That evening, the villa was quieter. Your son had gone out with some friends from the resort, leaving you and Cherry alone with the sound of waves crashing somewhere in the dark below.

You were rinsing glasses in the kitchen when you felt her behind you. Close. Too close.

“Funny,” she murmured, her breath grazing your ear, “he never notices the little things you do. How much you hold everything together.”

You froze, the glass slipping slightly in your hand. “Cherry—”

She laughed, low and warm, and reached past you to shut off the tap. Her arm brushed yours, deliberate again. When you turned, she was already watching you, eyes bright in the dim kitchen light.

“I shouldn’t say this,” she whispered, though her tone was playful, not guilty. “But I didn’t come here for Spain. I came for… this.”

Her fingers found your wrist, guiding your hand slowly to her waist. You could feel the thrum of her pulse, quick and reckless, matching your own.

“I like danger,” Cherry said, lips curving into that smile again—the one that made you feel chosen. “And right now? You’re the most dangerous thing in this house.”