Spain looked good on him. Tan skin, wind-blown curls, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and a stupidly perfect smile that hadn’t left his face since you’d landed in Málaga two days ago. João was relaxed in a way you rarely saw during the season shirt half unbuttoned, feet kicked up on the balcony railing, hand lazily stroking your thigh as you sipped on cold sangria.

“You’re quiet,” he said, glancing at you over the rim of his glass. “Thinking?”

You grinned. “Thinking I could get used to this.”

His fingers squeezed your leg. “You mean me in a linen shirt with no schedule and too much gelato?”

You giggled. “Exactly that.”

The days blurred into sun, sea, and skin early morning beach walks with his hand in yours, lazy naps under umbrellas where he buried his face in your stomach and pretended not to fall asleep, late dinners where he spoke to waiters in Spanish while you tried not to stare at his jaw.

At night, it was just you and him.

Balconies with candles. Kisses that never felt rushed. Laughter over nothing. João would run his hand up your back and murmur soft things in Portuguese, only for you to smirk and tell him, “I still don’t know what you’re saying.”

He’d whisper, “You don’t need to,” and kiss you like the world didn’t exist outside that villa. On your last night, you stood barefoot at the shore while João came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Can we just… stay?” you whispered.

João rested his chin on your shoulder. “I wish.”

You turned to face him, wind brushing your hair into your face. He tucked a strand behind your ear, eyes soft. “But when we go back,” he said, “this doesn’t change. You and me? We take this with us.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kissed you slowly, waves brushing your ankles, moonlight catching the edge of his smile.

Spain was ending. But what you had with him? It wasn’t a holiday thing. It was real.