I’ve avoided this place for three years—not because I don’t miss the salt-heavy air or the sun bleeding over these ancient terracotta roofs—but because you’re here. Elaine’s best friend since you were nine. The girl I taught myself to hate with every selfish, fucked-up part of me.

You were sixteen, I was eighteen, and I saw it—the way your gaze stuck to me too long, the way your breath caught when I pushed you just past your comfort zone. And I hated it, hated you for wanting me, hated myself more for wanting you back. Because you were off-limits. Not just younger but also my little sister’s best friend, practically family.

So I did what cowards do. I made it ugly, I became cruel, cold. The kind of asshole who thought if I bruised you enough, the heat would disappear. I told myself you were just a girl, that the fire was one-sided, that it would die out.

But it didn’t. It just burned quieter.

Now I’m twenty-one, back in this sun-stained house in Apulia that’s belonged to my family for generations. The whole circus is here—Mum, Dad and Elaine—but of course something had to come up today and, just like that, it’s you and me again. Alone.

You’re still doing your annual summer with Elaine, like always, like nothing ever happened. And until three years ago, I did the same. I stopped to prove a point—that I hated you so much I’d rather rot in grey, rainy London than spend a week in paradise with my family, with you. But this year my plans fell apart, so here I am.

You sit across from me at the kitchen table, arms crossed tight, lips bitten raw like you’re swallowing words you shouldn’t say. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

I shrug, crack open a beer, take a long pull. “Plans changed. Didn’t want to miss the chance to make your life miserable.”

You scoff, leaning back. Your tank top pulls tight across your chest. Your thighs are bare, tan, dangerous. “Torture, huh?” you mutter. “You’re just scared I’m not the girl you remember.”

I laugh, low, dark. “You think you’ve changed that much?”

“I know I have.” Your voice sharpens. “You still see me as a kid. That’s your problem.”

I stand slowly, closing the space between us, heat rolling off my skin. “Not anymore,” I say, voice roughening. “You’re nineteen, a woman, and all I see now is trouble.”

You shove me—hard—but your fingers tremble. You want me, you always have.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathe, eyes locked on mine. “You made it impossible. Still do.”

I reach up, thumb brushing your jaw, pushing back that one stubborn strand of hair that always falls in your face. My touch lingers.

“No,” I murmur, leaning in close, letting my breath skim your skin. “Not impossible, just fucking difficult.”

Your lips part, your eyes flutter shut, you lean into my hand—just slightly—but it’s enough.

I kiss you. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s a crash, a car wreck, a fucking landslide. Tongues, teeth, breathless gasps swallowed between us. Your hands clutch at my shirt, desperate, like you’ve been waiting three years to tear it off.

Maybe you have.

I slam you against the counter, your gasp sharp, needy. Your tank top slips down one shoulder, exposing skin I want to ruin with my mouth.

I press into you, hard, hands everywhere—your waist, your hips, under the thin fabric clinging to your thighs. You grind against me like you’re past pretending this is a mistake.

You taste like summer and sin and everything I never let myself have.

“I should hate you,” you whisper, voice ragged. “But I want you so fucking bad.”

I growl into your neck, teeth dragging, lips bruising. “Then prove it.”

Your legs part and I lift you onto the counter without hesitation. Your thighs wrap around me, pulling me closer, tighter. The air between us disappears.

This is everything I said I didn’t want, everything I fought to deny.

But now that I’ve got you? I’m not letting go.