Not the kind you give when you’re idly watching the world go by, or when your eyes drift across a room without purpose. These are different. You catch Max looking at you in a way that feels intentional, focused like he’s studying the curve of your smile, the furrow of your brow, the way your fingers tap the edge of your water bottle when you’re distracted. It’s not fleeting either. He looks at you like he’s trying to capture the moment, like he wants to hold it somewhere permanent just in case it disappears as if his gaze alone could ask you to turn around and see him in a way you haven’t before.

Sometimes you meet his eyes. Sometimes you hold his stare for just a second too long, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. And sometimes, more often than you’d admit, you look away, pretending you didn’t notice. Pretending your heart isn’t already tangled in something complicated.

It’s not that you’re unaware. You think he feels it just as much as you do, the tension coiled quietly beneath every glance that lingers longer than necessary, beneath every joke that lands with too much softness, beneath the texts that arrive late at night and mean far more than either of you will ever say out loud.

But still… you’re friends.

Best friends.

There’s something impossibly delicate about that. Something worth protecting. Because once a line is crossed there’s no going back to what you were before, and maybe that’s why neither of you has said anything. Maybe that’s why you keep pretending the glances don’t mean anything at all.

Even when they do.

It escalates, but never all at once.

There’s no single moment you could point to, no obvious line crossed or breathless confession made in the dark. Instead it builds slowly, like a storm creeping in beneath blue skies, subtle, steady, inevitable.

At first it’s simple things. Innocent things. Max brushing past you in the kitchen of his Monaco apartment you sometimes share on quiet weekends. He reaches over your shoulder to grab a mug from the cabinet and his hand grazes your arm. Light. Barely there. But you feel it anyway. You always do.

A soft touch to your lower back when you're both crowded by the sink as if guiding you, even though there’s more than enough space to move around. Knuckles bump when you both reach for the same spoon in the drawer, and neither of you laughs. He murmurs “Sorry” without looking at you, as if not meeting your eyes will keep it from meaning anything more than it should.

It works for a while. You both act like it's nothing. Like these touches are accidents, coincidences, the natural clumsiness of sharing a space.

But they’re not.

You both know they’re not.

Then one evening you’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch watching some mindless show neither of you is really following. The remote sits between you. You both reach for it at the same time.

Your fingers graze his.

And then they stay there.

Neither of you pulls away.

The television continues in the background, some canned laughter rising and falling like static, but the world has narrowed to the space where your skin meets his. His fingers are warm. Your pulse jumps but you don't move. You don’t dare. Because the moment feels suspended in air.

Still you both pretend. You stare ahead, pretending you’re lost in the flickering screen, pretending the air hasn’t gone thick with something you don’t have words for.

Eventually you pull your hand back so gently it doesn’t even feel like a retreat and yet you feel the absence like a weight.

That night you lie in bed staring at the ceiling replaying it again and again, the moment, the stillness, the way his skin felt against yours. You wonder if he’s doing the same just a few feet down the hall. You wonder if he feels as wrecked by nothing as you do.

Because if something that small can feel that intense…

What happens if you let it become something more?

It’s raining when you hug him for the first time in months.

Not one of those quick, routine hugs you give friends on instinct or out of politeness. This is different. This is real. Thoughtless in the way only things that matter tend to be.

You’ve both just landed in Austria, strung out on a blur of time zones, delays, and airport chaos. The kind of day where everything feels off-kilter, fans pressing too close, luggage going missing, the air thick with humidity and tension. You’re cold. You’re tired. Your patience is frayed thin.

And then you see him.

He’s standing just ahead of you in the team transport queue, hoodie pulled up halfway against the drizzle, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but he smiles when he spots you, that tired, crooked smile that only ever seems to be meant for you, and before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can rationalise or hesitate or think, you’re moving.

You close the distance and wrap your arms around his neck, sudden and full and tight, not soft or polite or hesitant like it might’ve been a month ago. It's instinct. A reaction to the storm, to the cold, to the way everything lately has felt a little bit too much. You’re not even sure who reaches first. You just end up in his arms, like gravity chose for you.

And he sinks into it.

Like it’s home.

His hands slide around your waist with a kind of aching familiarity, pulling you in closer than necessary. You feel how his fingers tighten just slightly, how his body folds into yours like something long denied. How he doesn’t just accept the hug, he needs it. He clings to it like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and you’ve just given him permission to exhale.

The moment stretches.

Neither of you speaks. For a second it’s just this. Just the press of his chest against yours, the subtle tremble in his exhale, the quiet thud of something unspoken between you both.

Eventually, because you have to, you both pull back. His hands fall away slowly, reluctantly, like they don’t want to let go, like they’d stay right there forever if they could.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

But the silence between you crackles with something louder than words.

That night long after the rain has stopped and your body’s finally warm beneath hotel sheets, you dream about that moment, about turning back into his arms, about him holding you even tighter, about him not letting go.

In the dream it’s not just a hug it’s everything neither of you has been able to say, because the truth is, though neither of you would ever admit it out loud, you’re both a little touch-starved.

