Chapter 11. Lisbon

We land in Lisbon at three in the afternoon, courtesy of the first business class seats we could find once we actually arrived at the airport. Sebastian definitely does not approve of this “show up and see what happens” method of international travel planning, but the alternative I offered, choosing our destination by counting buttons, gave him such an instant eye twitch I was genuinely concerned about triggering a stress-induced stroke.

Some people are just not built for spontaneity. Especially Swiss people. Especially Swiss engineers who probably have backup plans for their backup plans.

Portugal ends up being the perfect choice for reasons beyond Sebastian’s cardiovascular health. Neither of us speaks Portuguese, and neither of us has ever visited. It seems only fair that we should both be completely out of our respective comfort zones together; him with his need for linguistic control and detailed advance planning, me with my usual ability to charm my way through any situation using a combination of French accent English and aggressive hand gestures.

Equal opportunity discomfort. Very democratic.

During the flight, while Sebastian studies a Portugal map and essential Portuguese phrases through overpriced in-flight internet, I manage to book us two connecting suites at the Ivens in the Chiado district. The hotel description promises a rooftop terrace overlooking the Tagus River, which sounds appropriately romantic for scattering ashes and pretending nostalgia counts as closure.

We both know we’ll probably only be using one room, but let’s not be too obvious about our complete inability to maintain appropriate boundaries. Some pretense of propriety seems important, even if it’s mostly theoretical.

“Two rooms?” Sebastian asks when I show him the confirmation on my phone.

“Connecting doors,” I clarify. “For… convenience.”

“Convenience.”

“Exactly. Very practical. You love practical.”

He gives me that look, the one that says he knows exactly what kind of convenience I’m referring to, but he’s not going to call me out on it because that would require acknowledging that we’re both thinking the same inappropriate thoughts.

“The hotel has a spa,” I add, scrolling through amenities. “And a restaurant that apparently specializes in modern Portuguese cuisine. Very… cultural.”

“Cultural,” he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be amusement.

“We’re here to honor your mother’s memory with thoughtful travel experiences and meaningful cultural immersion,” I say with a completely straight face. “The fact that there’s a very nice bed, sorry, beds, plural—is purely coincidental.”

“Of course.”

“I’m very committed to this whole grief tourism thing. Very respectful of the process.”

“I can see that.”

The plane starts its descent, and through the small window I catch my first glimpse of Lisbon—red-tiled roofs spreading out like puzzle pieces, the river cutting through the city like a silver ribbon, everything bathed in that golden late-afternoon light that makes even airport industrial complexes look romantic.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, genuinely surprised by how immediately enchanting it looks.

Sebastian leans over to look past me out the window, his shoulder brushing against mine. “It is.”

“Your mom would have loved this,” I say softly.

“She would have insisted on learning Portuguese before we left,” he replies. “And probably would have researched the optimal times to visit every historical site to avoid crowds.”

“And she would have made a list of local food to try, even the weird stuff.”

“Especially the weird stuff.”

We sit in comfortable silence as the plane touches down, both of us probably thinking about Greta and how she always pushed us toward the uncomfortable, the unfamiliar, the places where real growth happens.

After we collect our luggage, Sebastian immediately steers us toward the car rental counters.

“What are we looking for?” I ask, watching him scan the available options on the display board.

“Something practical. Reliable. A Volvo would be ideal. Good safety ratings, adequate trunk space for luggage—”

The rental agent looks up apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir. We only have one vehicle left today. The convertible over there.” She nods at the bright yellow Fiat in the window. Sebastian follows her gaze, then looks back at her like he’s giving her one last chance to remember the secret fleet of sensible Swedish cars hiding out back.

She didn’t.

“It’s not that bad.” I say while I patting his back in mock sympathy,” It’s yellow, Sebastian. Cheer up. You’ll look like a very responsible lemon.”

“This is exactly why I hate last-minute decisions,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Come on,” I giggle. “Your mother would have loved the irony. You complained about my rental car and look what we got now.”

The rental agent looks between us uncertainly. “Should I… prepare the paperwork for the Fiat?”

Sebastian closes his eyes for a moment, probably calculating wind resistance and fuel efficiency and whatever other engineering nightmares a small convertible represents to his systematic brain.

“We’ll drop the car on the next city and get a better one, okay. You’ll survive.”

“Fine,” he says with the tone of a man accepting his doom. “But I’m driving. I’m somehow sure you’re still part-timing as a road race-driver behind the wheels.” he says, accusatory, and accurate. Damn him.

“Deal.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling out of the airport parking in a bright yellow Fiat with the top down, Portuguese sun warming our faces and the Atlantic breeze completely destroying any hope Sebastian had of maintaining his carefully styled hair. He looks like a man who’s been forced to abandon every safety protocol he holds dear, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as he navigates Lisbon traffic in what is essentially a motorized shopping cart.

“This is karma,” he says, trying to merge into traffic while the wind whips his hair into complete chaos.

“This is perfect,” I counter, letting the breeze mess up my own hair without caring.

“Ready?” he asks as we head toward the city center.

I look at him, this man I loved and lost and somehow found again in the most unlikely circumstances, and realize I have absolutely no idea what we’re walking into. A month in Portugal with tini sachets of his mother’s ashes, unresolved feelings, and a rapidly deteriorating ability to make sensible decisions about physical boundaries.

It should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the most right thing I’ve done in years.

“Let’s go honor your mother with some very inappropriate cultural immersion,” I say, letting the wind whip through my hair.

His laugh is warm and real and exactly what Greta would have wanted to hear.

“Welcome to Portugal, Sunne.”

Chapter 12. The Great Greta Mission

Once we’re settled in our connecting suites at the Ivens, and by settled, I mean Sebastian has already unpacked his luggage while mine remains an explosion of wrinkled clothes across my bed, I pull out my phone and create what will either be a beautiful memorial project or the most morbid shared Google Maps list in internet history.

“The Great Greta Mission,” I announce, typing rapidly. “I’m creating a shared map where we can mark every spot we scatter her ashes. And a group chat to coordinate with Astrid.”

Sebastian looks up from organizing his precisely portioned ash sachets in order like a man who believes even grief should follow a system, probably arranged alphabetically or by emotional weight for optimal scattering efficiency.

“That seems unnecessarily complicated,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who spent his morning dividing cremated remains into individual servings like some kind of grief-stricken drug dealer.

“It’s not complicated, it’s organized. You love organized.” I finish setting up the map and add him, Astrid, and Charles to both the map and the chat group. “Plus, this way Astrid can participate from London.”

As if summoned by the mention of her name, my phone immediately buzzes with notifications. Astrid has not only joined the group chat but has made her own stash of packets, she’s already posted photos of her tiny ash sachets to the chat.

Astrid: Got my supplies! Charles thinks I’ve lost my mind but the kids are very excited about “bringing Oma on adventures”

Astrid: First stop: Thames River this afternoon. Clara insists we should say a prayer but she only knows the one for bed time.

I show Sebastian the messages.

“She has packets too,” he states, like this is somehow surprising.

“Like brother, like sister. You Hubers are nothing if not methodical about your grief processing.”

Another notification pops up: Astrid has added the first pin to our map. “Thames River, London Bridge – Oma’s first adventure!”

Sebastian stares at the map for a moment, then looks out our window toward the Tagus River glinting in the late afternoon sun.

“We should do a river too,” he says thoughtfully. “River Tagus. It’s not far from here.”

“Very poetic. Rivers flowing to the sea, eternal journey, all that symbolic stuff your mom would have appreciated.”

“Exactly.”

Not long after, we’re walking along the riverfront near Cais do Sodré, Sebastian carrying what looks suspiciously like a small sandwich bag in his jacket pocket. The golden hour light is hitting the water perfectly, making everything look like a Portuguese tourism ad.

I pull two face masks out of my purse and offer him one. Left over from my Covid era supply.

“What’s this for?”

“So you don’t accidentally inhale your mother,” I say matter-of-factly, putting on my own mask.

Sebastian stops walking and stares at me for a full five seconds. Then he breaks into the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from him since we arrived.

“Fleury, for once in your life, you actually make sense.”

He puts on the mask, and we both stand there looking like we’re two very sentimental germophobes.

“Ready?” he asks, pulling out the sachet.

“Wait.” I open the group chat and start a video call. “Astrid should see this.”

Astrid’s face appears on screen, with Clara bouncing in the background and what appears to be the Thames behind them.

“Perfect timing!” she says. “We’re just finishing up here. Clara wanted to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Oma.”

“Awww… Greta would be touched. And deeply confused.” I say, angling the phone so she can see Sebastian preparing for his first ash scattering.

“Is he wearing a face mask?” Astrid squints at the screen.

“Anaïs’s idea,” Sebastian says, his voice slightly muffled. “So I don’t inhale Mom.”

“Oh my God, that’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? Charles, we need masks for next time!”

Sebastian opens the packet and looks at it for a moment. Even through the mask, I can see the emotion on his face.

“Anything you want to say?” I ask gently.

He’s quiet for a moment, then: “Thanks for always pushing us toward the uncomfortable places, Mom. This definitely qualifies.”

He tips the packet, and a small stream of ash catches the breeze, scattering across the water like tiny stars. Some of it lands on the surface and floats for a moment before disappearing into the current.

“Beautiful,” Astrid says softly from the phone screen.

I add a pin to our map: “Tagus River, Lisbon – Greta’s Portuguese adventure begins.”

“One down,” Sebastian says, tucking the empty packet into his pocket. “About fifty more to go.”

“Fifty?” I stare at him. “How many packets did you make?”

“I was thorough.”

I look at him standing there in a face mask by the Tagus River, having just scattered his mother’s ashes while his sister watches via video chat and documents it all on a shared Google Map,and realize this might be the most beautifully ridiculous thing I’ve ever been part of.

“Your mom would have loved this chaos,” I tell him.

“She would have insisted on coordinating outfits for the video calls.”

“And probably would have made us create a scrapbook.”

“Don’t give Astrid ideas.”

Too late. From the phone screen: “Oh my God, a scrapbook! Charles, we need to document this properly!”

