Barcelona glittered.
Everything about it was golden and loud—palms swaying in the breeze, tapas served like art, late-night music that pulsed through cobblestone alleys and woke something wild in Eliana's blood.
She had never felt so far away from her old life.
Or so close to wanting something she knew she couldn't have.
Luca was in love with the city within twelve hours. "The men!" he cried dramatically from their hotel suite's balcony, silk robe flying open. "The wine! The balconies! I could marry a building here!"
Eliana laughed, adjusting her sunglasses as she flopped beside him on the terrace, her legs crossed and phone in hand.
A new message blinked on her screen.
Liam: If I were there, I'd be dragging you out to dance by now. Don't fall in love without me, princess.
She smiled, thumb hovering before she replied.
Eliana: No promises. But these Spanish men are dangerously charming.
Liam: Not as charming as me.
She laughed softly, tucking her phone under her thigh, letting the sun kiss her bare shoulders. She didn't like Liam, not really. But it was easy. Light. It made her feel wanted.
It filled the quiet spaces where thoughts of him tried to creep in.
That night, they dressed to kill.
Valeria in a rhinestone mesh dress. Renee in velvet cut low and high in all the right places. Eliana wore red—simple, sleeveless, dangerous. Her hair was curled, lips glossed, eyes smudged dark. Luca called her a flamethrower with legs.
They arrived at the club past midnight, lights flashing, music loud and hungry. The VIP section glowed in gold and shadow. Champagne poured like water. Everyone danced.
Nicky was already there.
He wore black. Always black. Black fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up. Rings on his fingers. Hair mussed. He leaned back on the velvet lounge like he was born to do nothing but destroy people silently.
And he was smiling.
At a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp beard. Laughing with Nicky, leaning closer, whispering something that made Nicky roll his eyes and nudge him playfully in the ribs.
Eliana stared.
Just for a moment.
Then she looked away.
Her chest burned in that specific, awful way—like a wire pulled too tight, snapping somewhere deep and quiet. She wasn't jealous, not really. She knew he was gay. Knew he saw her as safe, lovely, platonic warmth.
But watching someone you adored be adored by someone else?
It still stung.
She pulled out her phone like a lifeline.
Eliana: Wish you were here. You'd hate the music but love the view. Barcelona's wild.
Liam: You must look like sin in red. Send me a picture and I'll confirm.
She almost did. Almost tilted her camera just right.
Instead, she typed: Next time you're in Spain, we're dancing.
Then—just as she hit send—someone slid onto the seat beside her.
Close.
Warm.
Nicky.
He glanced down at her screen, his lips curling as he took a sip from his glass.
"You texting that flirty assistant?" he asked, voice smooth, amused.
She swallowed. "Maybe."
"You hiding him from us?"
"He's not a secret."
"He sounds thirsty."
She laughed, too tightly. "You're one to talk."
Nicky smirked. "Hey, I flirt in person. I'm old-fashioned."
His knee bumped hers. She didn't move.
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping low. "You should put the phone down, angel. Look around. Barcelona's full of hot, sun-kissed men ready to make you forget your name."
She smiled back, eyes sharp. "Maybe I don't want to forget it."
"Oh come on," he teased, brushing her hair off her shoulder like he'd done a dozen times before. "Don't act like you're not dying for a Barcelona summer fling."
She didn't blink. Didn't move.
Just said, evenly, "Why does it bother you if I am?"
He paused. Just for a second.
Then he smiled, that same soft, safe smile.
"It doesn't."
And it didn't.
Not for him.
Not really.
She forced her own smile, tipping her head, her heart suddenly heavy in her chest. "Then stop pretending to be my older brother every time I talk to someone."
Nicky laughed. "Babe, if I were your older brother, I'd be dragging you out of here for texting during prime dancing hours."
He stood, offering his hand.
She took it.
The morning after was a crime scene of glitter and poor decisions.
Renee was face-down on the velvet couch, one heel still on, the other dangling from the chandelier. Valeria had apparently seduced the bartender, because she was nowhere to be found and had left a lipstick kiss on the minibar menu. Elias was draped dramatically across a lounger in his robe, sunglasses on, muttering something about "never trusting tequila in Spain."
