========== Spices ==========

  The covered market hummed under rain drumming on the iron roof. Handwritten A4 price cards—€2.80 per 100g, then a quick scribble over it—were taped to crates with curling strips of clear tape. The air carried coffee, smoked paprika, and damp wool.

  Sofia moved along the stalls with a conductor’s precision. Sumac: a pinch on her palm, then a slow breath in. Smoked pepper: a touch to her tongue. Just like that. The heat nded low, and her face stayed neutral.

  Vendors hawked, shouted prices, joked. She let the noise slide past and chose her own: harissa, cumin, bck salt—sal negra—that shimmered like ash.

  — So you’re saying synths just ‘put the guitar away’? — Evan’s voice cut through, already keyed up.

  — Not put away—no. Tuck it into a warm bed, — Matteo parried, easy as always.

  — I’m team bass, — Davide said ftly, drawing the line.

  Laya fell into step beside her, peered into the palm cupped like a boat.

  — Pepper’s your music?

  — Drums, — Sofia said, eyes on the spices. — Same rhythm, really—tongue and kitchen.

  She caught fragments of their post-punk-versus-techno argument and let them run in the background. Only then did she clock it: rain jacket on, sweater stuffed in her backpack. The thin top had gone damp and stuck to her skin. Pepper bit the air when she breathed in. Her own warmth rose under it—quiet, almost private alchemy.

  Sofia kept moving. Her fingers remembered weight and measure—weight and measure—and her gestures stayed economical. In her silence—a coiled tension.

  She looked up—Evan immediately fixed his gaze on a dispy case, but the set of his back gave him away. He’d noticed.

  — More sumac, please, — Sofia told the vendor, who was already scooping it into a paper cone. The cone was stamped with a blunt little number: €3.

  The woman nodded with exaggerated seriousness, muttering something under her breath—a tally, a spell, hard to tell.

  Outside the rain had picked up; inside it was close and warm. Sofia pulled up her hood and finally turned to the others.

  — Keep arguing, keep arguing. There’s spicy chicken waiting for you. We’ll see what you’re made of. — No rush at all.

  ...

  Sunlight cut through the rain-washed gss. The spicy chicken steamed on the table; a Condis receipt, still damp at one corner, was pinned under the salt so it wouldn’t slide. Sofia set out ptes with intent: precise portions, a smear of sauce here, a wedge of lemon there.

  The thin top, still damp, clung to her skin, mapping ribs and waist as she moved—she didn’t hide, just moved with ease. Her skirt rustled as she set down a pitcher of ayran.

  — Careful. It burns for real. If you need it—here’s your rescue.

  — Burns so bad your ears ring, — Davide rasped, already chugging the ayran. — Man… I worked three extra shifts for this trip, my boss still gives me the side-eye.

  — I paid in sleep for a deadline, — Evan threw in, but without malice, more like relief. — Shut them up with a prototype and ran.

  — And I promised my brother I’d be back two days early… and here I am, — Matteo shrugged, with his trademark self-deprecation.

  — Budgeting is boring, — Laya summed up, her gaze drifting over their faces. — But the memories.

  Sofia sat down, tucking her bare feet under the chair, and gently steered the conversation back.

  — Let’s be real. Why did you need this vacation ‘at any cost’? For me—to stop carrying everything alone. To reset. And… to see if I can be… two things at once, — the corner of her mouth twitched in a half-smile, like the word itself burned. No apology in it.

  She caught Evan’s look: a flicker of surprise at how effortlessly she steered both the table and the talk—with a few gestures, a few phrases.

  The spices had put color into Sofia’s cheekbones; the shadows from her shes on her face seemed longer, deeper.

  — I… — Riccardo started. — Honestly, I just wanted to run. Feel alive again.

  — It worked, — Laya winked at him. — And it will again.

  — It will, — Sofia nodded, dling thick sauce into bowls. — But no unnecessary heroics. We’ll sort the groceries tonight, yeah?

  Someone coughed from the pepper again; ughter softened the tension.

  Outside, a sunbeam slid across the wet asphalt, and for a moment Sofia thought she saw two reflections in the gss: both hers, but one slightly darker, more intent. Both were hers. She blinked and turned back to the ptes.

  — Eat, before it cools. I set out to surprise you today. Judge away.