So when his arms wrapped around you earlier it wasn’t just a comfort, it was a release. A surrender. A moment of being held and seen, and you felt it in the way he clung on, a second too long, a fraction too tight, he needed it just as much as you did.

When you wake up heart hammering and throat tight, you stare at the ceiling and wonder how something so simple could feel so much like the beginning of the end.

Or maybe the beginning of something else entirely.

From that moment on nothing feels quite the same.

There’s no declarations, no stolen kisses behind closed doors, but in the kind of quiet, creeping way that makes it impossible to pretend nothing’s different.

Max starts lingering more.

Longer in hallways. Closer on planes. His knee bumps yours during dinners and doesn’t shift away. His thigh presses alongside yours when you're both crammed into the back seat of a car, and he leans just a little further into your space, always under the guise of something casual, looking at your phone screen, pointing something out on your laptop, brushing an imaginary thread off your sleeve.

He still doesn’t say anything that could be mistaken for flirting.

He still doesn’t cross any obvious line.

But it’s not platonic anymore.

Not really.

It feels like a lie, like you’re both clinging to the comfort of what you used to be while pretending not to notice how it’s morphing into something else entirely. Every touch lingers. Every glance is loaded. Every shared silence hums with all the things you’re not saying.

And then there’s Silverstone.

You’re both waiting under an awning outside the paddock watching the summer rain fall in sharp, rhythmic taps against the concrete. It's one of those passing storms brief but sudden, the air heavy with it, the sky still bright despite the downpour.

Max stands beside you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Your shoulders hover near each other, the two of you are suspended in that delicate in-between space where friendship ends and something else begins.

His arm brushes yours.

Just barely.

A fraction of movement. A breath. But it might as well be a lightning strike with the way it sends something electric shooting through your spine. Your thoughts derail instantly, all clarity lost to the sensation of warm skin against yours.

You turn your head instinctively.

He’s already looking at you.

His gaze is steady, unreadable, but not indifferent. There’s something behind it, deep and dark and dangerous. His voice when he finally speaks is rough like gravel, like it’s been scraped raw from the inside.

“Cold?” he asks.

You nod without thinking, even though you’re flushed beneath your jacket, your skin practically burning.

He doesn’t say anything more. Then in one small movement that feels impossibly significant Max lifts his arm and slides it around your shoulders, gently, like he’s thought about doing it a hundred times and is finally allowing himself the indulgence.

You freeze. His hand settles against the curve of your shoulder and you can feel every inch of him, the press of his side against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the strength in the arm now wrapped around you like it belongs there.

He shifts, just slightly, and now you’re fully shoulder-to-shoulder, his warmth bleeding into your skin like a confession he’s not ready to make.

Your heart is beating so loud, you wonder if he can hear it.

The car arrives. You hear the rumble of the engine, see the flash of headlights through the rain, but neither of you moves both acutely aware that something is unraveling between you slow and irreversible.

And neither of you wants to stop it.

It gets harder to pretend.

Harder to swallow the ache in your throat every time he’s near. Harder to breathe around him without your chest tightening, without your fingers twitching with the need to do something, to reach, to hold, to finally have.

You’ve started recognising the patterns. The rhythm of his touches. How deliberate they are in their disguise.The way his hand finds the small of your back when he’s guiding you through crowded garages, protective and steady, fingers just grazing the fabric of your shirt like he’s holding himself back from more.

The way he always sits close at dinner, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he lifts his glass, close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin as he rests his hand on the table, just inches from yours. Close enough to tempt but never close enough to claim.

The way he laughs, full and unguarded, and then reaches out to you without thinking tapping your knee or squeezing it gently like the joy would be too much if he didn’t release some of it into you. Like contact is the only way he knows how to feel fully now.

It would be easier, maybe, if he didn’t look at you the way he does.

If he didn’t linger in those silences between sentences, watching your mouth as you speak. If he didn’t study your face like he was memorising it. If he didn’t touch you like he was trying not to burn.

Eventually, something gives.

You’re sitting on the balcony of his Monaco apartment just the two of you, late into the night after a long, endless day of press obligations and sponsor smiles. The city glows beneath you, a blur of lights reflecting on the sea, and a soft breeze rolls through the stillness. You both have glasses of wine in hand, your legs curled beneath you on the couch, the hush between you thick with unspoken things.

You’re laughing over something dumb. You can’t stop smiling, the wine warm in your chest, your head tilted back toward the stars as you recount it.

Suddenly Max goes quiet.

Completely.

The shift is immediate so still it cuts through the air.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, quiet but firm. A decision, not a suggestion.

You turn toward him slowly, the smile fading from your lips. “What?” you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight, like he's trying to swallow something that won't go down.

Finally he speaks, voice low and cracked and rough at the edges.

“You know sometimes it physically hurts.”

You blink. “What does?”

“Being around you every day… it’s like torture.”

You don’t interrupt. You barely breathe.

