#isackhadjar

The bedroom window is wide open, but the air is still heavy.

You can hear the ocean just past the cliffs, the lull of it breaking gently against the rocks. It’s dark out now — soft, summer dark — and the warm breeze that blows in smells like salt and lemons and dust from the hills. You’re lying flat on your back, sprawled across white sheets that feel too warm against your skin, even though they’re barely covering you.

Your phone rests on your stomach, one finger lazily scrolling. You’re in your grey cotton underwear and that white lace bra — the soft, sheer one you packed last-minute, because you thought it looked cute and never expected it to be a problem. But now, with the AC dead and the air thick, it’s all you could bear to wear.

And you didn’t even think about it being see-through.

Not until the door creaks open.

“You’re just gonna hide in here all night?” Isack’s voice is casual, teasing. His footsteps pad across the hardwood, bare and familiar.

You glance up, not moving. “You mean hide in my room. The one you just walked into without knocking?”

He smirks, already crossing the space between the door and your bed. “You always act like you don’t love the attention.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly under the sheet. It slips a bit lower over your hip. “You’re the one who keeps showing up. What, the couch too lonely tonight?”

He shrugs, and you finally take a proper look at him.

Isack’s shirtless — of course. His skin is still sun-warm and a little flushed, his curls messy, damp from the late shower he took after dinner. His shorts hang low on his hips, and the waistband is slightly rolled like he’s trying to survive the heat in whatever way he can.

Then he sees you.

Or sees too much of you.

You notice it — the way his breath catches just a little. His eyes flicker down your body, just a heartbeat too long, before he snaps them back up, suddenly very interested in the ceiling fan sputtering above.

He doesn’t say anything.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m just gonna…” He points vaguely to the space beside you on the bed.

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to lie here?”

Isack shrugs again, playing it cool. “You have the only room where the fan even makes noise. It’s comforting.”

You scoff, but nudge the sheet over to give him space. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to complain about the heat if you’re the one climbing into my bed.”

He climbs in without another word, lying flat beside you — not touching, not close enough for skin, just there. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like the bed isn’t creaking beneath his weight, like your heartbeat isn’t speeding up with every second he stays quiet.

You try to focus on your phone. You don’t mention the way your bra feels thinner than ever. You don’t mention that you’re basically naked except for sheer lace and fabric that couldn’t hide anything. You don’t mention how his shoulder is inches from yours and the fan keeps making that dull ticking sound.

He doesn’t mention any of it either.

Ten minutes pass like that — heavy silence, soft breathing, you scrolling through the same paragraph of your book three times because your brain can’t focus with him this close. You peek at him out of the corner of your eye. His eyes are half-lidded now. He’s blinking slower.

He’s not going to last.

And he doesn’t.

A few more minutes and he’s out cold.

You hear his breathing even out. His arm drops down to his side, brushing the sheet near your thigh. Then he shifts. Rolls onto his side. His chest bumps your arm lightly. He’s not touching you, not exactly, but he’s drifting closer in his sleep, like gravity’s doing the work for him.

His head dips forward until it rests against your shoulder.

You glance down. His face is barely an inch from your chest. His nose nudges your collarbone. You freeze.

Isack mumbles something — soft, unintelligible — and shifts again. This time, his cheek rests right over your heart.

For a second, you just lie there.

He’s warm.

His breath is slow.

And he looks so peaceful like this — not cocky, not sarcastic, not teasing. Just… Isack. Your best friend. The one who always knows when to push your buttons and when to pull back.

Carefully, you lift your free hand and slide it into his curls. The hair at the nape of his neck is still damp and soft from the shower. You let your fingers play there, light and slow. He doesn’t wake — he just sighs, and leans in a little more.

And then you do it.

You shift slightly and ease him closer, letting his head rest fully on your chest.

He fits there like he’s always meant to.

