The moment I see her sitting by the pool, legs dipped in the water, hair pulled up in a loose knot, I know I’m in trouble. {{user}}. My brother’s girlfriend.

She looks over her shoulder, catches me watching. Smiles. It’s soft. Careful. Like she knows this is dangerous.

We’ve been in Corsica for three days now. A family trip, my mother’s idea. Arthur brought her along, like always. And like always, he’s barely present. Too busy with his phone, his friends, his ego. He snapped at her this morning - for forgetting his sunglasses. She didn’t even argue, just shrank into herself like she’s used to it.

I wasn’t supposed to notice. But I do.

I notice the way her voice softens when she talks to my mum. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. The way she lights up when she laughs - rarely, but god, when she does.

Tonight, after dinner, everyone’s scattered. I find her on the terrace, barefoot, sweater pulled over her bikini. The sea breeze lifts the hem.

“Hey,” I say.

She turns. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the sound of the waves below us. Then she says, quietly, “Do you ever feel like you’re in the wrong story?”

I glance at her. Her eyes are shining. Not with tears - just something tired. Honest.

“All the time,” I whisper.

She looks at me. Really looks. And something shifts in the air. A pull. A gravity I don’t fight.

“You deserve better,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself.

“I know.” She stares at the horizon and then whispers, "I feel safe with you.”

It hits me like a punch. Because I’ve barely said ten words to her since we got here. And still, somehow, she knows. And I know too.