========== The Show ==========

  Around the table it’s tight: someone on a chair, someone on a stool, Evan perched on the cooler. Sophie sets down the st pte and sits sideways, one leg tucked under her. Her shirt slips, revealing the line of her hip; gnces catch on it without meaning to and then move on. She eats calmly, listens, meets eyes, and doesn’t rush to speak.

  — How do you even function on no sleep? — Davide marvels, spreading tomato on his bread with a heavy hand.

  — Water, sleep, and food, — Sophie shrugs. — And not mixing it all at once.

  — Oh, come on. — Riccardo smirks. — Last night you mixed everything except the sea.

  — The weather. — Evan shows his phone screen. — Storm by noon, heavy rain. Front from the mountains. Wind by evening.

  — In July? — Laya reaches across the table for the butter. — Funny.

  — It does that here, — Matteo replies. — Short and like a wall. We’ll wait it out—then back to the beach.

  Sophie takes a sip of coffee and looks out the window. The air is dry, but somewhere in it—a thin metallic note, as if… The thought slips away, and she crumbles a piece of crust into her pte.

  — Flexible pns, then, — she says. — If it rains—we go to the old quarter. No swimsuits. Umbrels.

  — I’m in. — Evan nods. — And no cocktails before sunset.

  — That from the guy who yesterday… — Laya half-smiles.

  — Exactly, — he replies, even.

  — Thanks for breakfast. — Matteo leans down for her empty cup. For a second his gaze pauses on her calf, then moves away. — Really.

  Sophie reaches for the coffee pot, not hiding her legs. She feels free, thoughtful, alert: she notes the shadows under others’ eyes, someone’s faint smiles, and her own steadiness—like the sea early, before the first chop.

  The beach opens up in front of them. People drift toward the net, runners cut through damp sand, the guys from the cyclist trio immediately start measuring each other’s sprints along the water’s edge. Sophie joins in, makes a couple of passes, ughs, and feels a clean lift inside her—not anxiety, just blood moving faster.

  Afterward, to the showers: a row of semi-opaque stalls, jets pounding from metal mushroom heads.

  Warm water settles onto her skin; her swimsuit clings like a second skin. Sophie tilts her head back, wrings out her hair, lifts the top of her bikini to rinse under the straps. Her silhouette shows on the gss: stomach ft, ribcage, the dark line of the swimsuit, water tracing down. She isn’t pnning anything. She just moves as if no one else exists.

  Into the sound of water weaves a barely-there metallic scrape—like someone dragged a fingernail across one of the mushroom heads.

  Outside, by the rack, two locals are talking:

  — Mira, rubia… se le marca todo, — one whispers.

  — Tranquilo, tío, es guapa. Deixa-, — the other replies, blending Spanish with Catan.

  Someone lets out a low whistle—not crude, more like surprised.

  Returning with his towel, Davide catches the whispers. He slips into the queue as if he’s just waiting and positions himself to block the direct line of sight to her stall.

  — Chicos, de izquierda está libre, ?sí? — He nods calmly toward the next shower. — Allí el chorro es mejor.

  — Vale, vale. — The guys grin and move off.

  Water off, Sophie freezes for a second: the comments were perfectly clear. She brushes drops from her colrbone. The wet fabric clings, and somehow that doesn’t scare her—it squares her shoulders. She steps out, cheeks warm from more than the sun.

  Davide silently hands her a towel; his gaze is direct and honest, not lingering.

  — Gracias… — she smirks. — Guess the show got reviews.

  — ‘The show’ is volleyball, — he replies. — The rest is just water. Let’s get back to our group.

  Sophie nods and, wrapping herself up, walks beside him. Behind them, the thin hiss of the showers keeps going, indifferent.

  ========== The Storm Catches Up ==========

  The rain is already in the air: warm, heavy. Chaos in the house—backpacks, jackets, scrambling on the terrace. Laya’s gaze slides over Sophie, appraising, and she clicks her tongue.

  — In that, in a downpour? Seriously?

  — We’re not going far. — Sophie is unhurried, stubborn.

  — Not far still means wet. Wear this. — Laya holds out a bck lightweight top, a sweater, and a short rain jacket—the thin Decathlon shell that always smells faintly of sunscreen.

