The sun hung low over the ocean, spilling gold across the waves, turning the wet sand into a mirror of the sky. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, the lazy sounds of the tide mixing with distant laughter from Pedro’s friends, sprawled across loungers and half-buried in beach towels. You’d been the one resisting this trip at first—there was always work to do, calls to take, schedules to finalize—but Pedro had given you that look.

So now here you were, standing in the sand, phone in hand, recording him as he lounged on a chair, a book balanced on his stomach. His sunglasses had slipped down his nose, curls wild from the salt air, and you could already hear him complaining about how you were always taking pictures.

“You know,” Pedro drawled, flipping a page with no real interest, “one day, when I’m old and gray—”

“You’re already gray.”

“—you’re gonna be showing these videos to people, telling them how I used to be hot.” He turned his head to grin at you, voice dripping with faux nostalgia. “Ah, look at him. Before the questionable fashion choices and the tragic dad sneakers.”

You huffed a laugh, snapping another picture as he stretched, arms above his head, sun catching on tanned skin. “Please. You already dress like a dad on vacation.”

Pedro gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “Wow. My own agent. My own childhood best friend, betraying me like this.”

You rolled your eyes but kept filming. You always had—since the days when you were just two kids running around your neighborhood, long before red carpets and packed schedules. Maybe that’s why he let you get away with it. Because you weren’t just his agent. You were the person who remembered before.

Pedro, still grinning, tilted his head toward you. “At least tell me I look good.”

“You look fine.”

He laughed, head dropping back against the chair. "You’ll appreciate this footage when I’m old and retired." Then, without missing a beat, he added: "Or, you know... you could just admit you like looking at me now."