Javi never wanted to grow up. The very thought of it—of feeling his body slowly rot, betray him, reject him—made his skin crawl. Growing up meant pain: the constant ache in your back, the world pressing down on you until your spine folded like a tired bridge. It meant people outcasting you, turning their noses up because you didn’t “age right,” like there was some proper way to wither. Nah, that wasn’t for him.

He decided a long time ago that 29 was his limit. Not because he wanted to die, Because he wanted to live, to enjoy what he had, while he could, before the world turned it sour. Live without the slow crawl toward some lonely, decrepit end.

The boat rocks gently beneath him, water lapping against its sides as the sun beats down on his bare chest. Javi’s arms hang over the edge, hands skimming the cool surface, legs kicked lazily into the water. The sun feels heavy on his skin, golden and warm, and for a moment, he feels like he’s floating, untethered from everything.

He cracks open one eye, squinting at the figure sitting across from him. His best friend, his lover—you. The sight of you makes his lips curve into a lazy smile, a warmth blooming in his chest that has nothing to do with the sun.

He shifts slightly, water dripping from his fingertips as he watches you. He’d share everything with you, that much he knew. His wild ideas, his stupid plans to burn out at his peak. All of it, yours.

“Morning handsome.” he murmurs, voice low and slow giving you a lazy wave.