His leg brushes yours. One arm drapes across your stomach, heavy and warm. You’re barely covered, but he doesn’t react. Just sleeps. Trusts you. Sleeps like your heartbeat is the only thing keeping the world steady.

You tilt your phone away, screen dimming.

Your hand stays in his hair. You don’t dare move.

The fan ticks quietly above you, useless.

And you — for once — don’t mind the heat.

Because Isack is asleep on your chest in nothing but shorts, breathing like you’re home, and your sheer lace bra is the last thing either of you is thinking about now.

⸻

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were stroking Isack’s hair, eyes heavy-lidded and phone forgotten on the bed, and the next—

It’s morning.

The light is golden through the shutters, bleeding across the white sheets and spilling warm across the room. The breeze smells like sea salt and something floral from the garden. The air is still humid, still too warm, but it feels soft now. Gentle.

And Isack is still wrapped around you.

No, more wrapped around you than before.

Somewhere in the night he must’ve shifted again, because now he’s got one leg draped across your thighs, one arm slung across your waist, and—most dangerously—his face is fully buried between your breasts.

You blink at the ceiling, heartbeat thudding.

You can feel his breath, soft against your chest. The rise and fall of it. You’re still wearing the sheer white lace bra—thin, soft, not even close to hiding anything. And Isack… is asleep like it’s the most natural place in the world for his face to be.

You stay still for a moment, not breathing.

And then, slowly, like a switch being flipped—

He stirs.

You feel his body tense slightly. His nose twitches. He shifts his head just enough to nuzzle into you.

And then freeze.

Absolutely freeze.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“…fuck.”

It’s mumbled. Muffled. Straight into your chest.

You press your lips together, a laugh bubbling up before you can stop it.

His voice comes again, muffled and mortified. “Please tell me I’m dreaming.”

You grin. “If you are, it’s a really vivid one.”

He pulls back like he’s been electrocuted.

Scrambles upright, hair completely disheveled, blinking down at you with wide, panicked eyes—and suddenly very, very aware of exactly where he’s been sleeping.

You stay where you are, sheets pulled up just enough to keep things decent, but your bra is still there, still sheer, still very much not hiding anything. His gaze flickers down and then immediately away, color blooming across his face like a sunrise.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—fuck, I—”

“Isack.”

He’s still rambling. “I thought I was dreaming about, like, a pillow or—Jesus, why didn’t you wake me up?”

You laugh, fully now. “You looked comfortable!”

“I was on your boobs!”

“You’re very cozy,” you tease, trying to sound breezy even as your skin flushes beneath his gaze. “And very cute when you snore, by the way.”

“I don’t snore—”

“You do.”

“You let me fall asleep on you in that?” He gestures vaguely toward your chest, not daring to actually look. “Do you realize what you’re wearing?”

Now it’s your turn to go a little still.

You look down, just for a second. The lace is soft and white and very see-through in the morning sun. It clings gently to your skin, doing absolutely nothing to disguise what’s underneath.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Isack looks like he wants to die.

“Fuck, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to be weird,” he says quickly. “You know I wasn’t. I didn’t even notice last night, I swear, and I wasn’t, like, looking, I just—your heartbeat was—fuck.”

You blink up at him, startled. “My heartbeat?”

He immediately looks like he regrets speaking.

You sit up slowly, careful not to knock him off the bed. “Isack.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Were you listening to it?”

“I—” He shifts. “I guess. It was nice.”

That silences you.

Just for a second.

Then you smile, softer now. “It was nice having you there.”

He finally looks at you again, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read between the lines. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A long pause stretches between you.

The room is still warm. Still golden. Still thick with something you’re both too scared to name.

Isack bites his lip. “Can I… lie back down?”

You blink. “On me?”

“No!” he says too fast, ears turning red. “Just—next to you. I wasn’t ready to be awake yet.”

You bite back another smile and lift the sheet. “Then get in.”

He hesitates for half a second, then slips under the covers, close but careful now. Like he’s terrified of doing something wrong.

You roll onto your side, facing him. “You can come closer.”