Sebastian looks at me with mild panic in his eyes.

“What have we started?” he asks.

“The Great Greta Mission,” I say cheerfully. “And something tells me it’s going to get a lot more complicated before it gets simpler.”

His sigh is audible even through the mask, but the crinkles at his eyes telling me he’s smiling.

Greta probably would have been cackling with laughter at the sight of us masked up like the world’s saddest ash-scattering pandemic holdouts.

Chapter 13. Algarve

Three days in Lisbon and my calves are screaming. Beautiful city, but designed by sadists who love hills and salted cod. By the time Sebastian announces our next stop, I’m ready for flat terrain.

“I didn’t come to Portugal for exercise. I came for wine and emotional complexity.” I protest.

“You’re getting both, Fleury.”

Three days is apparently enough time for Sebastian to thoroughly research our next destination—because God forbid we make another spontaneous decision—and he announces over breakfast on our final morning that we’re heading to the Algarve.

“I’ve arranged for a proper rental car,” he says, looking pleased with himself. “A Volvo. And I’ve reserved two bikes for cycling along the coast.”

“Bikes?”

“The cycling routes along the Algarve are supposed to be spectacular. Coastal paths, beautiful scenery—”

“Sebastian,” I interrupt. “I hate biking.”

“You used to like it.”

“I was in my early twenties and stupid. Now I’m thirty-eight and have developed opinions about comfort.”

“What’s wrong with biking?”

How do I explain this delicately? “The pedaling is fine. It’s the saddle situation that’s problematic.”

“The saddle?”

“Those horrible triangle torture devices they call bike seats. They create… friction. In areas that don’t appreciate friction.”

He stares at me blankly for a moment, then understanding dawns on his face.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ My coochie and bike seats have a long-standing feud.”

“I’m sure we can find more comfortable saddles—”

“Sebastian, unless they make bike seats out of clouds and good intentions, this is going to be an issue.”

He’s quiet for a moment, probably doing mental calculations about comfort levels and equipment modifications.

“I will take care of it, of you, Sunne. Excellent post-ride care, promise.”

“Only acceptable if the care is given directly by your tongue,” I challenge.

“You read my mind.”

“Every night,” I press on.

“Even on the nights we aren’t biking,” he doubles my challenge. Because that’s the kind of man he is: thorough, committed, and tragically gifted with a very talented mouth.

“Fine,” I hear myself saying. “But I’m holding you to that comprehensive care plan.”

Approximately fifteen different scenarios for “discomfort management” running through my head like newsflash marathon.

“Wouldn’t dream of backing out.”

And that’s how I ended up agreeing to torture my nethers for the promise of post-bike tongue therapy.

---

By the end of our week in the Algarve, after cycling in and out of every hidden cove with pristine blue water and scattering more of Greta’s sachets than I can count, we accidentally stumble upon what might be the universe’s idea of foreplay.

A nudist beach.

My smile probably becomes visible from space.

Sebastian notices my suspicious expression and follows my gaze to the small sign made of traditional azulejos tiles: Praia Naturista.

“No,” he says immediately, reading my face like a book he’s memorized. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Wait, what? Why?” I gesture toward the beach where people are, indeed, enjoying the Portuguese sun in their natural state. “Everyone’s going to be nude anyway.”

“Yes, and I don’t care about everyone else.”

“So I can’t be nude outdoors?”

Sebastian runs his hand through his hair in that exasperated way that means he already knows he’s fighting a losing battle. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Well,” I say, already reaching for the hem of my sundress, “watch me.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you? Just to be contradictory. For the sake of doing the exact opposite of what I ask you to do.”

“Are you coming?” I challenge, already stepping out of my dress and folding it neatly because I’m not a complete savage.

Sebastian stares at me for a moment, standing there in just my bikini, clearly about to remove that too, and I can see his internal monologue cycling through various stages of resignation.

I unhook my bikini top and toss it onto our pile of belongings. “You know it is frowned upon being fully clothed in a nudist area.” I say, sliding out of my bikini bottoms with the confidence of someone who’s spent the week being thoroughly appreciated.

Sebastian looks around the beach; at the other couples enjoying the sun and sea without textile barriers, at the relaxed atmosphere, at me standing there completely comfortable in my own skin and clearly not planning to back down.

“Your mother would have loved this,” I add, because I know exactly what button to push.

“My mother would have insisted on sunscreen,” he says, but he’s already reaching for his shirt.

“Smart woman. Good thing I brought SPF 50.”

“You planned this.”

“I absolutely did not plan this. But I’m definitely prepared to take advantage of it.”

He shakes his head but starts unbuttoning his shirt. “If I get sunburned in places that have never seen daylight, I’m blaming you.”

Five minutes later, we’re walking naked into the Atlantic like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The water is perfect, the sun is warm, and Sebastian looks like a man who’s been convinced to jump out of an airplane but is discovering he actually enjoys the view.

“This is nice,” he admits grudgingly, floating on his back.

“See? Sometimes the opposite of what you think is smart is actually exactly what you need.”

“Sometimes. Not always.”

“And what category does this fall into?” I ask.

I swim closer to him, close enough to see the way the sun has brought out the gold flecks in his brown eyes, close enough to appreciate that fifteen years have been very kind to his shoulders.

“This falls into the category of things that seemed like a terrible idea until they became the best part of the day.”

“Like most things with you.”

“Exactly like most things with me.”

He reaches for me in the water, pulling me close enough that we’re floating together, skin against skin, completely free and completely ourselves. Just the sun, salt, and the soft hum of his heartbeat against mine.

Eventually, he pulls back, suggesting we head to shore before we turn into “dried prunes with exhibitionist tendencies”.

Sebastian finds a secluded spot where the sand is softest, and I bet after calculating for optimal sun angles and wind direction, he finally spreads out a towel. A small plastic packet tumbles out of his bag and lands directly on our towel.

One of Greta’s ash sachets. Right there. Witnessing everything.

“I hope your mom enjoys the view,” I deadpan, pointing at the packet.

Sebastian follows my gaze and immediately scoops it up, his face turning the exact shade of Portuguese sunset. “Oh God.”

“She always did say she wanted to experience everything life had to offer.”

“This is not what she meant.”

“How do you know? Maybe this is exactly what she meant. ‘Use my death as an excuse to live,’ remember?”

He stares at the packet in his hand like it might start offering commentary. “I’m putting her back in the bag.”

“Your mom has probably seen worse things in her seventy years on this planet.”

“Not from me she hasn’t.”

“Sebastian, relax. It’s not like she’s actually—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

I watch him carefully tuck the sachet back into his bag like its a religious artifact. “You know she would have found this hilarious, right?”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

“Doesn’t this feel liberating? Being naked outdoors?” I ask, stretching out like a cat in the warm Portuguese sun and choosing to ignore his existential crisis about posthumous voyeurism.

“It does,” he admits, still standing and scanning the area like a security detail. “In equal parts to worrying about sand or small creatures getting into our orifices.”

“Oh my God, stop obsessing over details and lay down next to me!” I pat the space beside me on the towel. “Do you like what you’re seeing, Herr Huber?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand while he’s still standing there like a very attractive, very naked sentinel.

“I always like what I’m seeing when it comes to you.”

“Even though I’ve gained weight?”

“I noticed,” he says with typical Sebastian bluntness.

“Hey!” I swat at his leg. “Well, excuse me for having a metabolism that doesn’t run like a Swiss watch after hitting the dirty thirties.”

“I noticed that you gained weight in all the right places. Less angular, better for gripping. They don’t call them love handles just for the fun of it, you know.”

I sit up and do a little shimmy, making my assets jiggle in the sunlight. “I know, right? These girls with gumdrops have definitely benefited my metabolism’s new, more relax speed.”

“You haven’t changed, Sunne,” he says, settling down next to me finally.

“And you’re still the only one who calls me that.”

“I don’t know how else to think of you.”

“Are you telling me you forgot my actual name, Huber?”

“Anaïs Catherine Fleury,” he recites without hesitation. “Anaïs means graceful or holy, your parents clearly had high hopes. Catherine is your paternal grandmother’s name, and Fleury is your family name. But to me, you’re always Sunne.”

“That’s actually sweet. Your mom called me that first. She said it means sun, lively.”

“No,” he corrects. “She meant you burn.”

“Is that what you mean too? The sun?”

“I hate the sun. It burns and causes cancer.”

“Okay…” I’m not sure where this is going.

“You represent heat, and chaos, and youth-even now. And you burn everything you touch, usually in the best possible way.”

I’m quiet for a moment, processing this.

“You called me a lot of different names too, remember?” he asks.

“I know. But mostly I called you Luv. Because in my personal dictionary, your picture occupied the entire definition section under ‘love.’”

The silence that follows is loaded with fifteen years of history.

“I also used to call you Baby. Maybe I should go back to that.”

“God, no. I hate that name.”

“Oh, come on. Your mom called you that.”

“Yes. Until the very end.” His voice gets quiet.

“I remember telling your mom once how much you hated when I called you Baby. She just smiled and said you’d always be her baby, no matter how big and serious you got. She’d light up telling stories about when you and Astrid were little. I loved those stories.”

“She told them differently to us. Usually as guilt trips about how much trouble we caused.”

“She told me about how you refused to breastfeed as a baby, you couldn’t latch. Apparently, baby Sebastian nearly bankrupted the family because you were such a hungry little monster and formula was expensive.”

“I’ve heard that story a thousand times.”

“So I told her that even though you didn’t nurse as a baby, you definitely developed the latchskill later. Hidden talent and all that.”

Sebastian sits up so fast I think he might have given himself whiplash. “You told my mother WHAT?”

“I thought she felt bad that you weren’t born with certain basic human abilities! I was trying to be reassuring!”

“Oh my God, Fleury.”

“We were just having mother-daughter conversations! No big deal!”

“I don’t think Astrid ever told Mom about how her boyfriends treated her… anatomy.”

“It’s not my fault you Hubers are so secretive with your own parents!”

“It’s called boundaries, Fleury. BOUND-A-RIES. Not secrets.”