He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, his fingers flexing tight around the base of his wine glass like he needs something to hold onto or he might fall apart right there in front of you.

“Seeing you. Laughing with you. Sitting next to you on flights, at home, debriefing after races or just… existing in the same space.” His voice cracks, barely noticeable, but it punches something straight into your chest. “Touching you but not really. Not the way I want to. Some dumb excuse to sit too close on the couch it doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.”

Your throat tightens, but you stay quiet. Let him speak.

“I don’t even know when it got this bad, but it did. Because now when I see you across the room and you smile at me it hurts. When you laugh and I’m not the reason it hurts. When I have to walk away instead of kiss you, when I have to pretend this isn’t killing me…” He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes is wrecked. Bare. “It feels like I’m being torn apart.”

He shakes his head once, frustrated with himself, with everything and then finishes quieter now:

“I can’t even breathe near you without feeling like I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m trying so hard,” he says, voice low and unraveling. “So fucking hard to respect what we are. To not cross that line, to be your friend and pretend that’s enough.”

He laughs not because it’s funny, but because he think it’s hopeless.

“But it’s not. Not anymore and it hasn’t been for a long time.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you almost miss the next part.

“Every time you touch me I feel it for hours after. Every time you smile at me I have to remind myself that this isn’t something more, even though it feels like it is. Even though it is.”

He swallows hard. His jaw works like he’s trying to hold something in, but it slips out anyway raw, broken.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

You go still. The words land in your chest like an earthquake, sudden and irreversible.

Your voice is quiet. “Then why didn't you said anything?”

Max finally turns to you, and he’s not hiding anymore. His eyes are wide open all pain and hunger and something devastatingly tender.

“Because I didn’t want to lose what we have,” he says. “But now… not having you like this?” His voice cracks. “That’s starting to feel like losing you anyway.”

“I’ve been holding it in for so long I didn’t think I was allowed to want more,” you whisper. “I kept telling myself friendship was enough, that I could live off scraps of just being near you.”

He’s still, eyes fixed on yours.

“I needed you too,” you say, voice barely holding. “In every way I tried not to. Every time you touched me and then pulled away, I felt it for hours after.”

Max stares at you like you’ve just leveled him.

“I thought I was the only one losing sleep over it,” he says.

“You weren’t,” you whisper.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

Maybe it’s both of you at once, some invisible tether finally snapping loose, but suddenly his hand is on your cheek, and your fingers are curling into the collar of his hoodie, and your mouths are meeting in the middle of that quiet night like it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

The kiss is soft. Uncertain at first. Underneath it is something heavier years of tension and friendship and longing melting into a single moment of release.

When you finally pull away you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face like you might disappear if he lets go.

“I didn’t even notice how disconnected I was,” he says, voice low. “Until you touched me and I actually felt it.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He pulls you in again, arms wrapping around you holding you like he never plans to let go.

It’s better than you imagined.

Being with Max isn’t just about the kisses pressed into your neck in the back of hotel elevators, or the heat of his hands on your skin when the doors close behind you. Though those are incredible. But it’s more than that now. It’s real.

It’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention those quiet, reverent glances across the room, like he’s still surprised he gets to have you, and then winks because he knows he can now.

It’s how he reaches for your hand without thinking now during flights, gridwalks, car rides through Monaco always grounding you, always tethering himself to you like instinct.

It’s the way he curls around you in bed, broad chest pressed to your back, one leg always slung over yours like his body refuses to let you go. If you shift away in your sleep, he pulls you right back in with a sleepy grumble, his arms wrapping tighter like even unconscious, he knows where you belong.

“Stay close,” he mumbles once, half-asleep, voice gravelly against the nape of your neck. “Don’t go too far.”

You didn’t plan on moving, not even an inch. You never do.

Then there are the mornings.

You used to wake to alarms and stress, fumbling through hotel rooms alone, but now? Now you wake to the quiet murmur of Max on the phone with room service, your Max, shirtless and half-dressed, hair sticking up in all directions, rattling off your breakfast order from memory.

“Scrambled eggs, no toast, oat milk, yeah, thanks,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to check you’re awake.

You blink blearily at him from the bed, sheets tangled around your legs.

“You’ve memorised my entire order?” you mumble, voice still rough from sleep.

He gives a lazy grin, hanging up. “I’ve been paying attention.”

“You’ve been studying me,” you tease, stretching like a cat.

Max walks over and presses a kiss to your hair. “I’ve been in love with you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Then he kisses you on the forehead like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

It’s in the everyday things too the way he lets you ramble during long car rides between cities, listening like every complaint about traffic or hotel pillows is the most important thing in the world.

“You’re cute when you rant about GPS,” he teases once, smirking when you flip him off without looking up from your phone.

And on race weekends no matter how loud the paddock gets, no matter how many people tug at his attention, Max always finds you.

Every. Single. Time.

He’ll be halfway to the grid, helmet in hand, suit half-zipped, engineers talking in his ear and still, he stops. Just for a second. Just for you. He doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t say much. Just steps close enough that no one else can hear and murmurs, voice low and steady:

“Stay where I can find you.”

