======Sea and Skin======

  The beach is almost empty: a dog chasing gulls, the lifeguards lifting the yellow fg. Sand is cool under their feet. Everyone’s already in swimsuits; Sophie’s is simple bck, her loose shirt left on the towel. Air hits her bare shoulders. The sky is clear, and something in her chest lifts with it.

  — Pn: to the middle buoys and back, — she says. — In and out.

  — Sprint first. — Laya cuts in. — Girls—three lengths along the shore, boys chase. Then ball?

  — Deal. — Evan nods, checking his watch.

  — I’m in for the race. — Riccardo raises his point-and-shoot and clicks once, like a receipt.

  — I’ll count breaths. — Davide lifts a hand.

  — Timing’s on me. — Matteo taps the bracelet on his wrist.

  Laya sets the pace. She drives toward the water, stride compact and fast. Sophie stays beside her. Spray darkens the fabric at Sophie’s waist. Cold spray pulls her skin tight. Droplets track down as they run.

  They ugh, then lose it, and the boys give up first at the turn.

  — One more? — Laya’s eyes fsh.

  — One. — Sophie’s breath catches, and for a second she catches her own reflection in the ft water—focused, alive. Not bad at all.

  They shift to the ball. Passes low, fast. Laya leaps for a tricky one; her palm lifts it clear of the spsh, and Riccardo—forgetting to grumble—cps. Sophie runs the game steady. Her shoulders work like a metronome. In the pauses, she tucks a stray strand and notices Evan’s count stumble, reflexively; he smiles again and finds the rhythm.

  — Break? — Matteo holds up the water bottle. Cold pstic, beaded with sweat.

  — One minute, — Sophie decides. — Then—to the buoys.

  They listen to their breath and the low surf. The beach still feels half-empty around them. For a moment it’s just theirs.

  The girls spread their towels and lie on their stomachs. Laya, sly:

  — Even tan—it’s a science. Topless?

  Sophie looks at the sea, at the thin line where the water keeps arriving, and nods—unexpected even to herself.

  — Topless. Sunscreen first.

  Straps snap. Sun hits skin. Sunscreen goes on in a thin yer, more habit than gmour—Nivea from a battered bottle that’s lived in somebody’s beach bag. Sophie tucks her swimsuit top under her cheek. She feels air slide down her back. And just from knowing, something warms inside her.

  — If someone sees?

  — We’re on the Mediterranean. — Laya smiles. — It’s not boring here.

  The guys have scattered: Davide keeps the ball up at the water’s edge, Matteo comes back with fresh water and ice, Evan checks his watch by the outdoor shower. Riccardo returns with his point-and-shoot, wipes the lens, looks up—and for a second, through a gap in the towel, catches the barbell piercing on Laya.

  The camera drops at once. His voice goes ft:

  — Scusate. Didn’t see anything.

  — Nothing to see. — Laya’s cheerful, not hiding.

  Sophie hears them and feels her pulse jump. She pulls the towel a centimeter higher—more for order than for embarrassment.

  — Five minutes—then the buoys, — Evan calls.

  — Copy that. — Sophie stays lying there another moment. A quiet thought: just a few millimeters of fabric—and this much freedom…

  ======Vote on the Evening======

  The kitchen tiles are cool underfoot. Sophie, barefoot, pours water into a pitcher on the IKEA tray. The guys’ voices drift in from the terrace.

  — I put the camera down right away, — Riccardo is saying. — There was… a ring, or a bar. Caught the light. Not for photos.

  — And rightly so. — Matteo’s voice is quiet. — No consent—no shots.

  — Agreed. — Davide nods. — And the knock-and-wait rule would’ve saved us yesterday.

  — That one’s on me. — Evan sighs. — Emergency. I didn’t see anything, honestly.

  Sophie freezes in the doorway. Palm on the cool gss. Her words come out even. Her body doesn’t follow. Her stomach tightens. Her nipples harden under the cotton—memory of the shower and the beach, stacked together, too close. She shifts her foot. No sound. Keeps listening anyway. Ashamed. Not now, not yet…

  — Laya’s fast, — Davide says. — Starts straight out of a textbook.

  — And Sophie’s like a conductor, — Matteo adds. — No shouting, but everything in pce.

  — And let’s not mythologize this. — Evan’s voice stays calm. — The bathroom was just a mix-up. End of story.

  — Okay. — Riccardo softens. — But the piercing—that’s cool.

  A low ugh. Heat rises to her colrbones; shame and joy drink from the same cup. Sophie sets the pitcher on the tray, adds gsses, takes a step toward the light—then half a step back, gathering herself. One more moment, and she’ll walk out to them as if she’d been heading there all along. While she listens, they move on to bread and routes; her name doesn’t come up.