“In my defense, I never had proper mother-daughter moments with my own mother, so I had no idea how to behave around yours.”

Sebastian runs his hands over his face, looking simultaneously mortified and amused. “None of my other girlfriends ever got that close to Mom. Not like you did.”

“I don’t know why she accepted me the way she did, honestly. I was like Helen Keller of social awareness-blind to reality, tone-deaf to appropriate conversation topics, definitely didn’t know how to keep my thoughts to myself. Your mom was either a saint or completely insane.”

“She loved you because you were completely yourself. No pretense. And you made me happy in ways she’d never seen before.”

“Even when I was oversharing about your oral technique?”

“Especially then, apparently. She used to say you brought out a side of me she was scared she’d never get to see. And now that I know how much you actually shared…” He trails off, already turning a shade that can only be described as emotional rosé.

“Oh my God, are you blushing?” I grin, leaning in just to watch him squirm. “Come on, nothing to be embarrassed about. She already knew we were thumping like rabbits every time you spend the night at her place. That’s why I got demoted to your dad’s dusty old office in the back, remember? The Room of Shame.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s probably sunburn.”

“From the inside out? right.”

I lean against his shoulder, feeling the weight of missing Greta all over again. “She was the best kind of mother-in-law I never actually had.”

“She would have been, officially. If we’d figured our shit out back then.”

“Yeah, let’s not unpack that now. Let’s just absorb this moment of Zen.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, watching the waves. “Sounds about right. And no, Astrid doesn’t need to know where we are right now.”

“But.. she’d be delighted to know we bring your mom to certain places.”

“Please don’t give me material for nightmares.”

I laugh and settle back down on the towel. “Don’t worry, Baby. Some things I’ve learned to keep to myself.”

“I still hate that name.”

“I know. That’s why it’s perfect.”

Chapter 14. Santa Luzia

After freshening up at the hotel to wash sand out of “all our orifices,” as Sebastian so delicately puts it, I find him waiting for me on the balcony. His linen shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of that freshly sun-kissed chest, and his shorts hit at exactly the right spot above his knees to showcase what might be the most underrated sexy feature on the male body.

Since when are calves this attractive? Those long, straight lines, toned and golden from our week of cycling. If it were up to me, I’d bend over this balcony railing right now and let him have his way with me while the Algarve sunset provides mood lighting.

But the way he’s checking his leather Patek Philippe tells me we’re supposed to be somewhere approximately five minutes ago.

“Are we going somewhere?” I ask, joining him on the balcony and trying not to stare at the way the evening light hits his shoulders.

“Yes, for dinner in the next town.”

“What’s wrong with the restaurant downstairs? Or any of the perfectly good restaurants within walking distance?”

“Get dressed and I’ll show you why. Nothing fancy, it’s not a romantic dinner.”

“Only if you’re watching,” I say, tugging loose my towel and sauntering toward the bedroom with deliberate hip movement.

His soft groan confirms his eyes are exactly where I want them.

I slip into a satin skirt that hits mid-thigh and a tube top that requires no bra, you know, for the Atlantic breeze and easy access should any opportunities arise. A quick swipe of lip tint, some attention to my eyebrows, and I’m ready to discover whatever mystery destination has Sebastian consulting his watch like we’re coordinating a military operation.

“Let’s go,” I announce, stepping into my sneakers.

“You haven’t put on anything underneath, Fleury.” he notices.

“Sshh… We’re late!.”

Sebastian’s internal battle playing out across his face; throw me onto the bed or stick to his precisely timed reservation. His systematic Swiss brain wins. Surprise. We are talking about Sebastian Huber here, after all.

My last hope is that going commando under this skirt will cut dinner short because my plan tonight is I want to eat, then I also want to be eaten. Nothing too ambitious.

He drives us to Santa Luzia, just outside Tavira, and I’m genuinely confused until I see the sign: “World Capital of Octopus.”

I didn’t even know there was such a thing. But here’s what Sebastian knows about me: I fucking love octopus. Always have. It’s probably my favorite protein on the planet.

How is this not a romantic dinner? He drove us out of the city specifically so I could eat octopus at the world capital of octopus at what appears to be the best octopus restaurant in existence.

Sebastian pulls out my chair. See, girls? Chivalry isn’t dead, take notes. I settle in while trying to process the thoughtfulness of this gesture.

“Just so we’re clear,” I say, leaning forward slightly so my tube top does what tube tops do best, “you could absolutely take me for a quickie right now. Bathroom, car, wherever. Just because you brought me to this place.”

“Can we just have dinner?” he asks, but his eyes definitely register the view I’m providing.

“This is way more romantic than taking me to some cliché candlelit restaurant.”

“You have a seriously distorted definition of romantic dinner.”

“And you have absolutely no concept of what romance actually is, Herr Huber.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“For fuck sake, Sebastian. This is romantic because you remembered what I love and went out of your way to make it happen. That’s actual thoughtfulness, not just expensive wine and violin music.”

“So you’re saying romance is about knowing someone well enough to surprise them with things they actually want?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

The waiter approaches with menus, and Sebastian orders a bottle of Vinho Verde without consulting me because he knows I’ll love it. Another point for the “this is absolutely a romantic dinner” column.

“You know,” I say, running my foot up his calf under the table, “for someone who claims this isn’t romantic, you’re being remarkably romantic.”

“I’m being practical. You like octopus. This place has the best octopus. Simple logistics.”

“Keep telling yourself that, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Because it makes you think about your mother calling you that?”

“Because it makes me think about other things you used to call me when we were—”

“When we were what?” I interrupt, my foot traveling higher up his leg.

“When we were much worse at maintaining appropriate boundaries in public places.”

“I haven’t improved in that area.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The octopus arrives, perfectly grilled and seasoned, and I actually moan at the first bite. Sebastian watches me with that expression that suggests he’s mentally filing away my reaction for future reference.

“This is incredible,” I tell him, and mean it. “How did you even know about this place?”

“Internet.”

“See, that’s the fundamental difference between us right there. You always look for solutions, even for things that aren’t actually problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our core difference. You thrive on solving problems, making things better, optimizing everything. While I just go with the flow and follow whatever random idea pops into my head.”

“It’s habit. I like to research what’s out there and make sure we get the best possible experience.”

“Exactly. You like having things under control. I mean, look at our careers, they speak volumes about our fundamental differences.”

“I think you don’t understand my field,” he says, cutting into his own octopus. “There’s nothing controllable about an offshore rig. The sea is completely unpredictable.”

“Yes, but you’re there specifically to control what can be controlled. That’s literally the entire point of your position—thinking ahead, preventing disasters before they happen. While I’m trying to diagnose what’s wrong with animals who can’t even tell me where it hurts. The sounds they make when they’re in pain versus when they’re in pleasure? Identical. And no veterinary textbook prepares you to give the Heimlich maneuver to a goldfish choking on artificial seaweed in someone’s home aquarium.”

Sebastian pauses mid-chew, probably processing the goldfish scenario.

“And schedules,” I continue, because apparently I’m going down this path whether I planned to or not. “I remember how everything got so complicated after you finished your Master’s and started getting sent offshore. I know you tried to figure out how we could make it work, but your rigid schedule felt like a cage to me. I was a junior vet doing large animal calls, never knew where I’d be in the next hour, depending on which cow decided to go into labor at 3 AM.”

The wine is making me more honest than I probably should be, but here we are.

“Your schedules were your lifeline, but they felt like prison bars to me. We fought constantly. The stress of new careers, of being apart for months at a time… it was too much. We both know I’m not built for long-distance relationships, physically or emotionally.”

I take another sip of wine, avoiding his eyes.

“That’s why we grew apart. The paths we chose just didn’t align, no matter how much we wanted them to. And that’s what made it so fucking hard for me, we didn’t fall out of love. We were just two young idiots navigating life, too stubborn to compromise and too proud to admit we had no idea what we were doing.”

The silence stretches between us, filled with fifteen years of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

“You’re right,” he says finally. “About the schedules. About the control. About… most of it.”

“I usually am.”

“Have we grown out of that version of ourselves?”

Now it’s my turn to pause mid-bite.

“I don’t think so. At least not me. Look at me, if anything, those character traits, those flaws of mine, are what got me this far. They’re not bugs, they’re features.”

“Me neither, I think. I decided to get snipped in my twenties because, without even realizing it back then, I was preparing myself to throw everything I had into my career. And look at my marriage with Lara, instead of trying for a normal pace, building a family, spending more time onshore, I chose to settle with a woman who had the same lifestyle rhythm so I wouldn’t have to bother compromising mine. I guess I just got a lot more selfish as I grew older.”

I set down my fork and really look at him. “I’ve never told anyone this, but I had a miscarriage a decade ago… That’s when I decided to get the IUD.”

“Oh, Sunne, I’m sorry.” He reaches across the table to hold my hand.

“No, I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I wasn’t even in a relationship, it was just from a one-time thing at a music festival.”

“Still…” He squeezes my hand gently.

“No, you don’t get it. You know what made me feel bad? The fact that I didn’t feel too bad about it. I don’t want to sound callous, but I didn’t even know I was pregnant or expect it, so how do you cry for losing something you didn’t think you had anyway?” I pull my hand away from his. “I’m a bad person.”

He leans closer and pulls me against his chest. “No, Sunne. You’re just honest. Honest with yourself. You always have been. You always know what you want, what your limits are. The world just isn’t used to that kind of honesty.”

“Most people would have been devastated.”

“Most people aren’t you. And that’s not a bad thing.”

“I think that’s when I really knew I wasn’t cut out for traditional life paths. Kids, marriage, the whole domestic dream, it just never felt like something I wanted.”

“Cheers to that,” Sebastian says like an amen. “We grew up to be two selfish people who prioritized careers over everything else.”

I raise my wine glass in a mock toast. “To being unapologetically selfish.”

“You think your mom knew? About us never wanting the traditional stuff?”

“I made sure she didn’t. I hope she didn’t. Good thing Astrid settled down and procreated fast. That kind of took the pressure off me.”

