The moment the van rolled to a stop, Eliana launched off Nicky's lap like she'd been ejected, lungs empty, thighs aching. Her face was burning—surely someone saw. Surely.
She nearly tripped over Luca's shoe bag on her scramble toward the door, muttering something about air and motion sickness as she practically dove into the open world beyond the van.
The sun was blinding. The heat unforgiving.
She didn't look back.
No one said anything.
Except Renee. Who cocked a brow from where she leaned against the porch railing, sipping coconut water like it was champagne. Her expression said everything and nothing.
But Renee didn't call her out cause if she noticed something and tells her. She'll die in mortification.
Eliana's chest heaved. Her heart was racing like it had something to prove. Her legs were trembling. Her panties were soaked. Her skin buzzed like a speaker turned up too loud.
And worse—so much worse—she hadn't even come.
Two. Full. Hours.
Pressed against him. Against that. Every bump in the road a taunt. Every little twitch of his thigh a cruel stroke. Every stoplight, every shift of his hips, every unconscious sigh he let out in his sleep—torment.
She had sat frozen on Nicky's lap, breath shallow, body screaming, skin flushed, thighs slick and clenched tight around her aching core.
And now?
Now she was standing in the driveway of a beachfront house, the sea breeze in her hair, the sun on her face—and him behind her.
Stretching. Yawning. Like nothing had happened.
"God," Nicky groaned, running a hand through his curls as he stepped out into the light. "That was the best nap of my life. I think I blacked out."
Eliana could've laughed. Blacked out. Meanwhile, she'd been wide awake and silently combusting.
He smiled at her, the kind of smile that could disarm bombs and boyfriends alike. "Did you sleep okay?"
She blinked. For a second too long. Then forced herself to nod. "Mhm."
"You look kinda flushed."
"I'm just hot."
"I bet," he said, the grin widening playfully.
And that was it.
That was all he gave her.
Her mind was spinning, body humming with residual heat, thighs still aching, heart still in chaos—and he was just standing there, oblivious. Completely unaffected. Completely unaware.
Of course he was.
Because Nicky?
Nicky was gay.
She knew that.
She'd always known that.
But it didn't help—not when his stupid lap had felt like sin. Not when his thigh had been warm and solid and pressing right there. Not when her body had reacted anyway.
Now she had to live with the consequences of a moment that didn't mean anything.
Not to him.
The house was unreal—big windows open to the breeze, sea salt in the air, driftwood art hanging on the walls. Everyone scattered like children on summer break. Music played from someone's portable speaker. Wine bottles appeared like magic.
Eliana locked herself in the smallest guest room.
She needed a moment. Just one. To scream. Or cry. Or laugh hysterically.
Instead, she changed.
Tiny white bikini. The softest one she owned. The one that practically melted onto her skin. She pulled it on like armor—even though she knew it would offer her no protection.
Her nipples were still hard. Her thighs still damp. Her body was still a traitor.
When she finally stepped out onto the deck, sunglasses low on her nose, the sun hit her like a spotlight.
And there he was.
Nicky.
Golden, shirtless, stretched out on a beach lounger like a Calvin Klein ad. A bottle of sunscreen in his hand.
He looked up, grinning.
"Damn, El," he said. "You look edible."
Her stomach dropped.
"Come here," he added, patting the lounger beside him. "I got your back."
She almost laughed. Almost choked.
Of course he did. Of course he wanted to help. He was Nicky. Always affectionate. Always touchy. Always safe.
Too safe.
He was her best friend.
And he had no idea what he was doing to her.
She sat beside him, heart pounding.
He squeezed sunscreen into his palm and started rubbing it between his hands like he was prepping for surgery. Then his fingers were on her back—smooth, confident, warm. Sliding over her shoulders. Down her spine.
She closed her eyes.
"Let me know if I'm too rough," he said near her ear, his voice so gentle it almost hurt.
"No," she breathed. "It's fine."
But it wasn't.
It was torture.
Because this wasn't a flirtation. It wasn't even play. He wasn't trying to seduce her. He wasn't thinking about it.
To him, it was kindness.
To her, it was slow, exquisite pain.
"You're so tense," he murmured.
"You think?" she said with a tight laugh.
His fingers slid lower. Her back arched.
"I swear I've done this a million times," he said. "You know how easily I burn. I was always the sunscreen mom in college."
He grinned. "Okay, you're done."
She stood too fast. Her legs wobbled.
"I need to swim," she said.
"You go," he said, sitting back and tipping his head to the sun. "I need to dry before I sweat this sunscreen off."
She hurried to the water like it might save her. Like it might cool the molten ache still simmering under her skin.
The ocean was icy and bracing. She dove in headfirst, letting the saltwater blind her, the cold sting her into something that almost resembled control.
She came up gasping.
And of course—of course—he was there.
Wading in behind her. All sunshine and surf spray, arms glistening, hair wet and wild.
"Thought you were resting," she called, trying to sound breezy.
"You looked like you were having more fun," he said, splashing toward her. "I couldn't resist."
He swam close.
Too close.
They floated for a while in silence. The sun warming their faces, the waves nudging them gently.
Then, softly: "You're being weird."
Eliana tensed. "No, I'm not."
"You totally are."
"I'm not."
He studied her.
Then—
"Wait. Was it the van?"
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"I knew you were uncomfortable," he said, horrified. "El—I'm so sorry. I didn't even think—I just passed out. If I'd known you didn't want to sit there—"
"No," she cut in quickly. "That's not it."
He tilted his head. "Then what?"
She looked at him. At his dumb beautiful face. At the boy, who made her laugh until she cried, who became one of her most trusted friend.
The boy she loved.
But not like that.
And definitely not like this.
"I'm just… tired," she said lamely. "Hormonal. Whatever."
He didn't believe her. But he let it go.
Because Nicky?
Nicky would never want to hurt her.
He'd just never want her the way she wanted—needed—someone.
And that was the tragedy, wasn't it?
He made her feel like the center of the universe.
But she'd never be his.
Not in that way.
Not ever.
She dove back under the water before he could see the flush return to her cheeks.