The afternoon clung to Saltburn like sweat. Felix lounged by the pool, one arm draped over the back of the chair, cigarette pinched lazily between two fingers. Smoke curled upward, slow and drowsy. The sun pressed down like a hand on the back of his neck.

You were stretched out at the edge of the pool—bare legs, sunglasses, the corner of your mouth curled just slightly as you turned your face to the sun. You hadn’t said a word in over ten minutes, and still, he couldn’t stop looking.

You were Venetia’s friend. Just here for the summer, all casual smiles and late-night laughter and limbs always just a little too close to his. He hadn’t expected you to stick in his mind the way you had.

It had started with glances. A smile over breakfast, your leg brushing his under the table. You’d worn one of Venetia’s silk robes once—too sheer, too deliberate; just for fun and giggles. He remembered the way your eyes met his as you reached for the coffee pot like you weren’t wearing anything at all underneath.

There’d been a night you stood beside him on the terrace, both of you watching a thunderstorm roll in. Your hand had brushed his when you passed the cigarette back. You didn’t pull away.

And then that laugh—late, wine-drunk, head tilted back as he teased you about your tarot cards. He didn’t even believe in that shit, but he’d asked you to read him anyway, just to watch your fingers on the deck, your lips form the words.

Now, the sun lit your skin gold, and you looked like something he wasn’t meant to touch. He dragged in a breath, a cigarette low between his lips.

“You make it really fucking hard to be decent,” he muttered. And he meant it more than you’d ever know. His gaze flickered over to you. “You know that, don’t you?”