  Bread sizzles in the pan, the kitchen filling with the smell of toast and tomato—pan con tomate, almost. Sophie fries the slices, rubs them with tomato, adds thin peach wedges to a bowl of La Fageda yogurt. She’s in shorts and a thin tank top with nothing underneath. Bare feet slide on the cool floor. Matteo slices the loaf, gnces—quickly looks away, but his gaze returns. Evan pours fresh coffee and slides the sugar bowl toward her; Sophie catches him noting, almost absently, the line of her colrbones.

  — Breakfast is communal, — she announces. — Honey for some, butter for others.

  — Both for me, — Riccardo ughs from the terrace.

  — And time for me, — Davide adds. — Forty minutes—back to the sea?

  Laya sweeps in, phone in hand, already scrolling.

  — Party by the sea tonight, an hour away: chiringuito, live DJs, cava. Locals dance till dawn.

  — Transport? — Evan’s already flipping through his notebook.

  — Commuter train, then a short walk, — Laya says. — Tickets are cheap—like three euros.

  — The ‘treats’ budget can handle it. — Matteo nods. — Light lunch, then.

  — And a nap, — Sophie adds. — And two bottles of water per person.

  She sets out the ptes, feeling their attention—today their eyes pass over her and move on. She likes it. She likes the noticing without pressure, and it makes her work more precisely: toast browning evenly, yogurt swirled neat.

  — Vote on the evening? — Evan asks.

  — We vote. — Sophie smiles at Laya. — We’re going. To dance. But first, we eat.

  ======The Evening Will Remember Them…======

  The room is half-lit; the curtain stirs under the fan. They lie facing each other, knees nearly brushing the sheet.

  — You saw, — Sophie says quietly. — On the beach. The piercing. — A pause. — It’s beautiful.

  — Thanks. — Laya smiles. — Titanium. Straight bar. — She taps the strap at her shoulder. — Got it a year ago. Hurts for a second—then it’s just like an earring. Want a closer look?

  Once. Yes.

  Laya lifts the edge of her top. The silver bar sits straight; the nipple tightens, and the tiny beads catch the light. Sophie looks calmly, almost studying. Inside, heat gathers.

  — Does it bother you when you run? — she asks.

  — No. A little balm, cotton—no ce. — Laya doesn’t hurry to lower the fabric. — In winter it’s even better. Titanium stays warm.

  They both ugh, softly.

  — And the guys? — Sophie’s gaze flicks to the beads; she files it away.

  — Different. — Laya keeps the edge of the top lifted a moment longer. — Matteo—there’s real kindness in him. Davide’s steady as a clock. Evan’s careful, but he hides behind his notebook. Riccardo… — She considers. — A bit performative, but today he was tactful. And for you?

  — I’m still listening to their voices, — Sophie says. — When voice and action match—I feel calm.

  Laya lowers her top and, with the back of her hand, taps Sophie’s shoulder—brief, neutral.

  — If you ever want one—tell me. I know a great piercer.

  — I’ll remember yours for now, — Sophie whispers and closes her eyes. Metal. Warm skin. A clear picture to carry into the dark.

  Outside, clouds thicken. Wind picks up. On the terrace, the guys are already in their shoes, waiting.

  — Train at 22:12, — Evan says, eyes on his notebook. — Taxi’s out. Too expensive.

  — And no twelve-euro cocktails, — Matteo adds from the doorway. — But a group ticket—thirty percent off.

  — I heard someone crack their knuckles, — Riccardo mutters, half to himself.

  — Five minutes! — Laya calls from the room. — Beauty requires… considered decisions.

  The curtain snaps in a gust. Laya pulls from the wardrobe a bck cropped top with spaghetti straps—Zara tag still on the hanger—and a skirt with a bold slit.

  — This. This is your look tonight, — she announces.

  — Bold. — Sophie tries on the top, runs her palm over the fabric; under the cotton, her nipples press, clear, and she likes the frankness of it. — All right. Let them remember us.

  Laya fastens a thin choker around her neck and, more seriously now, adds:

  — The budget won’t suffer. Promise. Two drinks and water. Two.

  — Deal. — Sophie’s smile is warm. She can already picture the looks and the heat they’ll bring—then she sets a rule for herself: take it, don’t chase it.

  — Five minutes! — Davide calls from the terrace, an ultimatum.

  — Coming. — Sophie throws open the door. Wind cools her knees. The hem of her skirt flutters ahead of her step. She feels in her bag for her card, her phone, catches herself smiling again—and suddenly she’s gd she gave in.

  Looks like the evening really will remember them.