He looks at you.

“You already slept on my boobs,” you add helpfully. “What’s closer than that?”

Isack groans and covers his face with his hand. “Please stop saying that.”

You laugh, reaching out to gently pull his hand away. “You’re cute when you panic.”

You hold Isack’s hand a little longer than you need to.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t meet your eye, not right away—but he lets your fingers thread with his. Lets the silence stretch, slow and full and humming, not with awkwardness but something else. Something almost electric.

Your sheets rustle as he settles closer under the covers.

Not touching, not quite. But his bare shoulder brushes your arm. You’re still in your bra—still barely covered by the thin white lace—and the only thing between you is one deep breath.

You roll onto your back again, phone on your stomach, and glance at him.

His hair’s a mess. One curl sticks up completely sideways. His cheeks are still faintly pink. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this—quiet. Careful.

It makes your heart ache.

“You know,” you murmur, “this is probably the first time in our entire friendship that you’ve gone ten minutes without insulting me.”

That gets a soft huff out of him. “I’m too emotionally compromised.”

“Over what?” you tease. “My boobs?”

He groans, pressing his face into your shoulder. “Stop.”

You’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

But your heart’s doing weird things in your chest—fluttering, skipping, aching a little with how close he is and how much you want to close the space between you. It’s Isack. Your Isack. The one who used to throw sand at you on the beach when you were eight. Who made you watch dumb horror movies and whispered jokes through half of them just to make you laugh.

And now he’s here, grown-up and warm and shirtless, under your sheets with a sun-kissed flush and hands that tremble just a little when they brush yours.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “Did it freak you out?”

He turns his face, looking up at you. “What?”

You shrug, eyes on the ceiling. “Waking up like that. On me.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “No.”

You look over. “No?”

He licks his lips, throat bobbing. “It freaked me out that you might freak out. Not the actual… position.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “Because I… liked it?”

It comes out a question. Like he’s testing it on his tongue, scared it’ll land wrong.

Your heart skips again.

And suddenly you feel it—the shift. The quiet, unmistakable slide from teasing into truth.

You sit up a little, propping your weight on one elbow. He does the same, mirroring you. The sheet slips a bit down your chest and he definitely notices but tries very hard not to.

Your voice is soft. “You did?”

He meets your eyes, finally. Really meets them. And he doesn’t look away.

“I like being close to you,” he says, no joke in it. “I always have. Even before I realized why.”

Your stomach swoops.

Before you can answer, his hand reaches—slow, almost hesitant—and rests just above your wrist. His thumb brushes your skin.

You can feel your heartbeat there now, too.

“You always say I’m annoying,” he says, voice low, “but you never actually push me away.”

“I don’t want to,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

A breath passes.

Then two.

And Isack leans in—just slightly, just enough that you know where it’s going. But he pauses, close enough that you can feel the shape of his breath.

He waits.

And waits.

And it takes every ounce of courage you have to lift your chin and meet him halfway.

The kiss is barely there—soft, tentative, like the beginning of something you’re both too scared to name. But it’s warm. And real. And it lingers, like sea salt on sun-warmed skin.

When he pulls back, his forehead leans against yours.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he murmurs.

You nod, breath shaky. “Me either.”

The AC groans somewhere in the villa, still broken.

But the heat between you isn’t from the weather anymore.

Not really.

⸻

By the time you both pull yourselves out of bed, the sun has climbed high enough to bake the villa tiles warm beneath your bare feet.

You shuffle to the kitchen in your oversized pajama shorts and the same sheer bra—too lazy to find a shirt, too wrapped in the morning haze to care. Isack’s behind you in that loose pair of shorts, still shirtless, hair pushed back from his face with damp fingers from a rushed attempt to fix it.

The air smells like lemon and thyme from the open window. Somewhere down the hill, someone is playing guitar.

You open the fridge, peer inside, and frown. “Why do we only have, like, three eggs and… half a zucchini?”

