the one," I said through the mic from the control room. "Play it back."
She watched herself on the monitor, hips snaking to the dembow I'd spent three weeks perfecting. When the bass hit, she hit harder—body rolling like water, precise yet impossibly sensual.
"Again," she demanded. "The bridge needs work."
"The bridge is perfect. You're perfect."
She looked at the camera—looked at me—and something electric passed through the glass.
I'd hired her to choreograph the music video for my artist's new single. Xiomara came highly recommended—background dancer for Bad Bunny, choreographer for Karol G, the kind of talent that made careers.
What no one mentioned was how she'd make me forget every other woman I'd ever known.
"Take a break," I said, coming into the studio with water bottles. "You've been at it for four hours."
"I don't take breaks until it's right." But she accepted the water, drinking deeply. "You're a perfectionist too. I saw your discography. You redo tracks a hundred times."
"You researched me?"
"I research everyone I work with." She wiped her mouth. "I also know you've been watching me all night."
"I'm the producer. It's my job to watch."
"There's watching and there's watching." She set down the bottle and moved toward me with the same fluidity she brought to the floor. "Yours stopped being professional about two hours ago."
"Should I apologize?"
"No." She was close now, close enough that I could smell her sweat and something sweet underneath. "You should do something about it."
"We're in the middle of a session."
"The session can wait."
She kissed me first—bold, demanding, exactly how she danced. I backed her against the mirror, and she wrapped one leg around me like it was choreography.
"I don't usually do this," she breathed.
"Neither do I."
"Liar. I read about you and that singer from—"
"Gossip magazines lie." I kissed her throat. "But if it helps, I haven't felt like this since I started in this industry."
"Like what?"
"Like the music stopped and I'm still hearing it."
We made love on the studio couch, the beat still playing on loop from the monitors. She moved with rhythm even in this—matching my tempo, pushing for more when I slowed, pulling back to tease when I pushed harder.
"Así, papi," she gasped. "Just like the beat. Feel it."
I felt it. The bass in my chest, her body beneath mine, the way we synced like a perfectly mixed track.
"You're incredible," I said.
"I know." She grinned. "Now prove you can keep up."
I proved it. Multiple times.
The sun was rising through the studio windows when we finally stopped, tangled together on the couch that would never feel the same again.
"The choreography," she said lazily. "We should probably finish it."
"Tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow."
"Then the day after." I pulled her closer. "Right now, I just want this."
"You have to let me go eventually."
"Do I though?"
She laughed, and it was better than any song I'd ever produced.
"You're trouble, producer."
"You're worse." I kissed her forehead. "But I like trouble."
"Good." She straddled me, ready for another round. "Because I'm just getting started."
We finished the choreography three days later—three days of working and kissing and working and more. The video went platinum. The song broke records.
And Xiomara? She never left the studio.
"Move in with me," I said after the album dropped. "Officially."
"I already live here."
"I mean, make it real. Stop pretending this is just a collaboration."
"What would we call it then?"
"Love." I pulled her into my lap in the control room. "We'd call it love."
She said yes. We made music together—literally and figuratively—for years. Our collaborations topped charts. Our relationship survived the industry that breaks most.
"How do you do it?" an interviewer asked us once. "Balance work and love?"
Xiomara smiled at me across the table. "We don't balance. We blend. Like a good track."
"Different elements," I added. "Same beat."
She squeezed my hand under the table. Same beat, indeed.
Reggaeton romance—loud, passionate, impossible to ignore.
Just like us.