The weight of that admission hangs between us for a moment before I need to lighten things.

“Speaking of procreation,” I say, glancing around the restaurant with renewed interest, “that young lady over there in the red dress has been eyeing you since we walked in.”

Sebastian barely glances over. “Oh. Jesus, she’s so young.”

“She’s legal age, and clearly has daddy issues written all over her.” I wiggle my eyebrows mischievously. “Should I ask her to join us for dessert?”

“If you want to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know what you asked.” He takes a sip of wine, completely unbothered. “She’s not your type anyway.”

“How do you know my type?”

“You need history. Context. Someone who gets your references. Someone you trust and comfortable with.” He glances at the young woman. “I doubt twenty-somethings with daddy issues is part of your type.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun. Just selective about the guest list.”

“Your loss. She looks flexible.”

“I have all the flexibility I can handle sitting right across from me.”

I grin at him over my wine glass. “Smooth, Huber. Very smooth. That’s either the most romantic thing you’ve ever said or the most terrifying.”

“I have my moments.”

“Rare moments, but effective when they happen.”

The young woman in question chooses that moment to walk past our table, slowing down just enough to make eye contact with Sebastian and smile. He gives her a polite nod and immediately turns his attention back to me.

“See? She’s definitely interested.”

“And I’m definitely not. You know me better than that.”

“So what happens now?” I ask.

“Now we finish this incredible octopus, go back to our hotel, and get you a proper education on how to dress for public outings. See that sign on the door? ‘Proper dress required.’”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“And perfect.”

“And probably doomed.”

“Most of the best things are.”

Chapter 15. The missionary

After dinner, Sebastian walks me to my hotel room door, which is exactly three feet from his. We still insist on maintaining our own rooms, though the connecting door between them has remained permanently open since day one. I prefer it this way, honestly, for both our sakes.

I don’t need him witnessing my makeup explosion across the bathroom counter every morning, or accidentally toppling his meticulously color-coordinated clothing piles when I’m stumbling around in the dark looking for something to wear. Some mysteries are better preserved for the longevity of whatever this beautifully dysfunctional arrangement is becoming.

He gives me a soft kiss on the lips, nothing too dramatic, just a gentle goodnight peck that somehow feels both casual and loaded with promise, then he walks toward his own door.

We’re absolutely ridiculous, I know. Two adults playing house with connecting hotel rooms like we’re negotiating a diplomatic treaty instead of just admitting we want to sleep in the same bed.

“Get yourself ready for your proper education,” he says with that particular flat tone that suggests he’s already mentally cataloging exactly what he plans to teach me about appropriate public attire.

“Aye aye, sir!” I respond, giving him a mock salute like I’m receiving orders from General Huber of the Fashion Police.

He shakes his head but smiles before disappearing into his room, leaving me standing in my doorway like a teenager who just got walked home from prom.

Now here’s the thing about me that probably warrants a full psychological analysis and possibly medication: while I’m absolutely, categorically opposed to anyone telling me what to doespecially with that commanding, patronizing tone that makes my feminist instincts want to start a small revolution complete with protest signs and aggressive chanting, but the moment I let a man see me naked, all those rebellious principles fall away faster than my underwear hitting a hotel room floor.

I’d literally beg for instructions, eager to follow orders like I’ve been waiting my entire independent life for someone to tell me exactly what to do and how to do it. It’s like my brain switches operating systems the moment clothes come off, from Fierce Independent Woman 2.0 to Please Use Me For Your Personal Entertainment 1.0.

Call it paradox, call it kink, call it unresolved daddy issues. I call it Tuesday. I’m complex like that, and my therapist is going to have a field day with this vacation when I get home.

And Sebastian knows exactly what kind of golden pass he’s been granted to the Anaïs Wonka factory, with full access to every flavor, secret hallway, and probably some areas that aren’t even on the official tour.

I hear him moving around in his room through the connecting door. Probably organizing his toiletries by height and frequency of use, because that’s absolutely something he would do. The man probably has a system for everything, including the optimal order for removing clothing. It’s both disturbing and oddly comforting.

I kick off my sneakers, splash some water on my face, and gargle minty mouthwash to remove the remnants of dinner. Take another note kids, always, always make sure you have fresh breath. Nothing breaks the mood faster than fishy breath.

I pad over into his room because the connecting door isn’t really a suggestion at this point, it’s more of a polite architectural fiction.

The dinner conversation has shifted something between us. All that honesty about our flaws and selfish choices, the acknowledgment that we’re fundamentally the same people we were fifteen years ago, it’s created this space where we can just be exactly who we are without pretense or apology.

I can see it in the way he’s moving. He seems less rigid, more fluid. His shoulders aren’t carrying that invisible tension he usually wears like armor. When Sebastian relaxes, really relaxes, his entire body language changes. I know because I’ve been studying Sebastian’s body language like a second language since I was eighteen. He stops being so stiff-spined and starts using his hands more. His jaw unclenches. His kisses taste less like restraint and more like intent.

He turns to look at me properly, taking in my satin skirt and tube top ensemble that apparently violated several restaurant dress codes this evening.

“Come here,” he says, and there’s that tone again-not quite commanding, but definitely not asking.

And here’s where my brain does that thing where all my independent feminist principles pack her bag and goes to vacay. “Yes, sir,” I hear myself saying, moving toward him without the slightest hesitation or internal rebellion. My body apparently speaks a different language than my mind, and right now it’s fluent in submission.

His eyes darken slightly at my automatic compliance, like he’s remembering exactly how this dynamic works between us, how easily I transform from argumentative chaos agent to willing and enthousiastic participant in whatever educational program he has in mind.

“This,” he says, his hands settling on the fabric at my hips with that particular confidence that suggests he’s already inventoried exactly what’s missing from my outfit, “is what we need to discuss.”

“The skirt?”

“The complete absence of anything under it.”

“I told you, it’s for airflow. Very practical for warm Portuguese evenings and unexpected physical activity.”

“I won’t have it after today.”

“Gosh, knowing how my brain works, I’d probably do exactly the opposite of whatever you’re telling me.” I tease, stepping closer because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment. “Or maybe that’s what you actually want?”

“And you know how my brain works,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my spine straighten and my pulse quicken. “You think I was savoring grilled octopus all night? All I could think about was your clam. And not in a culinary sense.”

Mission accomplished.

We skip all the polite foreplay formalities. No teasing, no slow-burn glances, no cinematic undressing. We’ve been mentally undressing each other since the waitress brought the damn bread basket. By the time dessert hit the table, I was one suggestive fork lick away from crawling under it.

I pull off my tube top, and he shifts from a gentleman to a beast.

He lays me on my back like it’s his birthright, and I already know exactly where we’re headed: his (our) all-time favorite, the missionary.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking.

Missionary? Really, Anaïs?

Yes, missionary. Don’t you dare disrespect it. Missionary done right is intimacy as a full-contact sport. It’s about angles. Depth. Eye contact. Domination laced with tenderness. It’s underrated, because it’s too raw for casual lovers and too revealing for those who don’t know how to look each other in the eye while falling apart.

All other positions are complementary compared to this. Especially the way he does it. The way we do it.

This isn’t just sex, it’s a well-rehearsed, sacred ritual we never forgot how to perform, no matter how many years or lovers filled the space between.

Nobody holds me like he does. Nobody fucks me like he does. It’s dominance that listens. Filth wrapped in safety.

He folds me in half like origami, legs pinned high, “you’re fucking wet already, Sunne.”and sinks into me and that first stretch always, always makes my toes curl. This is the part that makes me feral. When you’re so hungry for someone that you want to swallow them whole. That achey, bottomless more.

And just when my eyes roll back from the delicious pressure of him hitting that one spot—

“Sunne,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my jaw, “look at me.”

I do. Because how can I not?

This is Sebastian. The man who taught my body its own language. The man who never needed a map because he built the territory with his own hands.

And right now, he’s excavating something deep. Inside me, between us, I don’t even know.

But I do know this: if he tells me to look at him, I will. And I’ll come apart doing it.

He starts brutal.

Because he knows I need it that way.

Fast, hard, no mercy. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t ask, just takes. He pounds into me like he’s trying to shake loose every word I didn’t say at dinner, every nerve ending that’s been sparking since the waitress set down the octopus.

It’s a rush. The kind of mindless, primal hunger that tears through me like wildfire. And when I come, I do it hard. My back arches, throat opens, moaning his name like a prayer I only remember in bed.

But he doesn’t stop there.

This is the part where he slows down, not out of gentleness. Now that the fire’s been set, he’s ready to fan the flames into something more devastating.

He moves instinctively, knowing exactly how I like to be unraveled.

I know every step, every pause how this goes. Not because it’s boring or predictable — God, no — but because it’s like a ritual. Sacred. The kind of rhythm you wait for all day because you know exactly where it’s going, and you want it to take its sweet, devastating time getting there.

His hand slides up, curling around my neck with enough pressure to anchor me under him like he’s saying: Stay. Here. With me.

He knows what that does to me. That quiet restraint. That moment where I’m not in control, and I don’t want to be. That high-voltage charge of being completely his, if only for these minutes where nothing else exists but the weight of his body and the way he watches me like I’m something holy.

I get greedy. I reach for his hand and press it down, silently begging for more. More pressure. More pleasure. More of that dangerous edge I’d happily die for, the one that rides the line between gasping for air and moaning his name like it’s the only thing anchoring me to earth.

His hand lifts. For a beat, I panic, I don’t want to be let go just yet. Then he slaps my cheek. Gentle. Measured. Just enough to jolt me back and remind me exactly who’s in charge.

“No,” he murmurs.

He slips his fingers between my lips and I welcome them like a starving thing fed a pacifier, obscene in how natural it feels.

“Good girl,” he whispers against my mouth, and I swear I could come from those words alone.

His fingers still rest in my mouth when I feel him shift just slightly, just enough. He’s watching me again, tuning every movement, every thrust, to the exact frequency of my unraveling.