“I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday,” Isack says from behind you. “But someone distracted me by dragging me to the beach.”

You turn slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’re blaming me?”

He leans against the counter, smirking. “You’re very persuasive.”

“You’re very lazy.”

He shrugs. “Also true.”

Your heart does a weird little thing in your chest—because his smirk is warm now. Familiar. But under it, there’s something new in the way he looks at you. Like the kiss from this morning still lingers in his mouth. Like he’s remembering the way his hands felt on your waist.

You bite your lip and look back at the fridge.

“Okay, chef,” you say, grabbing the eggs. “You’re on breakfast duty.”

He groans. “Can’t we just have gelato again?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “You slept on my boobs. The least you can do is make eggs.”

He puts his head in his hands. “Please stop bringing that up.”

You grin.

⸻

The “cooking” is a disaster.

You’re sautéing zucchini in olive oil while Isack tries to scramble eggs and instead somehow burns them to the bottom of the pan.

“I’m not a breakfast guy!” he says defensively, waving a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Clearly,” you say, laughing.

You nudge his hip with yours as you pass behind him. He doesn’t move. Just lets your body press into his like it’s something he’s allowed now. Something he wants. You feel the way he inhales—just slightly, just enough to feel the side of your thigh against his. You hug him from behind, cheek on his back, breathing in, this summer, this week, this moment, and he just lets you, grabs one of your hands that is holding him and brings it to his face, to kiss it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But it’s there.

It’s so there.

By the time you manage to plate everything, the eggs are edible (barely), and you’re both grinning like idiots. You sit on the tiled terrace with two mismatched plates, sun warming your knees, hair damp from a quick rinse in the outdoor shower.

Isack props his feet on the rail. His plate rests on his lap. And his arm? It’s behind you. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that his fingers graze your shoulder every time he shifts.

You steal a piece of his toast. He pretends to be offended. He gets crumbs on his stomach trying to brush you off, and you laugh so hard your eyes water.

It’s stupid.

It’s perfect.

It’s everything you didn’t know you wanted until it happened.

⸻

Later, after dishes and sunscreen and the sun making you drowsy again, you lie on the shaded couch in the garden, your book open across your stomach.

Isack flops down beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests his head on your thigh like it’s natural. Like it’s normal now.

You don’t say anything either.

You just thread your fingers into his hair—slow, lazy movements, brushing over the curls at his nape, the skin just beneath his hairline. His eyes flutter closed.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when two people don’t need to fill it.

You’re reading again, eyes skimming the page.

But then you hear it—soft, half-mumbled.

“Hey,” he says, eyes still closed.

“Hmm?”

“I meant it,” he murmurs. “This morning. What I said.”

Your hand pauses in his hair.

He cracks one eye open. “About not pretending.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He smiles—barely. Just a little curve of his lips. But it’s enough to make your chest feel like it’s glowing.

Then he says it, so soft you almost miss it:

“Does that mean I get to kiss you again?”

You glance down at him.

“Are you asking permission?” you tease.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he says, half-whining.

You grin, lean forward just a little—and tilt his chin up with two fingers.

“Good,” you say, brushing your lips against his. “Because you’re about to be very, very spoiled.”

He doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy kissing you like he’s been waiting for years.

⸻

“You packed the sunscreen, right?”

You glance at Isack as the two of you walk down the path toward the beach, bare feet kicking up sand.

He holds up the bottle with a mock flourish. “Do I look like an amateur?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. You once used body lotion as shampoo.”

“That was one time. And it smelled incredible, for the record.”

You snort. “Yeah, like fake coconuts and bad decisions.”

He side-eyes you but doesn’t argue, just lets out a quiet laugh and adjusts the towel slung over his shoulder.

The beach is basically empty—just a curve of pale sand and soft waves stretching into blue. The villa’s umbrella sets up easily, and you both drop down onto the towels without a word.

