"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
"At home drawing pictures of mountain tops, with him on top" ~Julian
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Sicily wasn't real.
It couldn't be. It was too golden, too dream-thick, too slow and syrupy, like the whole place had been doused in honey and left to melt in the sun.
Time stretched and yawned, spilling lazily over the edges of the days. The air smelled like salt and citrus, the heat clung to our skin, and the waves rolled in like they had nowhere else to be. Which, fair. Neither did we.
Grandpa had brought us here, though he mostly stayed in his villa, perched high above the sea with a view so stunning it might've killed a lesser man. He claimed his bones had earned the right to just exist in Sicily without having to move through it. Which, honestly? Respect. The man had lived. He once told me Sicily was the place you went when you got tired of chasing things and finally let the world come to you.
I got it now.
We spent our mornings drifting like spoiled, sun-dazed gods on the deck of a yacht, the kind that sliced through the water so smooth it felt like gliding. The sea air ran greedy fingers through my hair, tangling it up, damp and salty. Rory sprawled beside me, sunglasses on, camera out, documenting her own existence like she was afraid history would forget her.
"You look like an old-money heiress who just poisoned her husband," I said.
She barely lifted her head. "Good."
Ian chuckled, low and lazy, like he was sinking into the warmth of the day. I turned my head to look at him, and—yeah. Yeah. The sun had been kind to him. His skin was kissed deep gold, his hair a mess of wind-loosened curls, lighter than before, softer. He looked like he belonged to this place, like he'd always been meant for warm seas and slow afternoons and the kind of life where worries never quite catch up to you.
I wanted to touch him.
So I did.
I reached up, wrapped a curl around my finger, let it slip free before tracing my fingertips down the side of his face. His eyes flicked to mine—amused, a little too knowing.
"You're staring," he murmured.
"You love it," I murmured back.
And yeah, he did. Because his lips curled, slow and smug, and then he leaned in, the movement lazy, like gravity had finally caught him. His mouth brushed the corner of mine—not quite a kiss, but close enough to knock the breath out of me.
I grinned, tilted my head just enough to make him chase my lips, just enough to make him wait.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're insufferable."
"And you're obsessed with me," I shot back, grinning against his skin as I pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his cheekbone, then the freckle right beneath his ear.