  The hallway is narrow, smelling of coffee and sea salt. Without posing, without theatrics, Sophie pulls off her own top. Damp cotton sticks and rustles. For a second her chest is bare; cold tightens her nipples and the hall light throws sharp shadows. She takes the proffered top and slips her arms through. The fabric sits close and covers her. Over it—the rain jacket; the zipper catches, then on the third try clicks into pce.

  From the terrace, Riccardo’s voice drifts in—half-volume, but it carries through the whole house.

  — Ragazzi, should we cancel the fashion show?

  — Seriously? — Evan’s dry response from the kitchen. — My money’s on the rain jacket.

  Matteo ughs.

  — The weather’s appuding. Hear that?

  Thunder rolls, dull and distant.

  Sophie—not defiant, just at ease—tugs the hood onto the back of her head and meets Laya’s gaze. Laya wrinkles her nose.

  — Better. And boots, please.

  — Okay, captain.— Sophie smiles, cing up her trainers. — Let’s go.

  She passes the door to the terrace—two seconds of silence, then the conversation shifts to other topics. No sting. Just a brief warm thought: they saw—so what. In the kitchen, the old radio crackles into static, then clears.

  The rain finally commits, tapping lightly on the steps.

  The stone of the old quarter is warm, smelling of wet dust. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, thunder prowls—like a dog off its leash. The three of them—Sophie, Laya, and Evan—weave between archways; undry hangs overhead, dripping. A chalkboard outside a bar reads cortado 1,50 in smudged white marker.

  — You seriously memorized all the street names from st night? — Evan smiles at the corner of his mouth. — Usually on nights like that people lose their sense of direction.

  — Sometimes the sense of direction gets in the way, — Sophie replies. — Legs remember the route. And smells: coffee, salt, gasoline…

  — And gnces, — Laya chimes in, touching a glove left on a parked moped. — Yesterday they looked at us like we were a movie poster.

  Sophie adjusts her short rain jacket. Raindrops cling to her colrbone; her neck disappears into the hood. She sets the pace without meaning to. She likes listening to Laya argue with the map, and to Evan quietly commenting on the signs—like he’s filing them away to examine ter.

  — While we’re on the subject… — He pauses, weighing his words. — Everything that happened yesterday—was that an experiment for you, or… is this just how you’ve decided to live?

  — Don’t interrogate her, professor. — Laya snorts. — The city just wants us to py bolder.

  Sophie looks into a narrow courtyard where water drips steadily from a window ledge.

  — Not an experiment, not a manifesto, — she says. — I just let myself. And I didn’t promise anyone otherwise.

  Evan nods, but something sharp catches in his voice.

  — I’m all for you letting go, — he says. — And for you coming back in one piece. I care.

  — Then walk beside me, — Sophie concludes softly. — That’s the best insurance.

  Laya ughs and links the three of them arm-in-arm. In an antique shop window, a tarnished mirror stares back; the warped gss makes their movement look deyed by half a beat. Thunder again, somewhere close.

  — Here. — Sophie stops at an open space between buildings. — Intersection point: coffee, music, and rain. Morning—your photo. — She nods at Evan. — Evening—dancing. — This to Laya. — And in between—the kitchen. I cook, you argue.

  — Deal, — Evan softens. — And I do the dishes.

  — And I pick the music, — Laya adds. — No compints.

  Sophie smiles: the pn catches up with them like the first scattered rain—one by one, and then all at once.

  ========== Better When You're Not Ashamed ==========

  The cafe door smmed shut from a gust of wind, and for a moment the roar of the downpour was the only sound. The three of them burst inside, and the smell of coffee mixed with wet tile washed over them. Behind the counter, the copper espresso machine hissed; the needles on its pressure gauges trembled faintly. They sat by the window—the gss shuddered with every thundercp.

  Sofía was hot. Silently, she unzipped her rain jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. Heat from the fast walk rose off her skin in a thin haze. Steam from the machine fogged the air and beaded on the metal key she wore on her chest.

  Laya’s gaze slid down, lingered on a dark drop of rain and a stuck grain of sand on Sofía’s thigh—a tiny breach of decorum.

