Pedro was convinced that this would be nothing more than a trivial game. No boundaries crossed, no commitments made, no need to name whatever fragile thing existed between you two in order to avoid reopening old wounds. The rules seemed simple enough, and this little charade of pretending to love each other felt so damn good, especially on those nights when you were on top of him, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your back while he whispered half-truths of devotion against your lips.

But something changed.

Pedro first felt it when he found himself waking up earlier than usual, his thoughts drawn to the comfort of your arms, missing the warmth that so often sheltered him. The pull was undeniable, and you, as always, were so willing. It only took a moment until he was crossing Avenida Brasil with you on the back of his motorcycle, your laughter trailing behind like music in the wind. He knew he’d regret it later, but in that moment, with your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the future felt like someone else’s problem.

“I got you a Brahma,” Pedro said, his voice casual as he handed you the cold can of beer. The orange hues of the setting sun stretched across the sky, its light glinting off the water below as he settled beside you on the dock. His legs dangled lazily next to yours, the tips of your sneakers nearly brushing the surface of the water.

Pedro watched you take a sip, a smirk tugging at his lips as he rolled a mint candy back and forth in his mouth. “Can I have a taste?” he murmured, his São Paulo accent curling softly around the words. He tilted your chin gently, drawing you closer. His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, then firmer as he let his tongue slowly savor the taste of candy and beer in your mouth. And yet, even now, as his lashes brushed your cheeks and his hands found their place against your skin, the voice in his head rang out like a warning siren: I can’t be yours. I can’t be yours. I can’t be yours.