There’s something about being here, with him, like this, that makes everything slow down. No rush, no pretending. Just sun and sea and Isack’s shoulder brushing yours as he lies back beside you.

“Do you ever shut up?” he says eventually, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, but you already know the corner of them are crinkled from the way he is smiling.

“You’re the one who started talking,” you shoot back.

“Only because you always have some smartass comment locked and loaded.”

“Someone’s got to keep your ego in check.”

He exhales a small laugh and turns his head toward you, still half-asleep behind the shades. “You act like I’m some cocky guy who needs humbling.”

You raise a brow. “You literally referred to yourself as ‘the blueprint’ last week.”

“I was joking.”

“You weren’t. You were completely serious and drinking orange juice like it was champagne.”

Isack sighs dramatically. “I’m misunderstood.”

You roll onto your side and poke his arm. “You’re annoying.”

He lifts his sunglasses just enough to look at you. “You still like me, though.”

You go quiet for a second.

Then you smirk. “Debatable.”

He grins, satisfied, and drops the glasses back over his eyes.

The breeze kicks up a bit, warm and salty. Somewhere down the shore, a gull screams like it’s personally offended.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

You close your eyes and feel the heat of the sun settle into your skin. Next to you, Isack’s hand shifts in the sand. Not touching, not exactly—just close enough you notice.

“Did you bring water?” you ask, eyes still shut.

“Yeah. Cold, too.”

You smile. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Still debatable.”

He groans.

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

⸻

You stay stretched out under the umbrella, head resting against your rolled-up towel. The heat sinks into your skin in that perfect way—just warm enough to lull you into a lazy haze, but not enough to make you miserable. And with the sea breeze drifting up the shore, it’s kind of perfect.

Isack stands up with a stretch, casting a shadow across your legs.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “Leaving me already?”

“I’m going for a swim.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back before giving you a look. “You coming?”

You tilt your head, eyes lazily trailing up his frame. His swim shorts hang low on his hips, and the sun makes his skin glow golden. He squints into the light, one hand on his hip, waiting.

You shake your head. “Nah. I’m too comfy. You go be a little sea creature.”

He scoffs. “Wow. Supportive.”

“You knew what this was.”

He laughs, backing away toward the water. “Just don’t cry when I come back and get sand all over your towel.”

You flip him off without looking.

He’s still laughing when he hits the water.

It’s quiet again once he’s gone, save for the soft crash of waves and the occasional sound of his splashing in the distance. You turn onto your stomach, resting your chin on your folded arms, and watch him.

Isack moves through the water like he was born for it—easy strokes, then letting himself float on his back, eyes closed like he’s part of the sea now. Like he belongs here.

You wonder if he knows how easy he is to watch. How relaxed he looks, out there in the blue, with no cameras, no racing, no pressure. Just him. Just this.

When he finally comes back in, he’s dripping wet and grinning, curls plastered to his forehead.

“You look like a wet dog,” you say.

He flops down onto his towel without replying, shaking his hair out just enough to spray you lightly.

“Isack!”

“You said I looked like a dog. I figured I’d commit to the bit.”

You wipe water from your arm with an exaggerated huff.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “You were watching me.”

You raise a brow. “You wish.”

“I saw you.”

“I was checking for jellyfish.”

“Sure. Totally what that look on your face was about.”

You try to fight your smile, but it’s a losing battle. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins, eyes squinting against the sun. “Too late.”

He’s too close now—barely a few inches between your towels. And though you’re still covered by the umbrella’s shade, the air feels warmer suddenly. Still soft, still easy. But warmer.

You look at him, and he meets your gaze like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like he doesn’t have a drop of self-consciousness left in him.

You nudge his towel with your foot. “You gonna dry off, or just soak through everything?”

“Why? You afraid I’ll get your hair wet?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to share space with a damp human sponge.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

You laugh, and he lets his head fall back onto his towel, eyes closed again.

And for a while, you both just… exist there. In the sun. In the quiet. Together.