And it always makes you pause because he’s not just talking about geography.

You nod, every time.

“Always,” you say.

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the blur of engines and tension and noise but you stay right where he left you because you know he’ll come back, and when he does he’ll find for you first.

Somehow it steadies you every time.

You used to be touch-starved.

Aching for connection. Craving something more than half-hearted affection and temporary flings.

Now?

Now you’re touch-drunk and Max Verstappen is your favourite addiction.

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house. 

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle. 

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again. 

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years. 

And then there’s the smile. 

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.  

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go. 

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has. 

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore. 

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads. 

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest. 

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you. 

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry. 

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles. 

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile. 

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago. 

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there. 

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most. 

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long. 

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water. 

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.” 

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end. 

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them. 

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia. 

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets. 

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms. 

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by. 

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious. 

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact. 

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists. 

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh. 

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly. 

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches. 

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears. 

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you. 

You’re not expecting a second kiss. 

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time. 

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking. 

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod. 

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her. 

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head. 

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara. 

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit. 

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles. 

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice. 

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie? 

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks. 

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is. 

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently. 

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.” 

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos. 

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door. 

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else. 

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing. 

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders. 

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand. 

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.” 

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek. 

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season. 

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently. 

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here. 

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder. 

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above. 

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters. 

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real. 

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.” 

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit. 

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely. 

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!” 

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind. 

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily. 

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it. 

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat. 

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead. 

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil. 

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession. 

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently. 

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work. 

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves. 

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks. 

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily. 

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television. 

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss. 

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally. 

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat. 

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy. 

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen. 

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085. 

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out. 

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack. 

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked. 

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you. 

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise. 

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked. 

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.” 

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek. 

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten. 

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him. 

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in. 

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you. 

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side. 

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin. 

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando. 

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face. 

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you. 

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck. 

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos. 

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens. 

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.” 

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide. 

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. 

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa. 

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow. 

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.” 

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.” 

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips. 

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss. 

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil. 

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen. 

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.” 

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles. 

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?” 

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet. 

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink. 

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him. 

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means. 

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days. 

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere. 

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone. 

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too. 

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened. 

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again. 

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds. 

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week. 

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock. 

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa. 

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie. 

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down. 

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine. 

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again. 

And then your phone buzzes in your lap. 

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando. 

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.” 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles. 

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that. 

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.” 

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.” 

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved. 

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right. 

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.” 

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot. 

Your first day? An unmitigated disaster. You get lost on your morning walk and end up at the same roundabout three separate times, each one increasingly humiliating. Your French fails you at the grocery store, where you try to ask for almond milk and accidentally request a marriage license.

Then there’s the glass of water that explodes in your hand while you’re trying to rinse dishes. One shard grazes your thumb, and you watch the blood bloom with the kind of theatrical sadness that makes you laugh out loud in an empty kitchen.

By evening, you just want a single conversation that makes sense. You call your best friend. “You wouldn’t believe the day I—” you start, but the line goes fuzzy.

Then it cuts.

Then it returns just long enough for her to say, “You sound like a blender,” before it dies again.

You hold your phone in your lap, eyes burning. It’s stupid to cry about a call, about a thumb, about almond milk. But it’s never about just that, is it?

You crawl into bed, sheets unfamiliar and stiff with that just-washed hotel feeling, and you close your eyes.

Then, he speaks.

Through the wall.

A man. British, probably. He laughs, loud and unfiltered, and the laugh turns into commentary. “Alright, alright,” he hollers, “easy win, mate!”

There’s the mechanical click of a controller. The hum of speakers turned up too loud. And him. Always him. Saying something about headshots and revives and how someone named Max is the worst support player in Europe.

You press your pillow over your face.

He doesn’t stop.

He is holding court with a Twitch audience or a Discord server or, frankly, Satan himself, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for this level of volume past midnight.

You turn over. You try every sleeping position known to man. Your body is tired, but your brain is staging a mutiny.

Across the thin apartment wall, your neighbor whoops, “Oh my God, that was sick!”

You hate him.

You haven’t seen his face, don’t know his name, but you hate him with the precision of a sniper. You picture his setup. Ring light. Gaming chair. Probably eats cereal straight from the box. Probably thinks emotional intelligence is knowing when to mute himself.

You sit up, exhausted and vibrating with something that might be rage or might just be the weight of everything. Of being new. Of being rootless. Of being twenty-something and two train rides away from where you thought you’d be.

You think to yourself, My neighbor is public enemy number one.

Somewhere in the next room, as if summoned, he laughs again.

You fall asleep planning revenge in the shape of a mackerel.

You learned early that revenge doesn’t need to be grand or cruel. It doesn’t need fire. Or blood. Or police involvement. It just needs fish and patience.

