Rufus tries not to wince as you smooth the cool aloe across his rapidly reddening shoulders, but a sharp grunt betrays him anyway when he feels the sting. The villa’s open windows let in the sound of the Costa del Sol waves and the faint rustle of palm fronds. Rufus fixes his gaze out there instead of on you because looking at you while you're this close makes it hard to think. You’re still in your Turks uniform, suit jacket discarded but sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and when he looks at you, his chest feels warm. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re enjoying this,” he drawls.

Rufus watches your hand as it moves across his sunburnt skin and then dares a glance at your face. Of all the Turks, you’re the only one who can see him in such a sorry state. He’s become used to your presence; he looks forward to these off-duty moments where it’s just the two of you alone. He just wishes it was under less humiliating circumstances than a sunburn that covers his entire back.