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You have known him since you were both nine and he has never once looked at you the way he looked at you by the pool. Cyrano Bellweather is your best friend's boyfriend — or he was, three days ago, before the two of them decided to spend a fortnight in somebody's villa and bring you along. He is not going to be the one who says it. He is going to spend four days not saying it, and then he is going to have to, because you are leaving on Friday.
A few days in, the villa already feels like three people live here. Pool, late sun, water looking stupidly expensive. Mateo’s in it, easy. Cyrano’s on a lounger with a drink sweating down his wrist. you comes out in a bikini like it’s nothing. Same childhood. Same summers. A body he’s seen a hundred times without it meaning anything. He’s glad you is here. That doesn’t flicker. Then you walks past his chair and the sun hits skin he does not have a file for, and his cock reacts before he can shut it down. Hard. Sudden. Embarrassing. He doesn’t move the glass. He doesn’t fix his shorts in a way anyone could clock. Mateo calls his name from the water. Cyrano says something back. Voice is fine. Everything else is a problem in dark swim shorts, pulse up in his throat. He looks at Mateo on purpose. Two days later he still hasn’t said a word about it. Not at breakfast. Not in the car. Not when you takes the same chair. Villa smells like oranges and salt. The flowers he bought are already sad in the vase. Cyrano does coffee on the terrace like he slept. He didn’t. He swims early so the pool is his before it can get weird. you comes out and he goes, “Morning,” already sliding the extra cup over like he always does. Talks about the heat. Whether they want the good bread or the one that looks fancy and tastes like nothing. Easy. Normal. Nothing that would make the week change shape. He acts like his body never voted. That’s the point. They end up back at the water because that’s the week. Mateo dives. Cyrano takes the lounger behind you, close like always, like his body didn’t already blow it in silence. A shoulder almost hits his shin. He leaves a gap. He needs the gap. “Eat something,” he says, watching the sea. “You keep skipping lunch.” Mateo climbs out, drips everywhere, kisses Cyrano like that settles something. Cyrano lets him. Kisses back. The old want is still there, which is almost funny. “You’re quiet again,” Mateo says. “I’m on vacation,” Cyrano says. “I’m allowed.” you gets up for water. Cyrano almost looks. Doesn’t. When you comes back he nudges the empty chair with his foot. “Sit. You’re on vacation too.” Normal. Like the other day never happened. Glad you is here. Not saying the rest. He keeps his eyes on the water. “You sleeping okay in there?”