Your neighbor—the one with the ungodly laugh and the microphone seemingly embedded into his windpipe—turns out to be exactly what you feared: a streamer of some sorts. Loud. Consistent. Trapped in the same five phrases over and over like a man who thinks enthusiasm counts as personality.

“Massive clutch, boys!” he yells one night.

You’re brushing your teeth. Your reflection doesn’t wince anymore. It just stares back, resigned.

You start to recognize his rhythms. He boots up around ten, peaks at one a.m., and winds down just shy of dawn. You hear every lezgooooo. Every backhanded insult disguised as banter. Every fake laugh with a delay so practiced it should be in the credits.

So you buy fish.

Mackerel, specifically. Local. Unapologetically pungent.

You get it from the little morning market down by the port, where the old woman with the sharp eyes and the sharper elbows doesn’t judge when you say, “Something that really lingers, please.”

She wraps your fish in yesterday’s sports pages and nods like she’s just knighted you.

You wait. Two nights. Three. And then, on the fourth, the opportunity arises.

He’s at it again.

You’re jolted awake by the sound of crashing digital glass and someone named Alex swearing vengeance over stolen loot. Your eye twitches. Your soul flinches.

You rise.

Barefoot. Silent. Vengeful.

You retrieve the fish from its solemn resting place in your fridge. You unwrap it slowly, ceremonially, like a priest with a grudge. You set the pan on the stove. Add oil. Wait for the sizzle.

Door? Just slightly ajar. You’re not a monster.

The smell hits quickly. The kind that coils through air vents and seeps into memory. Thick. Assertive. Biblical.

You hear him talking.

Then coughing.

Then—“Jesus, what’s that bloody smell?”

You can hear the tinny echo of his stream through the walls. A chorus of confused bros. “Mate, I think something died,” your neighbor complains. 

You flip the fish, slow and steady, and for the first time since you moved, you smile.

It is not graceful. It is not healed. But it is something.

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, sounding properly horrified, “I can’t focus. It’s like—like someone deep-fried a sea monster.”

You stifle a laugh.

Another beat.

And then—

“I just threw that round because I couldn’t stop gagging. What the fuck.”

You close your eyes. You breathe in deeply, the scent of your petty, fishy triumph. You feel, for the first time since arriving, like you might survive here.

In the quiet that follows his sudden log-off, you hear something almost tender: the sound of yourself exhaling.

The routine is nauseating and vicious. 

Midnight strikes, his headset clicks on, and your stove follows like a soldier obeying orders. You rotate your menu with a quiet, vengeful pride. Mackerel. Bluefish. Herring. The holy trinity of domestic warfare.

Your fridge smells like the Atlantic. You have Tupperware stacked with leftovers that no amount of lemon can redeem. Your clothes faintly reek of brine. Your hallway smells like Poseidon lost a bet.

You blow half your salary on scented oils and humidifiers. It doesn’t matter. 

When you hear his stream stutter, when his voice rises an octave mid-sentence, when he lets out a full-body cough on air—you feel something click into place. Not joy, exactly. But electricity, petty vindication. A pulse under your skin.

You’re alive. You’re here. You matter, at least to the man slowly losing his KD ratio to anchovy fumes.

And so are you really that surprised when the letters start? 

You find the first one in your mailbox, scrawled on a curling Post-It in handwriting so bad it looks forged by a raccoon.

Please stop cooking fish.

No greeting. No signature. Just a room number: 4B.

Your neighbor.

You laugh. Out loud. Alone.

You grab a pen, flip the Post-It, and write:

Please stop streaming like you’re commentating a demolition derby.

You slip it into his box with the kind of rigor that would make your childhood piano teacher weep. He responds two days later. New Post-It. Different color. Same aggressive penmanship.

You’re ruining my career. I had a sponsorship stream. I nearly vomited mid-Raid.

None of those words make sense or, frankly, matter to you. You write back:

You’re ruining my circadian rhythm. I nearly cried brushing my teeth.

The great war escalates. 

Buy a fan, you write once. Or a conscience.

Buy soundproofing, he shoots back. Or a soul.

This is harassment.

This is performance art.

No names. Just numbers. 4A. 4B. Scrawled like rival graffiti tags across increasingly creative stationery. Napkins. Magazine margins. Once, the back of a takeout menu.

You keep them all.

You don’t know why.

Maybe because his handwriting is getting better. Or maybe yours is getting worse. Maybe because his notes are still angry, but the barbs are getting softer. He adds a ‘please’ once. You add a smiley face, very small, like a glitch in the matrix.

It stops being war and starts being—something else.

You still cook. He still streams. The stakes have changed, though. It’s less about triumph now, and more about tension. A taut little thread stretched between your walls.

He says nothing, but one night you hear his laugh falter. Just once. Like he’s smiling at something off-mic. Probably this morning’s Post-It, where you proclaimed you would have him arrested for having the world’s most obnoxious giggle. 

You don’t know why your chest goes warm.

