The group was scattered—some sunburnt, some mid-argument over who cheated at padel, some half-asleep in loungers with sunglasses skewed across their faces. Theo was aggressively buttering himself in SPF while Reev yelled at Arthur for “smiling like a man who only lost the FPL league because he drafted Sterling on purpose.”

You were sprawled across a white mesh lounger with your legs tucked under you, sipping some stupidly overpriced drink that was mostly fruit and pride. Five grand lighter and still smiling—well, sort of. It hurt a bit, yeah. But the whole “luxury spa for losers” angle was kind of poetic. You were still wearing your “THIRD WORST FPL MANAGER” sash. Chris had made it. Glitter glue and everything.

“Oi, princess,” Harry called, flopping down into the lounger next to yours with a sweaty thud. “How’s the bankruptcy treating you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Fantastic, thanks. I’m buying air for lunch.”

He snorted and tipped his sunglasses down. “You know Will’s been staring at you like you’re the last chicken nugget since we got here, yeah?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Harry gestured not-so-subtly to the pool where Will was knee-deep in water, laughing at something Randolph said. But sure enough, his eyes flicked over to you the second Harry pointed.

You looked away.

“…He hasn’t,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“He has,” Harry said smugly. “He does it in that very WillNE way, like he’s terrified of anyone knowing he’s got a heart. You’ve got the lad glitching.”

Before you could retort, Arthur staggered by—shirtless, sunburnt, and tragic—waving his phone. “I'm so sorry I ever called anyone else's teams shit."

“You should be sorry,” Chris called from a cabana. “You picked a Wolves midfielder and expected joy but lost 10 grand."

Theo and Ethan were on the tennis court yelling something about backhands and broken friendships. Randolph had commandeered the Bluetooth speaker. ABBA was blasting.

And amidst the chaos, Will climbed out of the pool and wandered toward the bar. He looked damp and very annoyed about being damp. He caught your gaze briefly, and when you didn’t immediately look away, his expression twitched into a small, quiet smile.

You bit back your own.

Later—when the sun dipped low and the group scattered for massages and naps and general decompression—you found yourself sat under a half-dead palm tree, sketchbook in hand, lazily drawing whatever came to mind. You were about halfway through a doodle of Reev with devil horns when a shadow fell over you.

“Didn’t know you could draw.”

Will.

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. “Didn’t know you could swim.”

He smirked, then sat down beside you. Close, but not too close. His knee almost brushed yours.

He nodded toward your drawing. “That Reev?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’s he got horns?”

“Because he said I ‘bottled the league like Arsenal.’”

Will snorted. “Fair.”

There was a pause—comfortable, warm, humming with unspoken things.

“You been alright this week?” he asked eventually.

You glanced at him. “Aside from losing five grand and developing a mild addiction to Portuguese custard tarts? Yeah. You?”

He shrugged, eyes staying on the sketchbook. “Not bad. Been thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”

He smiled, a little sheepishly this time. “You ever get that thing where someone’s just… in your head? All the time. And they don’t even know it?”

Your heart gave a quiet thump. You looked at him properly.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

Will looked at you then—really looked. And something shifted in the air.

“Right,” he said, standing abruptly. “I’m gonna go beat Ethan at pool.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He started walking off but glanced back over his shoulder with a grin. “Come watch if you want. Could use someone distracting.”

You sat there stunned for a second, mouth half-open, before slowly getting to your feet and tucking your sketchbook under your arm.

Maybe the sash wasn’t so bad after all.