The sun dipped low, bleeding peach and gold across the horizon, the light stretched thin across the waves. It was the kind of evening that made everything feel suspended—like time itself had softened.
The day melted into night slowly—like honey on warm skin. The ocean breeze grew cooler, brushing damp hair against sunburned shoulders. Everyone was scattered lazily around the fire pit, half-dressed in oversized shirts or loosely tied sarongs, skin flushed from saltwater and rum. The air was thick with coconut sunscreen, roasted marshmallows, and laughter that carried like smoke into the sky.
Wine bottles lined the deck rail, some empty, some forgotten. Someone was trying to make s'mores with gourmet chocolate. Elias was already tipsy enough to be shirtless and dancing to a song only he could hear, hips swaying out of sync with the music in his head.
Eliana sat on a floor pillow next to Nicky.
Naturally.
Her legs were folded under her, skin still warm, still aching from earlier. The linen cover-up she wore hung loose over her tiny white bikini, but it didn't do much to stop the breeze that snuck between fabric and skin. A drink rested in her hand—sweet, fruity, and far more dangerous than it tasted.
Everyone was a little too tipsy.
A little too sun-kissed.
A little too perfect.
Renee had just finished an outrageous story involving tequila, an Ibiza beach club, and a very flexible French woman when Nicky leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of Eliana's ear.
"I'm bored."
She smiled, turning toward him. "What do you want?"
His eyes sparkled in the firelight, mischief bubbling in his voice. "Sing-off."
"Oh God," she laughed. "No."
"Yes," he said immediately, his grin stretching wider. "It's time."
"Why do you get like this when you're drunk?"
He wiggled his brows. "Because I'm happy."
Her smile wavered.
That's always when it was the worst.
When he was glowing and golden and loose in his skin. When he leaned into her, arms draped over her shoulders, fingers tapping her knee. When he was playful and soft and warm beside her, and she forgot—again—that he would never want her back. Not like that.
And she hated herself for still hoping he might.
Twenty minutes later, the group had descended into chaos. Valeria pulled up an old karaoke app. The Bluetooth speaker crackled with static. The music lagged and skipped. Nobody cared.
They screamed lyrics like teenagers at a sleepover. Early 2000s pop. Cheesy throwbacks. Drunken duets that dissolved into laughter halfway through the chorus.
And then—
"Your turn," Nicky said, pointing straight at her.
Eliana blinked over her drink, cheeks already flushed. "Nope."
"Yes," he insisted, grinning like a dare.
She shook her head. "Not happening."
He leaned in closer, voice dipped low. "Please?"
His hand landed on her bare thigh—light, casual, thoughtless. Like it had every right to be there.
It didn't.
Her skin lit up like flame anyway.
"Fine," she muttered, pushing herself up.
She sang something dumb. Something flirty. The kind of song that let her pretend she wasn't breaking from the inside out. Everyone laughed, clapped, cheered. Someone offered her another drink. She waved it off.
And then Nicky stood.
"Okay, okay," he announced, swaying slightly as he took the phone. "Fine. I'll sing. But only because I love you all. And also because I'm drunk enough to forget this tomorrow."
He tapped through the app.
The music started—soft, gentle, unmistakable.
Can't Help Falling in Love.
Eliana froze.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't look at anyone.
Just closed his eyes and began to sing.
His voice wasn't perfect. It was raw, a little hoarse from too much salt and alcohol, but it was real. Soft. Sincere. Like he meant it. Like the words had weight in his chest and nowhere to go but out into the night.
The fire flickered. Someone stopped chewing mid-s'more.
And Eliana?
She was burning.
He didn't sing it to her. Of course not. Not to anyone.
He just sang.
To the stars. To the sea. To some invisible ache inside himself that made her want to fold in half.
She stared at his face, glowing gold and amber in the firelight.
And fell.
Harder.
Deeper.
Again.
He finished with a laugh, sheepish, eyes flicking open. "Okay, okay. That's enough feelings for one night."
Everyone clapped. Someone whistled.
He sat back down beside her, still warm, still glowing, still devastating.
She didn't say anything.
She couldn't.
He leaned into her, his head resting briefly against her shoulder.
"I like singing with you," he murmured.
Her throat clenched.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. How badly those words hurt.
Because they felt like something. Because she wanted them to be. Because he kept saying these sweet, meaningless things that meant everything to her.
And he didn't know.
Couldn't.
Would never.
"Me too," she whispered, barely getting it out.
The night blurred after that. One by one, everyone faded into sleep or slurred yawns. Renee and Valeria, giggling into each other's shoulders, disappeared inside. Luca limped away mumbling about "skincare emergencies." Elias snored softly on a lounge chair, wrapped in a towel like a sun-drunk mermaid.
Eliana helped gather glasses. Empty cups. Sticky plates. Nicky followed, barefoot and humming again, some melody half-remembered from the setlist.
They moved together, easy in silence. Familiar.
Too familiar.
She bent to grab a bottle, and he brushed past her, hand catching her arm to steady her.
"Sleep well, angel," he murmured, soft and affectionate, like always.
Like it didn't mean anything.
And maybe to him—it didn't.
But to her?
It was everything.
And that was the problem.
She barely made it to her room.
The bed was too cold.
The sheets too soft.
The silence too loud.
Eliana stared at the ceiling for five minutes before caving.
Her thighs squeezed together automatically. The same throbbing ache from the van ride flared hot and wild in her gut. Her panties were still damp. Still sticky.
Her breath hitched as she slid a hand under the sheet.
And then under her waistband.
Warm.
Wet.
God.
She hadn't touched herself in days—not since that night. Not since that cruel, perfect pressure between her legs that almost pushed her over.
Her fingers found that aching spot and she shuddered.
She started slow.
Tiny circles.
Hips pressing into the mattress, breath already coming faster. The pressure had built all day—during the sunblock, during the singing, during the lap ride that nearly broke her brain.
And now it all crashed down on her.
She thought of his voice. That sleepy rasp. That soft, low "don't move" against her ear.
She pressed harder.
Faster.
Her mouth fell open but she caught it—biting down on her fist, moaning into her palm.
Because next door?
Was him.
Sleeping.
Breathing.
Close.
Her fingers slipped lower, between slick folds, spreading that heat, desperate and quick now.
"Nicky," she mouthed.
Silent.
A prayer and a curse.
She imagined his hand instead of hers. His mouth. His weight over her. That hardness inside her, not under her.
Her body jolted, tightening, trembling.
She was close.
So close.
She arched—quiet, quiet—and when it hit her, it was so sharp she nearly cried.
Her legs trembled. Her toes curled. Her hand slowed and stilled as she shook through it, still biting her lip, still fighting the noise that wanted to claw out of her.
She lay there for a while.
Sweaty.
Embarrassed.
Satisfied and empty all at once.
Because she'd finally come.
But not for herself.
Not really.
For him.
Always him.
And he didn't even know.