You open your fridge. There’s herring, wrapped in foil.

You leave it there. Just for tonight.

Three days later, you’re at the grocery store, waging war with the top shelf.

The cereal you want is just out of reach, wedged between some fancy muesli and a box that promises to change your digestive life forever. You rise on tiptoes. Stretch. Swear under your breath. Contemplate climbing the shelf and dying dramatically in aisle four.

“Need a hand?”

The voice is warm, accented, familiar in a way that makes your stomach tilt. You turn.

He’s tall. British. Hoodie up, sunglasses on like he’s either famous or afraid of fluorescent lighting. Curly hair peeks out at the edges. His smile is quick, polite, and somehow bashful.

You nod, startled. “Yeah, sorry. It’s always the stupid cereal.”

He grabs the box and hands it to you. Your fingers brush. You try not to make it a moment. “Thanks,” you say simply.

He just nods. A twitch of his lips, the shadow of something amused.

You think that’s it—a blink-and-miss-it kindness—but then he reappears in the produce section. Holding a single banana like it’s a business decision. Then again in frozen foods, squinting at ice cream like it might reveal a secret.

And again, finally, in line. In front of you. Holding his sad little haul: oat milk, bananas, a chocolate bar.

You place your basket behind his and say, “That’s a bachelor’s cart if I’ve ever seen one.”

He glances over his shoulder, guarded, but snorts when he sees it’s just you. “Guilty,” he chirps. “You, uh—planning a dinner party for all the pescetarians of Monaco?”

You glance at your cart. Fish. Fish. More fish. Lemons. You smile. “Just making enemies.”

He raises a brow, intrigued, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his gaze dips to the chocolates near the register. “These are rubbish, aren’t they?”

“They are,” you say, “but they’re cheap and I’m sentimental.”

He grins. Something slow and crooked. “Story of my life.”

You reach for a bar and toss it into your cart. Then, like it matters, like it might matter more than you want to admit, you offer your name. 

He freezes. Not in a dramatic way. Just a flicker. Barely noticeable. Social norms call for him to give his name back, but it looks like he’s about to make you work for it. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilted, almost cautious.

You squint. “Should I?”

He shrugs, trying to make it look casual. “Just… most people do. Eventually.”

You gesture at his hoodie and shades. “You’re going very hard on the international man of mystery look.”

That earns a laugh. Light, genuine, like it surprises him a little. He steps up, pays for his things. The cashier doesn’t blink, and you wonder if Monaco’s grocery clerks are trained to ignore famous people. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

He picks up his tote bag, turns halfway back toward you. “Nice to meet you,” he says, name still unspoken. 

His eyes flick down to your cart again. “Hope your neighbor likes fish,” he adds as a final jab, his lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace. 

Then he’s gone.

Out the door. Into sunlight.

You stand there with your cereal and your vengeance and a chocolate bar that suddenly feels a little more romantic than cheap. You try to forget about the romcom-ness of it all, which isn’t all that hard. 

Especially when your neighbor starts streaming again that night.

You hear it the second you roll over in bed and your cheek sticks to the pillow in that cursed way it does when you’re halfway between dreams and rage. The voice booms through the wall like clockwork, but this time, there’s a second one.

Lower. Calmer. With an accent you can’t quite place and the voice of someone who would absolutely win in a hostage negotiation. “Max, you’re such a tryhard,” your neighbor groans.

Max mumbles something in return. You can’t hear the words, but you can hear the smirk. They’re good together. The kind of good that only comes from years of knowing exactly how to get on each other’s nerves without ever actually bruising anything.

You throw the blanket off with the grace of a corpse rising from the dead.

You consider the herring. You even go as far as opening the fridge. But it doesn’t feel worth it. Not tonight. Not when the noise is less a scream and more a low, persistent thrum.

So instead, you grab a Post-It.

Your pen hovers for a second. You’re too tired to be clever, too annoyed to be poetic.

Some of us sleep. Just a thought. 

You shuffle to the hallway, drop the note to the floor, and slide it under 4B’s door. No drama. No ceremony. You’re tucking yourself back into bed when Max’s voice cuts through the wall. “Hey, Lan. You got mail.”

A pause. Some shuffling. Then a laugh. Unmistakably from the bane of your existence. 

Your neighbor again, amused: “It’s from 4A. This is basically a love letter.”

You roll your eyes so hard it might count as cardio.

“You two got a little thing going, huh?” Max huffs.

“It’s a game,” your neighbor says. “A little fishy cold war. Very romantic.”

There’s a clatter of something—a chair being kicked, maybe. And then your neighbor’s voice softens, like it always does when he’s trying not to seem like he’s trying. “Alright. I’ll keep it down,” he says. 

Not to Max. Not to the stream. To you. Probably.

He does.

The rest of the night is quieter. Not silent. Just gentle. Muffled laughter, low voices, the occasional rustle of something plastic.

But you can’t sleep. Not because it’s loud, but because you caught something else. Hey, Lan. 

A name.

Lan.