Until he speaks again, voice softer this time.

“…Thanks for coming with me.”

You glance over. His eyes are still shut, but the edge in his voice is gone. It’s just Isack. Tired. Warm. Real.

You answer just as quietly. “You kidding? You dragged me here.”

He smiles. “Still.”

You don’t say anything, just shift your hand in the sand so it’s a little closer to his. Not touching—just near.

He doesn’t move away.

⸻

The sun climbs higher, the breeze softens, and neither of you moves.

Isack’s hand stays where it is—just a breath away from yours in the sand, fingers almost brushing. You can feel the warmth of him without touching, can practically count the grains of sand clinging to the edge of his wrist.

You turn your head, cheek against the towel. “You’re not even trying to dry off.”

He hums without opening his eyes. “Why would I? It’s warm.”

“So now you’re just… baking like a lizard?”

“Exactly.”

You glance at him sideways. His lips twitch like he knows you’re staring.

“Not a flattering comparison, Hadjar,” you murmur, letting the silence stretch again.

A beat. Then, with a soft voice and a grin you can hear more than see:

“Least I’m a pretty lizard.”

You snort, your smile pressing into the terrycloth of the towel. “Debatable.”

He finally opens his eyes, tilting his head toward you lazily. “Tell that to the girl who’s been watching me swim for the last thirty minutes.”

You keep your gaze forward, unmoved. “Still just on jellyfish patrol.”

“Mm. Right.” He squints against the sunlight filtering through the umbrella, then lets out a soft sigh, like the heat and stillness are getting to him too.

After a moment, he moves again—sits up this time, brushing sand off his legs. You feel the shift of the air, the way his presence pulls slightly away, and you hate how your skin already misses the warmth of him.

But then—

“Come on,” he says, rising to his feet. “You’ve been under that umbrella all morning.”

You roll onto your back, hand shielding your eyes. “Maybe I’m smart.”

“Or maybe you’re scared to get your hair wet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You already got my hair wet, you sea rat.”

He laughs and steps closer, reaching out a hand toward you. You squint up at it, suspicious.

He wiggles his fingers. “Truce. Come swim.”

You let the moment drag out. Watch the way water drips from his wrist, how the sun catches the freckles on his shoulder. Then, finally, you reach up and let him pull you to your feet.

Your fingers brush again—still casual. Still not lingering.

But you don’t miss the way his hold slows just slightly. Or the way he looks away a moment too late.

You grab your sunglasses from the towel and adjust the tie at your hip before following him down to the shoreline. The sand is hot on your feet, and you skip a few steps to avoid burning them, laughing as Isack jogs ahead.

The water is cool and perfect.

You both dive under the same wave, surfacing with hair slicked back and eyes squinting. He shakes his curls out dramatically, sending a spray of seawater at you for the second time today.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, blinking through the droplets.

He grins. “You love it.”

And you don’t reply—not really—because you’re not sure what would come out of your mouth if you tried.

So instead you swim out a little further, float on your back, let the sea hold you for a while. He stays nearby, always within reach, the silence between you thick but not heavy. Just… full.

When you both finally wade back to shore, sun-drunk and quiet, you collapse onto your towels again—closer this time. Shoulder to shoulder. Still not touching.

But now you can feel his breath when he turns his head. You can hear his swallow when you speak. And when your fingers curl into the sand between you, they graze his—not by accident this time.

And still.

He doesn’t move away.

You sit up on one arm, heart pounding, and close the distance between the two of you.

He’s already smiling, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. Your lips meet his, soft at first, testing. The kiss tastes of salt and sun, of all the words you’ve both been too scared to say.

Then his hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone so gently it makes your chest ache. You melt into him, kissing back harder now, and he meets you halfway—like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.

The world narrows to this: the sound of waves crashing just a few feet away, the warmth of his palm against your skin, the way his other hand sneaks to your waist to pull you closer. You let out a quiet, surprised laugh against his mouth when he nips playfully at your bottom lip, and he grins into the kiss, clearly pleased with himself.

