Fermín leaned back against the double lounge chair, the fabric warm against his skin from hours beneath the Italian sun. The parasol overhead shielded them from the brightest rays, leaving the two of them in a pocket of shade, where the heat was softened by the steady breeze of the sea. His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, the reflection of the water flickering in the lenses, lazy and hypnotic.

Beside him, {{user}} stretched out on the other half of the chair. Between them sat a low table with condensation-damp glasses, the ice inside clinking faintly each time a breeze stirred. A bowl of olives, a plate of crisp chips, and wedges of fruit lay scattered in casual disarray, the kind of small luxuries that made an afternoon feel infinite.

Fermín reached for his drink, droplets running down the glass onto his hand, and took a slow sip. The cold burned pleasantly down his throat, a sharp contrast to the heat clinging to his skin. A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he set the glass back down.

The speaker between them hummed with some lazy summer track, the kind of song that blended into the waves and the cry of gulls overhead. Fermín leaned back, stretching out, eyes closed against the heavy warmth of the afternoon. For a long moment, he just let it wash over him—the heat, the salt in the air, the comfort of knowing he didn’t need to be anywhere else.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze drifted toward {{user}}, and a grin tugged at his lips. “Man, esto es peligroso.,” he said, voice low, a little playful. “You keep me out here too long and I’ll never wanna go back to training. Sol, mar, ¿estás a mi lado? Olvídate de MotoGP, I’ll retire right here.” He laughed at his own joke, running a hand over his face.