  ========== Friendship with Conditions ==========

  After the downpour, the air stayed still. Damp, close. Hard to breathe. Someone had gone for ice and fruit; Evan had disappeared into the study with a blue Carrefour bag slung over his wrist.

  Sofia changed into a light cotton dress and, barefoot, scattered coriander seeds and chili pods in the pan. She toasted them, shook the pan, listened to the steady crackle. Warmth gathered under her ribs.

  Matteo sat by the open door, fixing his sneakers—glue and a clothespin as a makeshift cmp.

  — Even your spices make noise, — he said without looking up. — Kinda loud.

  — Because you're reaching for them, — Sofia parried easily. — Want to try?

  She snapped her fingers over the pan, raising a small cloud of spice dust. Matteo leaned in; their elbows touched. He looked up and held her gaze a moment. Through the thin cotton, the fabric outlined ribs and waist—Sofia noticed and didn’t pull away.

  — Careful, — she touched his cheek with her fingertip. — Paprika.

  — Thanks, — he said, voice ft, not moving.

  — You're different today. — His tone was calmer now. — Not the host-rescuer thing. More... you.

  — I just turned down the heat. — She gave a slight shrug. — And realized I don't want to carry everything alone anymore. Even... me.

  A short pause hung in the air.

  — So, — Matteo exhaled, — no stupid moves. I don't want to mess up the group.

  — 'Stupid moves'—like what? — she asked directly, watching him.

  — Well, for example... — The corners of his mouth twitched. — When you taste spices on your tongue, and then pretend it was just about the food.

  Sofia ughed softly.

  — Then how about this: friendship. With tasting—if we ask. On request.

  — Mutual, — he crified, and pulled back slightly, as if reciming his space. — With conditions.

  Sofia noted the warmth rising in his cheekbones. She also caught the stove-smell—lemon peel and smoke, faint. Taking a step toward him would’ve been simple. And not simple at all; she left the distance untouched. Not today, not here...

  — Deal, — Sofia said.

  She swept the spices into a jar with a chipped metal lid and tipped a few warm seeds into his palm. Their fingers barely brushed.

  — Careful, — she added. — I warned you—watch your tongue.

  Shopping bags crashed onto the table; pstic crinkled, bottles clinked.

  The air stayed close. Steam from the rain-soaked garden drifted in through the door.

  Sofia, temples damp with sweat, sorted the groceries: greens into a bowl of water, yogurts to the back of the fridge, lemons where the light hit. A Condis receipt, creased twice, slid under the salt bowl.

  Her fingers moved with certainty—her thoughts, too.

  — We agreed, no expensive booze. — Laya pulled a square bottle of rum from the bag.

  — Sale, — Riccardo sniffed. — Besides, after a rain like that, we earned it.

  Davide peeled off his T-shirt: white lines from straps and salt stood out on his tanned shoulders.

  — Personal bar, fine. But no bingeing, — Matteo threw in. — Last night was enough for everyone.

  Sofia stayed out of it—until Laya's and Matteo's gazes met. A short, almost tangible spark. She kept sorting: "evening" in one pile, "cooking" in another.

  — Sorting by purpose, — she said calmly. — Rum and lemons—set aside for night. Wine with fish. Beer on the terrace, in the shade. Take what you need. The budget's on the fridge, someone log it. Okay?

  — She's like an air-traffic controller, — Riccardo grinned. — Just needs a vest and a whistle.

  — She's got two already: a knife and... that look, — Davide muttered, not singling anyone out.

  — Something else bugs me. — Laya pivoted sharply. — Are we buying alcohol because it's fun, or because without it, it's boring right away?

  A silence.

  — I'm for 'fun,' — Matteo said, — but st night, the other thing showed through, here and there.

  Sofia raised a lemon to her face, ran her nail along the zest. The sharp burst of citrus cut through the room and took the edge off the quiet.

  — I'm not against fun, — she said. — But let's not make alcohol a crutch. We manage fine on our own.

  — Too fine, even. — Laya's tone had lost its edge. — Agreed.

  From upstairs came a short "uh-huh" from Evan.

  Riccardo pced the rum in the designated "night" zone. On his way out, he gnced at Sofia: as she bent to the bottom drawer, the dress pulled across her back and shoulder bdes. He exhaled, like he'd bitten into something sharp, and nudged the door shut with his elbow.

  — I'll make something searingly sour tonight, — Sofia drew the line. — So your mouth remembers more than just the proof.