It isn’t rushed—it’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that feels like a beginning. Like something finally cracking open.

When you part, you’re both a little breathless, foreheads leaning together, eyes still closed.

He whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the surf, “Took you long enough.”

You laugh softly, brushing your nose against his. “Shut up.”

But you kiss him again anyway.

⸻

After a long takeout session you didn't even think was possible yesterday, you reach for the cooler you’d dragged out earlier, still tucked under the umbrella’s shade. Inside, the water bottles are slick with condensation, nestled beside a plastic container of chopped fruit. You hold up a peach slice and wave it temptingly in front of him.

“Bribing me with fruit now?” he says, grinning.

You pop the slice in your mouth without answering, juice slicking your fingers, sweet and sticky on your lips. His gaze flicks to your mouth for a second too long.

“Want one or not?” you tease, nudging his bare side with your foot.

He shifts toward you, reaching lazily for the container. “Hand it here.”

But instead of passing it, you grab another peach slice and hold it out between your fingers.

He raises a brow. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” you say, voice lilting with mock innocence. “Childhood best friends feed each other fruit all the time. It’s completely normal.”

Isack eyes you for a moment, then leans in slowly—mouth parting just slightly before he bites the peach from your hand.

You try not to react. Try not to show the way your breath catches just a little as his lips brush your fingers, as juice drips to your knuckles and his tongue darts out to catch it.

He sits back like it was nothing, chewing with that same casual grin. “Sweet,” he says, licking his thumb.

You try to swallow, but it catches in your throat. “The fruit or the moment?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “Both.”

Your face heats, and not from the sun.

You busy yourself with another bottle of water, twisting the cap and taking a long sip. The cold hits your chest like a shock, but it steadies your head just enough to breathe again.

“Want some?” you offer him the bottle without looking directly at him.

He leans over, eyes on yours this time, and drinks from the same bottle. Doesn’t wipe the rim. Doesn’t need to.

You both settle back down, peach container between you now, your legs just barely touching. The heat makes it easier not to move—like you’ve both been melted into the moment, too sun-stupid and slow to fight how natural it feels.

After a while, Isack lifts his head, squinting at you under the umbrella.

“You always chew on your lip when you’re thinking,” he says softly.

You blink. “Do I?”

He nods. “You’ve been doing it since you were thirteen.”

There’s something in his voice—fond, and quiet, and a little too aware.

You meet his gaze and don’t look away this time.

“I’m thinking about what happens if I feed you another peach slice,” you say carefully.

He doesn’t laugh.

He just looks at you, then glances down at the fruit, then back up.

His voice is low. “Try it.”

The air thickens—not heavy, but warmer than before. Like something’s shifting between you, curling up from the sand and sea and years of pretending you don’t feel it.

You take another slice. Hold it out again.

He leans in slower this time. And when he takes it from your hand, his lips brush your fingers a second longer than necessary.

And still, neither of you moves away.

⸻

You both go quiet after that second peach slice. Just… looking at each other, like neither of you knows exactly what you just did.

Until Isack clears his throat, leans back with exaggerated drama, and says, “Well. That wasn’t weird at all.”

You snort. “Oh yeah, super normal. Just two besties sharing some sensual fruit. As one does.”

He grins, eyes lighting up as he reaches for another slice. “Should we start feeding each other grapes next? Maybe lie back and fan each other with palm leaves?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Only if I get to be Cleopatra.”

“I’m not calling you ‘Your Majesty’ on this trip. I have limits.”

“Too bad. You definitely give off royal servant energy.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “Wounded.”

You toss a peach slice at him and it bounces off his collarbone. He stares at it, then at you.

“…That was an attack.”

“You deserved it.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

He throws a piece back—misses—and it lands in the sand.

“Wasting fruit and failing dramatically,” you murmur. “That’s gotta be a new low.”