You say it once in your head. Just to try it. You’ve named your enemy now. Sort of.

You lie there, awake, holding the syllable in your mouth like it might mean more than it should.

Lan.

The name sticks.

It loops around your mind like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. You think about it brushing your teeth. Folding laundry. Stirring rice. It hums in the back of your head, louder than any of his streams. More persistent than his dumb laugh.

You wonder if that’s what Max calls him. If that’s what everyone calls him. If he signs hotel check-ins with it or introduces himself that way on streams or if he only ever lets certain people use it.

Whatever it is, you and Lan have now abandoned all pretense of civility. The mailbox game is over.

Now it’s Post-Its under the door, no shame, no waiting. You slide one under when his voice gets too loud. He returns fire when your fish leaks into the hallway. It’s not war anymore. It’s not not war. It’s something else.

A little dance. A game where neither of you know the rules, but you’re both still playing.

One afternoon, you’re juggling three paper bags and a box of laundry detergent in the apartment elevator. You’ve pressed your back to the wall, trying to breathe through the feeling that your arms might just abandon you, when the doors creak open. “Whoa,” someone says. “You need a hand?”

He’s all clean curls and clear eyes, baby-faced in a way that makes you think he’s either younger than he looks or has very good skin habits. His sweatshirt reads Quadrant in big letters across the chest. His duffel bag has the same logo.

He steps in before you can protest and grabs one of the bags from your arm.

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless. “You don’t live here, do you?”

“Nah,” he replies, grinning. “Just visiting a mate.”

You nod, adjusting the detergent. Small talk is pretty mandatory when the other person is helping you with your groceries.  “Nice,” you respond. “You from the UK?”

“Guilty,” he says. “I’m Max, by the way.”

Max. As in Max, you’re such a tryhard-Max. As in Max who said Hey, Lan with the comfort of a best friend. 

Your brain stutters. Trips. Goes cold and still. You flinch, almost visibly. You don’t offer your name.

He doesn’t notice, too busy glancing at the elevator numbers. You scramble for a lifeline, something to say that doesn’t immediately tie you to 4A. To the fish. To the Post-Its. To the sleepless nights spent writing anonymous venom and then rereading it like scripture.

“I—I actually forgot my keys,” you blurt out as the elevator doors slide open. “Think I’ll just run back to the lobby.”

You’re already halfway out the doors when Max turns, still holding your groceries. “Wait, do you want me to—”

But you wave him off, doing your best impression of someone not about to spiral. “Just leave it by the floor!” you yell back, making a run for it. 

You hide in the stairwell. You wait, then you peek. Max, although confused, does as you asked; he leaves your groceries on the floor by the elevator before walking down the hall.

Right to 4B.

You curse under your breath. You watch him enter with a spare key, and then you wait a full five minutes. You sprint, grab your groceries, and fumble with everything for a full minute. 

Door. Key. Lock. Twist.

Inside your apartment, you collapse against the door, heart pounding like you just committed an actual crime. You feel ridiculous.

You also feel something else. Something weirdly like grief.

For what, you don’t know. Maybe for coming close to the possibility of putting a face to the name. Monaco has been lonely in that I’m-just-passing-through way, and you’ve wondered if knowing your neighbor—actually knowing them, beyond the warfare—would ease that ache. You’ve yet to meet him. You’re not sure if you ever will. But you’ve met his best friend, and you try to let that be enough. 

Come Monday, you find that you’re not okay. 

You have a job interview tomorrow—real job, real stakes, real money that could pay for food that is not fish and therapy—and your brain has decided to stage a coup. Your apartment is a mess. You’ve gone over your answers a hundred times. You’re sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. Your blazer has a suspicious stain on the inside hem and you’ve just realized you might not know how to tie the scarf you planned to wear.

And next door, Lan is streaming again.

Loud. Oblivious. Laughing in that way he does when he’s not trying to be charming but kind of is.

You sit on your couch, holding a mug of tea that’s gone cold, feeling like a deflated mascot costume. No fish tonight. No energy for spite. You just want silence. You just want sleep. You want tomorrow to come and not completely ruin you.

So you do something you haven’t done before.

You knock at the wall.

Not hard. Just three fingers to the wall. Firm. Sharp.

A pause. Then Lan’s voice, slightly muffled but still infuriatingly warm: “Hang on, chat. Be right back.”

Shuffling. SIlence. 

Then, through the wall: “Hey, neighbor. You okay?”

It’s the first time he’s properly addressed you. He sounds close, like he’s pressed up right against the wall. You close your eyes and try to imagine how that looks like.

“I have a job interview tomorrow,” you say, voice thin and smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s important. I really need it. So if you could just… I dunno. Let me have this.”

There’s no way you could know, of course, that this is technically the first time Lan has heard you speak. How he’s frozen on his side of the wall, fingers curled over the plaster like he might be able to reach through it and reach you. How he’s realizing that you’re actually a very real person with very real feelings, not just some caricature he’s been exchanging threats with these past weeks. 

