The sun was high over Ibiza, its golden rays reflecting on the calm waves that stretched endlessly before you. Sitting on the deck of the yacht, you let the breeze brush against your skin while your eyes stayed fixed on the sea. There was something about the water — maybe the vastness, maybe the rhythm of the waves — that always reminded you of home in Mexico.

Behind you, you heard Franco’s familiar footsteps. He was humming to himself, a little off-beat as usual, carrying two glasses of something cold without really paying attention to where he was going.

“Ah— careful, careful,” he mumbled to himself when the yacht swayed slightly, almost spilling. Then he spotted you and smiled, that distracted but warm expression he always carried.

“You’re staring at the ocean again, huh?” Franco said softly, setting one of the glasses beside you before dropping down onto the seat next to you. His knee bumped against yours in a clumsy, unintentional way, and he laughed a little. “I swear, you love the sea more than my company.”

The wind tangled his hair as he leaned back, squinting toward the horizon. “You know… ever since you posted that photo, people keep asking if we’re… you know.” He glanced at you with a small grin, cheeks tinted red from the sun — or maybe from the subject. “Guess they think two vacations together means something.”

He shrugged, sipping his drink before adding in his light, almost boyish tone, “Not that I mind the rumors. Could be worse, no?”