“Okay, first of all, rude again.” He sits up a bit, brushing his sandy hands off on his towel. “Second of all, this was supposed to be a relaxing beach morning, not a peach-throwing war.”

“You started it.”

“I was eating.”

“You were flirting.”

He pauses, lips parted around whatever comeback he had queued up. You can see the shift—just for a second—in the line of his jaw. His gaze flicks to you again, quick and unreadable.

“…Was I?”

You feel heat bloom somewhere behind your ribs, slow and steady.

You smile—light, breezy, as if your heart isn’t suddenly thudding a little harder than it was a minute ago. “You tell me.”

Isack leans back again, crossing his arms behind his head like he’s stretching. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“I’m mysterious like that.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, laughing softly.

He tilts his head toward you without looking. “But you like me when I kiss you.”

The words come easy. Familiar.

Still, there’s something soft in his voice now. Something a little too real.

You reach for your water bottle again, stalling. “I guess I do.”

You hear his quiet hum—approving, or teasing, or maybe both. You don’t ask.

Instead, the two of you go quiet again, still smiling, still close. Your feet brush his under the towels and he doesn’t pull away. The sea stretches out in front of you, sparkling. The air smells like sun and salt and whatever this thing is between you that neither of you is quite naming yet.

Eventually, Isack shifts beside you and mutters, “I think I got sand in my shorts.”

You snort. “Romance is dead.”

He looks over, grinning. “Unless…”

“Don’t even think about it.”

He laughs again, head tipped back, and you do too—because god, it’s easy with him. It always has been.

Even if it’s starting to feel like something more.

⸻

The laughter dies down slowly, trailing off like waves against the shore.

You stay lying back on your towel, legs stretched out, your body warm and lazy from the sun and the lingering taste of fruit. Isack’s beside you, hair drying in messy curls, arm close enough that if you moved just slightly to the left, your elbows would touch.

For a while, there’s just the wind and the sea.

And him.

You glance over without turning your head. “You gonna swim again?”

He stretches his arms overhead, eyes still closed. “Nah. I like it here.”

You hum. “Because of the sun or the peaches?”

“Neither.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

You nudge his foot with yours. “Well now you have to say what you meant.”

He opens one eye, barely. “I meant you, obviously.”

Your heart skips—because he says it so easily. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.

And maybe it is.

You sit up slowly, brushing sand off your thigh, trying to act unfazed. “Careful, Hadjar. That sounded dangerously like affection.”

“Guess the sun’s making me soft.”

“Or the peaches,” you murmur, half under your breath. “Or the makeout session”

He catches it anyway. Smirks. “Could be the peaches. That second slice really did something to me.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile won’t quit.

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks at you for real, and it’s not playful anymore. It’s quiet. Like he’s letting himself say something without actually putting it into words.

“You look happy here,” he says.

You blink. “I am happy here.”

“With me?” he asks, and this time, his voice dips lower. Less teasing. More unsure.

You meet his eyes. And you think about how he’s been your best friend since you were kids. How he’s always made you laugh, how he always knew when to sit in silence and when to pull you out of it. How every memory lately seems to include him, even the ones you didn’t think were supposed to matter.

And now you’re here. On a beach. Sharing fruit and sun and glances that linger too long, and kissing him too often.

“With you,” you say, steady. “Yeah.”

He stares for a second longer. Then drops back onto his towel with a dreamy sigh.

“Well,” he says, hand behind his head again, “good thing I packed enough peaches for a week.”

You toss your towel at his face.

He catches it too late, laughing again, and the moment shifts back into something easy. Safe.

But not the same.

Definitely not the same.

Because even when you lie back again and close your eyes, you feel the warmth of his arm beside yours. You feel the echo of his words in your chest.

You look happy here.

With me?

And maybe he doesn’t say anything else. Maybe neither of you does.

But you both stay there long after the sun starts to dip—just a little too close, just a little too quiet—and the space between you isn’t just sand anymore.

It’s something else entirely.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