I suck on his fingers harder, hoping to distract myself from the pressure building where our bodies meet, but it’s hopeless. He moves inside me with that maddening, slow rythm, each stroke deeper, slower, crueler than the last. My body coils tighter, my legs trembling where they’re still wrapped around him.

I whimper around his fingers.

His eyes don’t flinch. “Not yet,” he says. Commanding. Fucking unfair.

I nod. Or try to. He pulls his fingers from my mouth and drags them down my chest, trailing wet heat over every nerve he’s already set on fire.

“You can wait a little longer,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a sentence.

And God help me, I do.

I grip the sheets like they’ll save me, panting, sweating, blinking hard to stay in this moment and not fall apart.

He kisses me then. Open. Deep. One hand in my hair, the other still gripping my hip like I might try to bolt.

One sharp thrust. One rough exhale in my ear. One whispered, “Come for me, Sunne..”

I come so hard I forget my name.

There’s nothing compare to this feeling when he’s inside of me, his face buried in my neck, and groans “Good girl,” while strokes me into madness.

There’s a reverence to the way he touches me, the way he commands me. Not in a gentle, poetic kind of way, but in that deeply masculine, this-is-mine kind of way. He’s not rushing. He never rushes. It’s not about getting off, it’s about watching me fall apart, piece by piece.

And he always makes sure I fall apart twice before he even thinks about taking what he wants.

Because that’s how it’s always been.

Sebastian Huber may be the most emotionally unavailable man I’ve ever loved, but in bed, he worships like a zealot. Focused. Intent. Entirely present. Like my body is a temple and he’s got a personal vendetta against every inch of it.

And when he finally does lose control, when he takes what he wants, it’s not chaos. It’s the final act of a symphony we’ve played together for years.

And I never, ever get tired of the sound.

He pulls back, just enough to make me feel the absence, and then starts again, slower, deeper, every thrust controlled. Earned.

And God, do I make him earn it.

I wrap my legs around his waist, tilt my hips just right, squeeze around him like a dare. He bites my shoulder in response. “Sunne,” he growls, “don’t tease me.”

And then… when he’s ready. Really ready.

He slips his arms under my back and clamps down, one arm curled under my shoulders, the other gripping my thigh like a man anchoring himself before a storm. And when he slides back inside, it’s not rough anymore. It’s slow. Deep. Torturous.

He moves like he’s dragging pleasure out of me, like it’s my penance to feel this good, watching my face, reading every twitch of my mouth, every flutter of my lashes. I can feel him watching what he does to me, how each stroke unravels something tighter, something more raw.

He knows when I’m close, when my walls tighten around him, when my breath stutters and my nails dig into his back. That’s when he lets go.

With a final thrust, he buries himself in me as deep as he can go, pulls me into his arms, and holds me there, tight, possessive, like he needs my body to catch him before he breaks apart. He groans low against my neck as he spills into me, every drop delivered and claimed like it’s a promise. He holds me through it, making sure I take it all. And I do, gladly so.

Sebastian Huber might be meticulous about hygiene and order, but in bed once the guard drops, the man is unapologetically, gloriously filthy. And thank God for that.

And this is just the beginning.

Three hours, and some swollen body parts later, I’m sprawled across his bed, thoroughly educated in several subjects that definitely weren’t covered in any of my veterinary textbooks and probably violate the terms of service for most educational institutions.

“Are we supposed to be doing this?” he asks, his voice still slightly breathless. He collapses over me, sweat-slick skin pressed to mine, both of us panting like we’ve just did a marathon.

I lift my head to stare at him. “You’re asking this now? After we just—”

“I mean, morally. Ethically. Are we making good choices here?”

“Well, we’re both single, legally adults, mentally competent enough to buy alcohol, drive motor vehicles, vote in elections, and watch R-rated movies without parental supervision. I’m pretty sure we’re allowed to engage in some… horizontal educational activities.”

He laughs, and the sound makes something warm settle in my chest.

I stare at the ceiling, suddenly hit by an unwelcome wave of existential awareness. “Jesus, now that I think about it, my next big life milestones are menopause and retirement planning.” I cover my face with both hands, suddenly feeling ancient. “How absolutely exhilarating.”

“So,” I try to divert before I spiral about getting closer to fourty than thirty, a mathematical fact that I don’t enjoy contemplating. “what’s tomorrow’s lesson plan, General Huber?”

“Tomorrow we drive to Alentejo region. Full clothing required.”

“Define ‘full.’”

“Clothing that covers all essential areas and remains in place during normal vehicular transport and tourist activities.”

“You’re taking all the fun out of vacation.”

“I’m taking the public indecency charges out of vacation. There’s a difference.”

I roll over to look at him properly, this man whose systematic approach to everything extends apparently to ensuring I’m properly dressed for Portuguese cultural standards and legal requirements.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“Fifteen years ago, this exact conversation would have ended in a screaming fight about you trying to control what I wear, and I probably would have thrown something at your head.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m mostly just impressed by your thoroughness and slightly turned on by your attention to detail.”

He laughs, pulling me closer with one arm. “That’s called emotional maturity.”

“Or Stockholm syndrome. I haven’t decided which.”

“Definitely maturity. Stockholm syndrome takes longer to develop.”

“We’ll agree to disagree on the timeline.” I settle against his shoulder, already feeling that post-everything drowsiness creeping in.

“Sleep, Sunne. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“Should I let you dress me tomorrow?” I ask, half-mumbling into his chest.

“I’ll watch you get dressed, then I’ll undress you at the end of the day.”

“Damn, you’re good at this, Huber.”

“Sleep, Fleury,” he says, his hand gently pushing my head down to rest against his chest.

But as I drift off to sleep wearing absolutely nothing because that’s apparently tonight’s approved dress code, I think maybe the difference between controlling and caring is just a matter of context, trust, and whether you’re getting anything good out of the arrangement.

And right now, I’m getting plenty good out of this arrangement.

Chapter 16. Alentejo

The trip through the Alentejo is beautiful with its rolling hills covered in cork trees and olive groves, the little white villages that look like they’ve been photoshopped into postcards, and approximately zero cell phone coverage, which turns out to be both liberating and mildly terrifying for someone whose entire adult life has been conducted via smartphone.

We spend a few days inland before hitting the coast again, and during one of our quiet drives through what appears to be the Portuguese equivalent of Tuscany, I find myself staring at Sebastian. One hand on the wheel, elbow hanging out the open window, aviator sunglasses reflecting the countryside -exactly like I remember from our weekend road trips years ago.

His old Volkswagen Golf had no air conditioning and seats that felt like they’d been upholstered with sandpaper, but I always looked forward to every single trip. Even the disasters. Especially the disasters, actually, because that’s when Sebastian would get flustered and start muttering in Swiss German, which I found unreasonably attractive.

Back then, I had a trust fund I never touched. Greta had laid down the law from day one as her exchange student: I could keep a small portion of my monthly stipend for basic living expenses, but everything else had to come from actual work. “You have your whole life to be rich,” she’d said, completely unimpressed by my trust fund credentials. “You have four years to learn how to be human.”

So I worked three part-time jobs just to afford weekend trips with Sebastian. When money was tight, which was most of the time because minimum wage in Switzerland was designed to keep students humble, we’d pack sandwiches and have picnics by the Limmat River, dreaming about all the places we’d visit when we were “grown up and had money.”

The irony was I already had the money. But those broke picnics by the Limmat River felt more real than anything my inheritance could have bought.

“What are you thinking about?” Sebastian asks, catching me staring at him.

“Just remembering our old road trips. Your Golf with no air conditioning and those seats that felt like they were stuffed with concrete.”

“That car got us everywhere we wanted to go.”

“That car nearly killed us at least six times. Remember when the brakes failed going down that mountain in Austria?”

“The brakes didn’t fail. You just panicked because I was using engine braking.”

“Sebastian, we were going sixty kilometers per hour down a mountain pass in a car older than democracy. A little panic was appropriate.”

He laughs, and the sound makes something warm settle in my chest. “You trusted me then.”

“And then I bought you a BMW to make sure I didn’t have to trust quite so hard.”

“You bought me a BMW because a billboard hypnotized you.”

“The billboard was very persuasive! And I wasn’t buying it for myself, so it didn’t count against my budget.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Mom said our Anaïs was brilliant at Monopoly but couldn’t be trusted with real money.”

Which was accurate. The BMW was just the beginning, there were the time I bought four goats and a cow to “donate to campus sustainability efforts” after reading about livestock therapy programs, not considering that the university was closed for summer break and the farmer would deliver them directly to Greta’s suburban backyard.

Do not ask me how Greta reacted when she found out the livestock grazing her perfectly manicured backyard.

“I was young and stupid then.”

“And now?”

I consider this while watching the Portuguese countryside roll past. Cork trees and olive groves and little white houses that probably shelter families who’ve been here for generations, people who understand things like roots and staying in one place long enough to call it home.

“Now I’m old and slightly less stupid, but apparently still willing to get in cars with you and let you drive me to places where I don’t speak the language.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the only answer you’re getting.”

But the truth is, I do trust him. Maybe more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, which is probably why this whole situation is equal parts terrifying and exciting. Trust requires vulnerability, and vulnerability has never been my strong suit.

Greta used to say I was like a cactus, beautiful in my own prickly way, but touch me wrong and I’d stick you full of needles.

She wasn’t wrong. But here I am, driving through Portugal with the one person who’s ever figured out how to handle my thorns without getting hurt.

Or maybe he just doesn’t mind the bleeding.

Either way, we’re heading toward the coast and whatever disaster I’m about to create next. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself over the years, it’s that I’m absolutely incapable of leaving well enough alone.

An hour later we pass by a roadside pottery shop covered with vintage Portuguese tiles in some village I can’t pronounce.

“How much you think for all of them?”

Sebastian’s head snaps up. “Anaïs, no.”

“They’re beautiful! I could tile my entire bathroom—”

“Which bathroom? You have two penthouses.”

“Details.”

“You still do it,” Sebastian says, sighing. “See something shiny and lose all rational thought.”

“I’ve matured,” I protest. “I no longer buy livestock.”

“The bar is so low it’s underground.”