Luca emerged last, wrapped in silk and sunglasses, clutching espresso like it was holy water.
"You're all banned from nightlife until I emotionally recover," he declared, flopping beside Renee, who groaned in agreement.
Eliana stood near the window, dressed and awake, sipping her coffee. She was the only one who hadn't been kissed last night. Or touched. Or wanted.
Not that it mattered.
She didn't let it matter.
At least not out loud.
"Anyone want to come shopping?" she asked, glancing around the penthouse suite.
Groans.
"Designer street's five minutes away," she added. "Sales. Air conditioning. Possibly models on lunch break."
"Dead," Elias muttered.
"Busy," Luca said. "Trying not to vomit on my new robe."
"Occupied," Renee called from the couch. "There's a very attractive man in my shower."
Nicky was the only one seated upright at the kitchen counter, lazily spooning yogurt into his mouth. He wore a loose linen shirt and slim tan trousers, the top few buttons open, revealing a sliver of skin and a thin gold chain that dipped under the collar.
He looked unfairly good.
Eliana took one last sip of her coffee, trying not to stare. "Guess it's just me, then."
"I'll come," he said.
She blinked.
"You don't have to."
"I know." He dropped the spoon into the sink, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But I want to."
The streets were alive. Late morning sun spilled onto the sidewalks like liquid gold. The city moved slower on Sundays. Cafés buzzed gently. People walked in lazy pairs. Laughter drifted from patios and side streets.
They walked side by side.
Close.
Not touching, but not distant either.
"I forgot how quiet it gets," Nicky said, glancing up at the sky.
"You come here often?"
"Used to. When I needed to breathe."
Eliana smiled softly. "You ever think of moving here?"
"I thought about it. But it never felt like home." He looked at her then, eyes shaded by round tortoiseshell sunglasses. "You like it here?"
"I do. Maybe too much." She looked around, the way her eyes always did when she wanted to say more but couldn't. "It's beautiful. Loud. Warm."
"Like you," he said casually.
She laughed. "Are you flirting with me?"
He shrugged. "That's how I talk."
And that was the problem.
She could never tell.
They stopped at a boutique near the end of the street. The inside was all creamy whites and smooth wood accents. Racks of linen and silk. Floating textures and sleepy lighting.
Eliana wandered between racks, letting her fingers glide over the fabric.
Nicky picked out sunglasses and tried them on dramatically in front of the mirror. "Too much?"
She laughed. "You look like you're about to scam a billionaire on his yacht."
"So... perfect."
They drifted, tried on hats, debated whether gauzy shirts were "romantic" or "ridiculous," and laughed like they had no bruises beneath their clothes. Nicky picked a pale blue shirt that made his eyes glow. Eliana picked a pair of wrap sandals and a sheer floral scarf.
It felt easy.
It felt good.
Until—
"Why didn't you bring someone home last night?" she asked, voice casual but careful as they stood near the register.
Nicky didn't answer right away. He held the sunglasses in his hand, tapping the frame gently against his palm.
Then, without looking at her, he said, "I'm tired of men for a little while."
Her heart caught.
Just a fraction.
Just long enough to twist itself into something dangerous.
Hope.
Tiny. Stupid. Irresponsible.
She crushed it immediately.
"Oh," she said lightly. "Like... emotionally tired?"
"Like physically tired," he said with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Same bodies. Same stories. Same empty conversations after. Sometimes it just feels hollow, you know?"
She did.
But not in the same way.
For her, it was the ache of wanting something more. Of wanting someone who couldn't want her back.
"I get that," she murmured, folding the scarf over her wrist. "Sometimes it feels like... people only touch you to forget someone else."
Nicky looked at her then.
Really looked.
"I'm glad you didn't bring someone home either."
"I wasn't in the mood to be someone's temporary fix."
He smiled again.
And her heart—tender and traitorous—ached at how easy it was to talk to him. At how gently he looked at her, like she was someone to be listened to. Cared for. Seen.
They paid, stepped out into the sunlight again.
Neither spoke for a minute.
And then Nicky reached out.
Touched the scarf she had looped around her wrist, his fingers brushing her skin.
"This color's good on you," he said.
She smiled.
And kept walking.
But that hope?
That reckless flicker?
It didn't die completely.
Not yet.