  — And plenty of chatter, — Matteo added. — Uncut.

  — No discounts on the truth, — she answered.

  The corners of her mouth curved in a barely-there smile—just enough to stay within bounds.

  ========== The Lemon Trail ==========

  Click. The house went dark.

  Phone screens fred. The fridge went silent, fans stopped spinning. From the terrace came the smell of wet dust. The asphalt outside was cooling.

  — Where's the panel? — Matteo's voice floated up from the ground floor.

  — Downstairs, by the storage closet, — Sofia called back, grabbing two candles on her way.

  Wax stuck to her fingers. Her neck was damp.

  She fumbled at the fuse box. Muffled voices—Davide and Matteo—then a thud, like someone bumped the doorframe.

  Riccardo got through on the phone.

  — Accident on the highway. The storm finished off the cable. Crew's on its way. Three, four hours. Minimum.

  — So much for dinner, — Laya said, clearing the empty baking sheet from the table.

  Sofia pushed open the door to the garden and felt the air move. The heat under her skin wasn't just the stuffiness. It was brighter, denser. Coffee... shower... beach shower... Her thoughts lined up in a clean sequence, like items on a list she could actually finish.

  She leaned against the doorframe and breathed in the night. A thread of sweat caught the ntern light at her colrbone; the thin top clung to her skin, marking colrbone and the strap line. She tugged the hem away and pressed the cooler fabric to her stomach.

  — No stove means cold tapas only, — she said into the dark, evenly. — Cheese, olives, lemon, bread. Rum—on hold for now. Water...

  — You're practically glowing, — Davide muttered in passing, picking up a ntern from the shelf.

  And she was: in the ntern light, her skin looked warmer than the candle fme, matte and gold-toned.

  — From the pepper. — Sofia smiled faintly and touched the corner of her mouth. — And from not making the smartest choices.

  — The whole street's out, — Riccardo reported, back from the road. — Neighbors are on candles too.

  — Then we take it to the terrace. Listen to the storm and leave the oven alone, — Laya concluded.

  Sofia assembled a cold dinner on a ptter and set a bowl of water nearby. A damp cloth too, folded once, then again. In her mind a diagram kept clicking into pce: morning heat—café—shower—now. Not panic—method. Method.

  She gave herself a short nod and sat. The wind tugged at the sheer curtain; the candle fme wobbled...

  The veranda was tight: warm air, people, a narrow pnk ptform. Laya sat on the railing, Sofia on the step by the door, her bare toes searching for the board's coolness. Matteo had settled with his back to the wall—"so I can see everyone."

  Candles smoked. Estrel Damm hit the spot and went warm fast; empty bottles clinked when someone shifted their foot. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills.

  — Truth or dare? — Riccardo tossed it out so casually everyone ughed.

  — Subtext much, — Laya snorted, — but fine. Rules: no phones, no harm, safeword... 'stop.' 'Truth'—specific. 'Dare'—nothing borderline illegal.

  — And no shame, — Sofia added, and took a sip. The beer slid sticky down her throat. Her head felt warm; lower down—warmer still.

  In the dark, decisions come easier than they should.

  Too easy.

  The empty bottle spun around the circle, clicked against the boards, and stopped with its neck pointing at Davide.

  — Dare, — he nodded.

  — Where's the lemon? — Laya asked immediately.

  Sofia already held a wedge. Condis lemons—still in the net bag on the counter—had turned into their default this week.

  Laya smirked. — Run it along her colrbone. Slowly. She says 'stop,' you stop.

  Davide leaned in, almost on his knees. Cold sourness touched her skin and traced a trail toward the hollow of her throat. Sofia didn't look away. She leaned into it, shoulders loose.

  A drop slipped free. He caught it with his lips near the strap of her top. Someone sucked in a breath; someone stifled a ugh.

  — She didn't say it, — Laya whispered—loud enough for everyone.

  — Didn't want to, — Sofia answered, a smile shaking in her voice.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sofia caught Matteo's gaze shifting. Candlelight picked out the wet line on her neck; he pressed his lips together and looked away.

  The veranda held heat. And attention.

  — Next. — Sofia reached for the bottle first. Her fingers stuck from the lemon, and she ughed, quieter than usual. Control crumbling like a stale cracker—and the beer wasn't bringing it back.