“I’m just going to buy one. For Greta.”

His expression softens slightly. We both know Greta would have called this ridiculous. But she also would have kept one.

“One,” he concedes.

I buy three.

Chapter 17. Nazaré

After a few more days winding through Alentejo region, we arrive at Nazaré, a small town in Oeste region, famous for having the biggest waves in the world.

“Fleury,” Sebastian says, giving me that skeptic look everytime he suspect me cooking some monkey business ideas. “You look suspicious.”

“Nah, just happy to be here.”

“Why exactly did we definitely have to pass through this particular town?”

“The view.”

He follows my gaze toward the beach, where approximately half the population appears to be under twenty-five and wearing as little clothing as legally permitted.

“If by ‘view’ you mean these barely legal kids in bathing suits, I’m starting to suspect you’re hitting your midlife crisis early.”

“Hey! For your information, I was dating younglings way before I reached middle age. It’s called consistency, not crisis.”

“That sounds predatory.”

“Rawrrr,” I growl at him, complete with claw hands.

I’m scanning the crowd for a good spot to set up our towels when someone bumps into me hard enough to make me spill half my beer down my front.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” the guy calls over his shoulder, already walking away.

All I catch is a shirtless back covered in lickables—I mean freckles for you normal people who don’t have ginger preference, and that distinctive reddish halo of hair catching the sunlight. He’s tall—at least a foot taller than me, which is always a good start.

There’s something familiar about the way he moves, but half the surfers here probably have that same confident stride.

I shrug and spread our towel on the sand, still brushing beer off my sundress, when the same guy comes jogging back with a fresh bottle in his hand.

“I’m really sorry about that, here’s a replacement. I had to run and grab it from the—” He stops mid-sentence, staring at me. “Wait. Anaïs?”

“Brian?”

Brian Johnston, my ex-fiancé, and the living embodiment of the phrase “aggressively ginger” grins at me with that familiar manic energy that used to either turn me on or drive me completely insane, depending on the day.

And when I say aggressively ginger, I mean comprehensively ginger. If you’re wondering whether the curtains match the drapes, the answer is yes, they absolutely do. They also match the eyelashes, eyebrows, and every other hair that grows on his body, creating what can only be described as a total commitment to the redhead aesthetic.

He once participated in Movember and grew the most magnificent red handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen on a human being. I almost broke up with him over it.

Don’t get me wrong, I find gingers completely irresistible, and Brian is as fiery inside as he is outside. But I draw the line at dating Yosemite Sam.

I thought I’d gotten away with not having to tell Sebastian about Brian, but the universe just had to throw this genius with a flaming halo back into my life right now, didn’t it?

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, removing his aviator sunglasses and park it on that flame-colored hair that always looks like he’s been electrocuted in the most attractive way possible.

“First of all,” I say, because introductions are important even when you’re having surreal beach encounters with your past, “Hi Brian, long time no see. And, please, meet Sebastian, my ex. Sebastian, meet Brian, my other ex.”

Brian and Sebastian shake hands, each clearly cataloging what I must have seen in the other. The evaluation lasts just long enough to be uncomfortable before Brian grins.

Brian grins. “Could that have been any more awkward?”

“I don’t think it’s physically possible,” Sebastian replies, and I can already see them bonding over my social incompetence.

“It’s accurate, though,” I point out. “I mean, what are we really? Friends? No, I don’t demote any of my exes and ship them to friendzone. Casual acquaintances? Too weird. Fellow veterans of my commitment issues? That feels more honest.”

“I prefer ‘survivors,’” Brian says cheerfully. “It sounds more dramatic.”

Sebastian nods approvingly. “I like him already.”

“Oh great, you two are going to get along. This day just got infinitely more complicated.”

“From all of places, what are the odds of meeting you here!! I just spent two weeks learning in Australia, so I figured where better to test my new skills than the biggest waves in the world on my way back to Iceland?” Brian gestures toward the massive waves crashing against the rocks. “

“That’s what happens when children have adult money,” I observe dryly.

“Says the trust-fund baby,” Brian and Sebastian reply in perfect unison.

I stare at them. “Did you two just—how did you both know to say that at exactly the same time?”

I start to get the feeling having two men who know me inside out and let them hangout together isn’t the best of my interest.

“What about you?” Brian continues, clearly ignoring me lowkey suspecting they’ll teaming up together.

“You know what?” I say, watching the surfers tackle those massive waves. “I want to try that too. Surfing.”

“No,” Sebastian and Brian say simultaneously, not even looking at each other.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Anaïs,” Brian says gently, “you already have a hard time maintaining balance in life, both literally and figuratively.”

“She trips on flat surfaces,” Sebastian adds helpfully.

“Hey! I can walk perfectly fine. I can run down stairs in Louboutin stilettos while looking fabulous, and my ass gets incredibly toned from all that heel work.”

Sebastian considers this seriously. “Can’t argue with that. You do look amazing in heels.”

“Absolutely,” Brian agrees enthusiastically, making this obscene gesture with both hands like he’s cupping something round and perky. “The way they make your—”

“Oh my God, stop!” I throw sand at both of them. “This is exactly why we shouldn’t introduce exes to each other!”

“We’re just appreciating your… assets,” Brian grins.

“From a purely aesthetic standpoint,” Sebastian adds, trying to look innocent.

“You two are terrible.”

While these two ridiculously attractive specimens who were once the center of my universe continue exchanging notes on what they’re calling ‘Anaïs traits’, the sun is getting intense, and I’m suddenly aware I’m overdressed compared to everyone else on this beach.

I casually strip off my sundress to reveal my bikini underneath.

They both notice immediately and lose their train of thought mid-conversation.

“What?” I ask innocently, reaching for my sunscreen. “We are at a beach, and it’s not like you two haven’t seen everything before.”

Sebastian groans like I’ve physically wounded him. “How can you say something like that so casually?”

“Because it’s true,” Brian adds with his characteristic bluntness. “And because you know exactly what you’re doing to us right now.”

“Jesus,” Sebastian shakes his head, his gaze darts between us. “You two are exactly alike, no wonder you understood each other. You’re both completely comfortable with a level of inappropriate honesty that would make normal people physically cringe. It’s like watching the same person in different bodies, just with different colored hair.”

“Whatevs,” I say, giving him a shrug. “I also have better tits.” I shimmy.

Brian’s eyes go wide, blinking like he’s trying to reboot his brain. I grin, these gumdrops still have the power to make the genius crash like Windows 98.

“Yeah, mamacita, you do,” he admits, still staring.

Sebastian exhales through his nose, deadpan. “You done causing system failures?” His gaze dropping pointedly to said gumdrops.

“So what brings you two to Nazaré? Rekindling old flames?” Brian asks again.

“We’re here on a mission,” I say, immediately switching to my most dignified tone. “Sebastian just lost his mother, and she was like my own. Her final request was to have her ashes scattered wherever he travels, so we’re—”

“Be honest, Fleury,” Sebastian interrupts flatly, not even looking up from his beer.

“Oh man, I’m sorry for your loss,” Brian says, his expression shifting to genuine sympathy.

“Thanks.” Says Sebastian.

There’s a moment of respectful quiet before Brian clears his throat.

“Though I have to admit, my first thought was that she probably dragged you here for some bizarre reason only she could dream up.”

I swat Brian’s arm. “Hey!”

“Anaïs,” Sebastian says in that particular tone he uses when he’s waiting for me to confess to something I’ve obviously done wrong.

“What? It’s true! We’re here for Greta!”

Sebastian and Brian exchange a look—raised eyebrows, knowing smirks, the universal expression of two men who’ve caught someone in a half-truth.

I sigh. “Okay, fine. We’re scattering ashes AND I wanted to see the world’s biggest waves. Both things can be true.”

“There it is,” Sebastian says with satisfaction.

“You literally cannot help yourself,” Brian adds, grinning. “Superlatives and dramatic gestures. Some things never change.”

“It’s still a beautiful tribute to Greta!”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sebastian deadpan.

Brian looks between us with growing amusement. “She made me take her to see the world’s largest ball of twine once.”

“In Kansas,” Sebastian says, like he already knows this story.

“In Kansas,” Brian confirms.

“Did she actually seem interested in the twine, or was she just checking it off some invisible list?”

“Oh, definitely the list.”

“Hey!” I protest, though they’re both completely right. “I’m standing right here, and I can hear you discussing my tourist habits like I’m not present.”

“Sorry,” they say in unison, not looking sorry at all.

Sebastian sits on my other side, creating what has to be the most emotionally mature ex-boyfriend sandwich in the history of beach encounters.

“So,” Brian continues, clearly settling in for a longer conversation, “how long has this reunion been going on?”

“Three weeks,” Sebastian answers.

“And how’s it going?”

They both look at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to provide some kind of progress report on our relationship status.

“It’s going,” I say diplomatically.

“That’s very Anaïs,” Brian observes. “Maximum uncertainty, minimum planning.”

“Yep. Yep.” Sebastian nods.

“Okay, seriously, you two need to stop bonding over my character flaws.”

“Character traits,” Brian corrects. “Flaws imply there’s something wrong with them.”

“There’s definitely something wrong with some of them.”

“Nah, it’s your strong points. Some people have charms, you have flarms,” Brian points out.

“Flawed charms.” Sebastian explains.

“See?” Brian grins at Sebastian. “He gets it. I don’t even need to explain anything.”

I look back and forth between them—two very different men who apparently understand me equally well and are now becoming friends in real time while discussing my psychological profile.

This should probably worry me more than it does.

Which probably says something significant about my life choices, but I’m not ready to examine that too closely just yet.

Instead, I lie back on the towel between them, watching surfers tackle impossible waves, and think: This is either the healthiest or most dysfunctional thing I’ve ever done.

Chapter 18. Celestial viewing

Later that night, after taking a long nap to recover from Portuguese sun and beers, I step out of the villa’s patio in my silk robe, barefoot, freshly lotioned, and absolutely famished.

And I hear it. His voice.

Not Sebastian’s familiar low rumble that I’ve grown dangerously accustomed to again over the past three weeks. The other one. The one that sounds like expensive whiskey laced with mischief and just a hint of academic arrogance.

