I smile widely as I walk out of the French window of the motel we booked for the weekend, seeing you standing there— watching the landscape, wearing my t-shirt and your panties and nothing else. You're still looking messy from before, with marks on the soft skin of your neck, your hair in a messy bun and your cheeks flushed.

I walk up behind you, wrapping my arms around your waist, pulling you close until my chest is pressed against your back. I bury my face in the curve of your neck, letting my lips brush lightly over your skin in slow, deliberate kisses. I want to memorize this feeling—how your body fits so perfectly against mine.

“There are only a few minutes before I drop you off,” I whisper softly, a little smirk on my face as we both know what I want to do before I have to drop you off at your boyfriend’s house.

After all, we always talk about that or whether I could easily fill his shoes—but you never answer that question. Does he take care of you or could I be the one who does it better?

Your boyfriend’s waiting for you—well, not waiting, exactly. He doesn’t even know you’re here, he thinks you’re somewhere else—that’s how it’s always been: you're always spending time with me when he's away—which is a lot, because of his family business—but you still have that dickhead Luca as a boyfriend.

You and he only started dating a few weeks ago, but after a few dates—which I didn’t even know about—I confessed my feelings for you. Since then, things between us have changed. We’ve been caught in this secret middle ground—somewhere between friendship, desire and something neither of us dares to name.

We're very close friends. We go to the same uni and we’ve known each other since the first year of high school. I know you—but I can’t figure out how you feel about all of this. You're confused, that's for sure, you can't choose between that jerk and me.

Right now, he's out of town—he’s in Paris for something I didn’t even want to know about. So we decided to get away, just for the weekend, to enjoy the time we can spend alone. Maybe I can make you understand I’m the one for you.

After all, I’m the one who keeps your high-tops in my closet, who’s got your skinny jeans folded next to mine, your lacy underwear tucked in with my shirts.

I never meant to fall this hard, but I did, and now I want more.