A beat. Two. You hear him shift. The faint creak of his chair. The hum of his mic.

Then: “Sorry, guys. Gonna call it early tonight. Something came up.”

You stare at the wall, stunned. Not used to getting what you want without some sort of conflict or fish stench. You wait five minutes, then ten. It really has gone quiet. Lan has called it a night, just because you asked. 

You lift your hand and tap twice. Thank you. 

There’s a pause.

Then two taps back. It sounds a lot like you’re welcome. 

The next day is a blur of sweat, strangers, lukewarm coffee, and a delayed bus ride that smells vaguely of onion. The interview went well. Surprisingly well. You said things like strategic alignment and collaborative dynamic and did not throw up on yourself.

You get home exhausted. Starving. Quietly proud. That’s when you see it.

A bouquet of supermarket flowers, taped crookedly to your door. They’re not fancy. A little wilted. The cellophane crackles in the breeze. But they’re trying, and there’s a Post-It stuck to them.

Hope it went well. 

Your stomach does something ridiculous.

You take the flowers inside and set them in a glass, because you don’t own a vase. You sit on the floor beside them, still in your interview shoes. You stare at the wall that separates you from him. 

The job offer comes on a Wednesday.

London. Real contract. Real benefits. A desk with your name on it and a swipe card that might actually open something important. More than that: an apartment lease that belongs solely to you. Your name on every dotted line. No inherited clutter. No temporary furniture. No fishy feuds with mystery men next door.

You should be thrilled. And you are, mostly. Enough to dance in the kitchen when the email lands. Enough to call your best friend and scream. Enough to finally let your shoulders drop for the first time in months.

But under that: something a little tight. A little strange.

You’ve done well not forming attachments in Monaco. That was the rule you gave yourself from the beginning. Keep it temporary. Keep it light. Don't grow roots in a place that was always meant to be a layover. A waiting room. A pitstop.

Except.

Well.

Your suitcase is zipped and locked. Your boxes are taped with Sharpie scrawls that say things like kitchen stuff and probably important. They’re already downstairs, waiting for the courier. Everything practical is done.

What’s left is not practical.

You’re in your hallway with one last Tupperware, this time not a weapon but a gesture. Sushi, handmade. No cooked fish. No smell. No passive-aggressive message in the form of mackerel oil. Just rice and seaweed and clumsy affection.

You knock.

At first, there’s nothing. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The door cracks open an inch. Lan peers out.

Or rather, the boy from the grocery store does. Hoodie up. Hair a little messy. That same unreadable look in his eyes.

Recognition hits you both like a comedic pratfall. “Oh my God,” he says, pulling the door open fully. “Grocery store girl.”

You stare. “You’re the hoodie guy?”

“And you’re the fish assassin.” He steps fully into the hallway, barefoot and blinking. “Are you stalking me?” 

“I live next door,” you deadpan.

A beat. Then it hits him, too. His jaw drops. “You—You’re 4A?”

“And you’re 4B,” you say, like it’s the final piece of some wildly stupid jigsaw puzzle.

You both laugh. The kind that spills out before you can decide whether to stop it. The kind that feels like relief.

There’s a silence, hanging there. A quiet that isn’t awkward. That sits between you like something gentle. You lift the Tupperware.

“I’m moving,” you say. “Thought I’d say goodbye with something less vengeful.”

His smile falters. Not dramatically. But enough. “Moving?”

You nod. “Job in London. New apartment. New walls. Probably thicker ones. No more passive-aggressive Post-Its.”

He takes the sushi, then hesitates. “So… this is it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll find a new nemesis to annoy.”

“I don’t want a new nemesis,” he says. “I want my fish-scented wall banshee.”

You snort. “Touching. Truly.”

He lifts the lid on the sushi, looking at it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. “Full disclosure,” he mutters. “I actually really fucking hate fish.”

“I figured,” you hum, fingers curling around each other so you don’t do something stupid. Like take back the Tupperware and say you’ll make him something better. “You still let me stink up your living space for three months.” 

“I didn’t let you,” he counters. “I endured you. With dignity.”

“Barely.”

“True,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

And just like that, your chest gets tight again. You both go quiet, standing there in the hallway that always smelled like leftover fish and mild annoyance. Except now it just smells like memory.

You step back, toward your door. “Well. See you around, 4B.”

“See you, 4A.”

You close your door. This is how the story should end. 

But five minutes later, there’s a muffled sound. That now-familiar slide of paper against wood. A Post-It, slipped under your door for the last time.

Call me when you get to London. I’m from around there, actually, so I know a thing or two. 

There’s a number written beneath it. Black ink. Neat. And, this time, signed with not 4B but with a name. 

Lando. You turn it over and over in your head, sifting through all the times you mentally called him Lan and wondered what it was short for. 

Lando. Your nightmare of a neighbor. Streamer, grocery store boy, and something else entirely. 

You hold his Post-It in your hand longer than necessary. After a long moment, you walk to the wall.

You knock twice.

A pause.