I freeze mid-step like a cartoon character who’s just realized they’ve walked off a cliff. Listen again.

Yep. That is definitely the voice of the one whose marriage proposal I fled like my ass was literally on fire, currently laughing like he’s been Sebastian’s roommate since their first engineering group project.

Look, I have nothing against Brian. He’s my favourite booty call, even after we split—up until he moved permanently to his lab headquarters in Iceland. Though he never misses a chance to see me whenever he’s back in Canada.

Brian and Sebastian are great men. Both love me as much as I love them and both offered me futures most women would kill for, but together, they’re living proof of my inability to commit

Sebastian wanted me to follow his offshore assignments, that includes exotic locations every few months, financial security, the glamorous expat wife lifestyle. Brian wanted me as his research partner in his anti-aging crusade, giving me access to cutting-edge lab work, unlimited funding, and my name on groundbreaking papers (probably second author, but still).

All I had to do was treat my veterinary career like a hobby and make their dreams the priority.

Revolutionary stuff.

Now here they are, bonding over my commitment issues while drinking my beer. At least my therapist charges me two hundred and fifty an hour before pointing out my patterns. These two do it for free.

I round the patio corner like a silk-wrapped hurricane with an attitude problem.

And for fuck’s sake. I was right.

There they are. Sebastian and Brian, each holding what is clearly my good beer, legs sprawled across the king-size lounge sofa by the pool. Casually sharing a bowl of my maple-smoked salmon cubes, the ones I smuggled through the custom like a greasy Canadian drug mule.

“The hell is this?” I demand, arms crossed like I’m about to audit them for crimes against my pantry. “Did I black out and wake up in a parallel dimension where my villa became a frat house?”

“Oh hi, princess,” Brian says with a grin. “Finally awake?”

“Don’t ‘hi princess’ me. What are you doing here?”

“I invited him,” Sebastian replies, calm as a monk. “To watch the Perseids shower tonight.”

“Obviously,” I deadpan.

Brian lifts his beer—my beer—in a mock toast. “Sebastian wasn’t wrong. This spot’s perfect. Far from the city, no light noise, and perched right on the cliff. Sky’s jet black tonight, no clouds. We’ll see the meteors clearly.”

“I don’t recall being consulted about your presence. Or about this star-gazing man-gathering.”

“You’d have said no,” Sebastian says, completely unbothered.

“Exactly!”

Instead of acting guilty, they glance at each other.

“She’s hungry,” Brian says like a physician making a diagnosis.

“Yep,” Sebastian agrees. “You skipped dinner. I left a pizza in the oven for you.”

Goddamn it. I hate that they’re both right.

Brian pats the lounge chair between them with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s already won. “Come on, Anaïs. Grab that pizza and join us. The universe is about to putting on a show.”

“I’m not a golden retriever, Brian. You can’t just pat furniture and expect me to come running.”

“You’re not,” Sebastian says helpfully, “but you’ll still choose the most comfortable seat. Which happens to be right here. Between us. Where you can critique our meteor-watching form and make your David Attenborough impression.”

“Nah, she’s more Philomena Cunk’s vibe,” Brian mutters.

They laugh. They toast.

“Unbelievable.” I groan.

Sebastian holds out a glass of wine, my favorite vintage, which I absolutely did not see him pour. “We’ll try to keep commentary to a minimum during the meteor shower. Probably.”

“I hate you both,” I mutter, accepting the wine because I’m not a complete idiot. Then I go for the pizza, because hangry Anaïs is about 30 seconds away from setting this whole meteor cult on fire.

I return to the terrace with my rescued pizza, expecting to continue our celestial viewing party, only to find it completely abandoned.

Through the glass doors, Sebastian hunches over his laptop, holding up one finger in the universal ‘give me five minutes’ gesture that every workaholic knows means forty-five minutes minimum.

Meanwhile, Brian paces by the railing, phone pressed to his ear, free hand shoved deep in his pocket, his signature “I’m talking to a moron” stance. The man should patent it.

Ah, the midnight work emergency. These two would interrupt their own funerals to answer an email.

I should be annoyed. But if I had a job right now, I’d probably be getting calls about breached calves at 1 AM too.

So yeah, I get it.

I collapse into my abandoned lounge chair and prepare to demolish this pizza the way God and my college munchie sessions intended.

I slice that bad boy in half then roll each half into what can only be described as a massive carb-loaded Italian blunt. It’s a technique I perfected in college when my dignity took a gap year and never returned.

Brian glances over mid-conversation, sees my pizza joint technique, and nearly chokes on whatever he was saying about molecular structures.

He cuts his call short and joins me.

“That’s disgusting,” he says.

“You’re still watching.”

“Can’t look away. It’s like a car crash, but sexy somehow.”

Two hours, half a pizza, and a shared bottle of rosé later, he’s steady in his favorite position between my legs. He calls it the Sniper, where he’s steady aim with zero hesitation to dismantle me with precision.

Nothing complicated. Just calculated annihilation.

By the time he finally comes up for air, I’m so high on oxygen deprivation and dopamine that I’m seeing constellations that probably burned out centuries ago.

Then, while I’m still twitching and barely tethered to this plane of existence, he just has to ask, “Where is Sebastian anyway?” between licks like I’m his favorite popsicle.

“Working. Always working.”

“And he’s fine with…?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s happy when I’m happy, and right now, I’m on cloud nine.” I don’t even flinch. I’m past shame, past logic, possibly past oxygen.

As if summoned by the scent of sex in the air, Sebastian appears. “Interesting meteor shower viewing position,” he says from the doorway, voice perfectly neutral.

Brian doesn’t even look up. “Still ongoing,” he replies, calm as ever.

“So I see.”

They talk like I’m not even here.

Meanwhile, I’m lying there, trying to remember how breathing works, and hating how much I like being forgotten like this. Somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. My pulse stutters, caught somewhere between outrage and surrender.

Chapter 19. Meteor shower

Brian pauses just long enough to acknowledge Sebastian’s presence with a look that says ‘you joining or watching?’

He slows down just enough for me to think I might survive the night with some nerve endings intact. I plant my heel on the back of his head, a gentle but unmistakable command that says, “You’re not off the clock yet, buddy.” He emits a muffled laugh against my skin, which only makes things exponentially worse in the best possible way.

Instead of the usual awkwardness that comes with being caught mid-receiving-oral-by-your-ex-in-front-of-your-other-ex under the Portuguese sky, I just lock eyes with Sebastian and I curl my finger at him in a come-hither motion that would make a siren blush. Why waste time pretending to be bashful now? At this point, shame is just another accessory I keep in my closet for job interviews and funerals.

“You started without me.” He says, pulling his t-shirt over his head, and kisses me like we’re in a slow-burn indie film with an NC-17 rating.

He kisses me hard, no preamble, no warmup. It’s the kind of kiss that erases every other face, every other mouth, every other set of lips that ever tried to claim mine. My hand snakes up to his jaw while my other hand is still clutching Brian’s hair.

Brian increases his pace, syncing his rhythm to Sebastian’s kiss, a weird, perfect triangulation. I can’t tell if they’re showing off for me or for each other.

But I don’t care. Because it’s working. So well, in fact, that I’m clenching around Brian’s tongue involuntarily, my body responding like it has its own agenda.

Sebastian’s kisses trail down my neck to my gumdrops nipples, finally giving them the attention they craved and deserved.

Sebastian and Brian each pulling, sucking, licking my every nerve end. The moment their rhythm syncs, mouth and fingers, heat and hunger, I swear a comet streaks across the sky. Or maybe my brain just exploded from pleasure and poetic timing. No wonder the French call it la petite mort, because something definitely just died, and I think it was my self-control.

They say a shooting star grants your deepest wish.

I think I just cashed mine in.

They both pull back at almost the exact same time, like a choreographed exit from my body, and I collapse onto the couch like a sweaty, trembling piece of overworked meat. Boneless. Breathless. Possibly fluent in dolphin now.

And then, as if their brains are sharing one dirty thought, they move. In sync. Hands to belts. Unbuckling. Unzipping. Like a well-rehearsed routine. Like my depraved fever dream choreographed itself.

Oh god.

I know exactly what’s about to happen next.

And holy hell, I’m so here for it.

I suck Sebastian’s dick the second it appears, spring-loaded, right at eye level, like I’ve been waiting my whole adult life to audition for a very specific breakfast pastry commercial. He makes a noise deep in his chest, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, and that’s when I know I have his full fucking attention.

Brian hovers above me, stroking himself with an expression of pure, disbelieving hunger. “Are we… are we actually doing this, Anaïs?” his voice cracks a little, which he will deny until his dying day, but I hear it.

That’s the thing about Brian. Even in moments like this, he always puts my comfort first. Like I’m precious. Like I’m sacred. And now I remember why I almost married the idiot.

I want to say something snarky, probably something inappropriate about not dragging his feet when I’m quite literally laid out like a cosmic offering, but I can’t. My mouth’s occupied.

So instead, I slide my hand down and part myself like an open invitation with no RSVP required.

He gets the memo. “Get your dick in there, buddy,” I would say, if I could say anything at all. But my nose is touching Sebastian’s belly.

Then, in one glorious, cosmic moment, Brian pushes into me, and I arch my back so hard I briefly become a bridge between the two of them. There’s a second where none of us move, like the universe itself is pausing to make sure it has a front-row seat watching me become a human shish kebab, impaled at both ends.

I swear I hear the stars crackle.

This might be the only group project I’ve ever truly enjoyed.

It goes quiet for a moment, everyone lost in rhythm and breath and heat. My hand finds my clit while taking them both on both ends, and I’m somewhere between pleasure and disbelief that this is actually happening.

“Remind me why we ever thought we could let her go?” Brian murmurs, mid-thrust, hands gripping my hips.

Perfect timing for emotional breakthrough, buddy.

Sebastian, pulling on my gumdrops gently, says “Because none of us knew how to do this yet.”