  — I’ll have a cappuccino. With cinnamon, — Laya ordered. — Want to trick the rain.

  — Americano. Nothing in it. — Evan wiped his fogged-up gsses with his palm. — So my head doesn’t buzz.

  — Double espresso, — Sofía leaned back in her chair. — And a gss of water.

  A pause settled—warm and weightless. Laya broke it first, touching Sofía’s wrist.

  — You’re burning up.

  — Warming myself from the inside, — Sofía smiled faintly. — I’ll cool down ter.

  — Tell us about what came before, — Evan asked, eyes on a puddle outside the window where reflected lights rippled.

  — Before were cities, roads, stages. — Laya waved a hand, as if shooing the memory away. — I was running so my reflection in shop windows wouldn’t catch me.

  Sofía took a sip of water.

  — For me—work. Sorting other people’s chaos into neat little boxes. Not touching people until they ask. And yesterday I… — She let the sentence hang. — Turned that mode off.

  — Turned another one on, — Evan said quietly.

  He caught her movement: Sofía pulled off her thin sweater and was left in just a tank top. In the draft, her nipples tightened under the damp fabric, but she didn’t hunch, didn’t try to cover up. Evan looked away toward his cup. The steam kept curling between them, ordinary and stubborn.

  — You know, — Laya leaned in toward Sofía, — yesterday there was so much ‘yes’ in you. — She held out a napkin and ran it along her friend’s thigh, brushing away the grain of sand. — That’s better.

  Sofía ughed softly.

  — Better when you’re not ashamed. And today, I’m not ashamed.

  No hiding. Not today.

  A crack of thunder ripped through the room. On the fogged gss next to Sofía, a gust pushed a thin line of water upward before it slid back down. Evan noticed and decided to bme the draft. And the charged density of this conversation.

  — What now? — he asked.

  — Now? Coffee. — Sofía drank her espresso down to the grounds, as if ending the sentence. — Then the market. You two will argue about music, and I’ll smell spices. And we’ll decide what to do with this rain… — She stood up, murmuring, — Sorry—one minute.

  The lock clicked, and water rushed through the pipes. The stall was tiny: a mirror in a worn frame, a soap dispenser, the steady hum of ventition. Sofía leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection—familiar, but not quite lined up.

  Fragments in her head: the salty taste of someone else’s lips; a stranger’s eyes dissolving into darkness; heavy gazes on the beach; her own audacity, still tightening sweetly under her ribs.

  — Here and now, — she whispered to herself, straightening her spine.

  The hem of her skirt had ridden up, exposing her thigh. Her palm settled confidently on the warmth between her legs. A short inhale—her shoulders released. Movements measured, deliberate—slower, deeper, firmer. The bulb above the mirror flickered once, and for a heartbeat her image seemed a half-beat te; then it steadied. Good enough.

  Her fingers traced small circles; her hips answered with an almost imperceptible push. Her breathing grew louder but got swallowed by the extractor fan.

  A sharp image fshed: night, someone’s teeth catching her lower lip. Her pulse hammered low in her belly, heat gathering into one tight knot. Sofía increased the pressure—control returning through precision, through action. Elbows tucked to her sides, shoulder bdes drawn together, spine arching—almost.

  The door yanked open with a screech.

  In the doorway stood a short-haired girl in a soaked rain jacket, eyes wide with shock.

  For a second, Sofía went still. Then it hit—too te to stop, too sharp to hide. A short, strangled sound slipped out of her throat. Her knees buckled; she rode out the st pulses in silence, fingers stilling only when her body did.

  The stranger whispered, flustered:

  — Oh… sorry.

  Sofía, catching her breath, almost smiled.

  — It’s okay. I’m done.

  The girl retreated hastily, smming the door shut.

  Ice-cold water from the tap stung Sofía’s palms. She washed her hands thoroughly, rinsing away the st traces of heat, and met her own gaze in the mirror again—now the reflection was precise and utterly hers.

  She straightened her skirt, checked the chain at her neck, and walked back out into the main room to join the others. Her thoughts—clean, even, like straight lines.

  Control’s back, she noted to herself.