“Okay, if this turns into a therapy session—” I pull my self to protest, but Sebastian casually slides himself back between my lips like he’s pressing a mute button.

Things get blurry after that, arms, legs, mouths, teeth. I lose track of who is touching what, or where, or even why. All I know is that we become a tangle of limbs on the deck, a single organism with three beating hearts and zero self-restraint. At some point the pizza box gets crushed, a bottle shatters, someone’s phone starts vibrating with a work emergency and is promptly hurled into the bushes.

Brian mutters against me. “Nothing’s more important than this,” Sebastian replies, “nothing.” and I nearly come from the sheer novelty of being prioritized over a work emergency.

I am both the luckiest and dumbest woman alive. Hastag blessed.

I also realize I’m about to come again, and that this time I absolutely do not care who’s keeping score.

By the time we’re finished, the meteor shower is over, the stars have faded, and the only thing left in the sky is pitch black with some twinkling stars scattered sparsely.

No one speaks for a while.

Brian is the first to break the silence, “What the fuck just happened?”

“Anaïs just happened,” Sebastian replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“A reborn Anaïs,” I correct, lying flat on my back like some smug, well-satisfied phoenix.

“Magical phenomena during the Perseids have been scientifically documented,” Brian offers, ever the academic. Though if I’m honest, we all knew this was written in the stars long before tonight. The meteors just gave us an excuse to stop pretending otherwise.

“Yep,” I murmur. “We just proved that, buddy.”

And that, reader, is how you survive a meteor shower with your dignity exactly where you left it, somewhere under the pizza box, next to your self-respect, and absolutely no one giving a single fuck.

Chapter 20. The morning after

I wake up warm, tangled in limbs. Sebastian’s chest is under my cheek, rising and falling in that steady rhythm that could lull me back to sleep if it weren’t for the fact that Brian’s arm is slung over my waist like a freckled seatbelt. Or maybe more like a ginger backpack, if backpacks came with morning wood and a tendency to mutter “Christ, my hips” in their sleep.

Somewhere beneath the sheet, one of them shifts, and I feel it. Oh yeah, I think, smug and sore in all the right ways. We did that.

I wait for the panic, the regret, the overwhelming urge to flee. Instead, I just feel… Happy? Which is somehow more terrifying.

I stretch, or try to, and something on the table nearby catches my eye.

Greta.

Well, not Greta herself. The little sachet holds her ashes. The one we were supposed to scatter over the cliff last night during the meteor shower. You know, in her honor. Letting her “witness the Perseids from the best seat in the universe.” That noble, poetic idea?

Yeah, Greta spent the night on the side table next to the king-sized lounge couch like some kind of celestial CCTV. Front-row seat to our great cosmic group project.

I imagine her shaking her head in exasperation next to Jesus, asking Him skeptically: “These were your best ones?”

Sorry about that, Greta. Rest in… mild exasperation?

---

By the time I step out of the shower, I’m feeling about 37% more human. Sunlight floods the villa with that aggressive Portuguese brightness that makes everything look like an Instagram filter. I throw on something linen and breezy, then survey the breakfast spread with satisfaction.

The overpriced catering package actually delivered. A dozen croissants glazed in port, fresh fruit carved into suspiciously sensual spirals, omelette so fluffy it’s like onion flavored marshmellow, and a jar of proper apple maple butter I’d specifically requested because I know these two would put it on everything like the converts I’ve trained them to be.

I’m arranging everything on the table when the guys shuffle in, all morning stubble and bare chests, looking like they’ve been through a war they definitely won.

Brian woken up to the line of pastries I just laid down on the table.

“Oh wow,” Brian says, loading his plate with croissants. “Someone wife her up.”

I’m already at the coffee maker, brewing his the way he likes it, some muscle memory immune to therapy.

“We tried that,” Sebastian says, taking his mug I’ve prepared. “She fled like we were the plague.”

“Can we not?” I groan. “I haven’t had caffeine yet. Save the roasting for later.”

Sebastian just smiles into his mug.

Brian zips his lips dramatically, winks at me over the rim of his coffee, and mouths, “Let’s not spook her.”

I snort into my cup. It’s far too early for this energy, and yet, weirdly, it feels like home. Or at least… like something I might not want to run from anymore.

My eyes land on Greta’s package again, bathed in the kind of awkward morning sunlight that makes you wish ghosts weren’t real and that your ex-future mother-in-law’s corporeal remains weren’t currently broadcasting guilt of The Hangover: Polyamory Edition.

If she could see us now, which in a metaphysical sense she probably could (and probably would, because she was Greta after all), she’d be giving us shit for turning her celestial sendoff into a meteor shower ménage à trois.

“Sebastian… we were supposed to scatter a pack of your mom last night during the Perseids.”

“Oh shit,” he says, blinking like a man just re-entering Earth’s orbit. “I totally forgot.”

“True,” Brian chimes in, stealing the last spiral of mango. “We got… distracted.”

“About last night…” I trail off, eyes on the crushed pizza box, the glint of a broken bottle near the bushes.

“What about it? You were amazing,” Sebastian says, kissing my forehead like the world’s most unbothered sinner.

“Are you sore anywhere?” Brian asks, entirely too sincere.

“No,” I say, then hesitate. “It’s just… I kind of liked it.”

“She’s greedy like that,” Brian says to Sebastian, like I’m not six inches away from him and perfectly capable of retaliation.

“I knew she’d like it,” Sebastian replies, entirely smug.

They fist bump.

I groan into my croissant. “You two were great, okay? I felt safe. Like I always have. With each of you.”

“It was nothing I’ve ever had,” Brian says, gesturing like his head just exploded. “And you two, Christ, the connection between you two? Insane.”

“We’re exes from grad school, you know that,” I say, like that explains everything and nothing.

“Yup,” Sebastian mumbles, biting into his croissant like this is just brunch and not the fallout of a cosmic threesome.

Brian scoffs. “Anaïs, you literally came on his command. Who does that?”

“It’s not like we’re getting back together or something, d’oh,” I say, because obviously that’s what needs clarifying right now.

“I’m not saying you should,” Brian says, running his hand through that ridiculous ginger mane. “It’s just… watching you two? I didn’t even feel jealous. You two are synced, intensely.”

“You’re probably just a voyeur, Brian,” Sebastian mutters around his breakfast.

“No, bru, you don’t get it,” Brian shoots back, dead serious. “I can make her body sing. Hell, I can make her scream my name backwards in three languages. But you? You make her soul surrender. And the way you claim her? That’s a whole different level of intimacy. That’s not technique, that’s ownership.”

“Bru?” I blink at him. “What are you, German SoundCloud rapper?”

“Bru. From Bruder. German. Like ‘bro’ from brother? Keep up.” He looks offended I even questioned it.

Sebastian and I burst out laughing despite everything. “Jesus Christ, Brian. For someone with an IQ higher than Einstein’s, you’re such a dumbass sometimes.”

Brian shrugs, completely unbothered by our mockery. “I’m just calling it like I see it. You two probably don’t even realize what you are to each other. And that’s probably for the best.” His expression shifts, gets softer, more vulnerable. “But Anaïs, you’re my forever What If.”

“I know.” I say, teasing, though it lands a little softer than I meant it to. There’s never been bad blood between us, not even after we split. We still meet whenever our paths cross, like old satellites brushing orbits. He’s my forever favorite booty call.

Brian’s smile is faint but honest. “You and I both know exactly why we love each other,” he says. “And we both know exactly why we’ll never work.”

He leans back, “I’m still the same me, climbing mountains that have room for exactly one person; me. To give you what you actually need, I’d have to tear down everything I’ve built and start over. And I’m not ready for that kind of demolition. I might never be.”

Funny, it felt like just yesterday Sebastian and I had a similar discussion. We broke up not because we fell out of love. I still love these two idiots with big hearts, big brains, big dicks. They both love me too.

But we just couldn’t figure it out.

Can I be the problem?

…

Nah.

“The way I see it,” Sebastian says, leveling Brian with that terrifyingly accurate look of his, “you two don’t work because you’re basically the same person, like I said before. Same way of thinking, cringey humor, that bluntness reserved for people who have absolutely no sense of what society thinks. Just… one with better abs and one with worse impulse control.” He pauses. “Though honestly, the abs are debatable.”

Brian immediately grabs his stomach. I grab mine.

We look at each other.

“He’s talking about you,” we say in unison, pointing at each other.

Sebastian just sips his coffee, unbothered.

“Thanks for the unsolicited emotional autopsy, Sebastian,” I mutter.

“Did you just compliment me and insult me in the same sentence?” Brian just has to ask.

Sebastian shrugs, demolishing the last pastéis de nata in one bite. “Neither of you can follow someone else’s lead for more than five minutes without trying to take over. You’re both captains who’d rather sink the ship than be crew.”

Brian and I exchange a look across the table. It’s equal parts awe, horror, and the kind of reluctant respect reserved for people who read you like a sad, open-faced children’s book.

“Sheesh… ” I groan, slumping back in my chair. “I hate it when he’s right.”

Brian nods solemnly. “He didn’t even blink when he said that.”

Sebastian lifts his mug. “Years of practice.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, raising my coffee like a toast, “that was one hell of a cosmic threesome. We all got orgasms and clarity.”

Sebastian, ever the understated king of deadpan, doesn’t miss a beat. “You got at least three. From me alone.”

I roll my eyes. “Shhh. Who’s counting?”

“I was,” Sebastian says.

“Me too,” Brian adds. “You’re insatiable.”

“So…” I wink at both of them. “Same time next year?”

The silence that follows is loaded with things none of us want to examine. Our logic is fighting hard between “yes, immediately, mark the calendar” and “this is insane.

“Bold of you to assume we’ll all be single next year,” Brian says, but there’s heat in his eyes that suggests he’s already in.

“Bold of you to assume we won’t be,” Sebastian counters.

Brian shrugs. “Very unhinged, very Anaïs.”

I reach for another pastry, still feeling pleasantly sore, still glowing. Out of the corner of my eye, Greta’s ashes catch my attention.

If ash packets could shake their heads in exasperation, hers definitely would.