Charlotte couldn't sleep.
Didn't even try after the first hour of staring at the ceiling.
The fan was going click, click, click, steady enough to sync up with the ache in her body. Her body wouldn't shut up, wouldn't stop replaying the night like some broken projector that refused to power down. Every time she blinked, she saw his face. Not even the angry one, the other one. That split-second when she shoved him and he didn't shove back, just… let her push into him. Then he kissed her like it was war.
She pulled the pillow over her face, muttered something—swear word, maybe prayer, couldn't tell the difference right now.
And her thighs kept pressing together. Her chest felt too tight. And she swore she could still feel his mouth. Salt, teeth, tongue. Jesus.
She gave up pretending. Rolled onto her side, sheets wrapped around her waist, pillow hugged against her chest like maybe it could trick her brain into thinking it was him again. She slid her fingers under the sheets, and started rubbing her clit, closing her eyes tight, imagining they were his fingers. She continued rubbing hard, and with her other hand, fondling her breasts, as she moaned into the pillow.
That night was playing all over again in her head, as she remembered more. Louder. Hotter. She bit down on the pillow, bit so hard her jaw ached.
Almost there. Almost—
The sliding door screeched.
Charlotte's whole body locked up.
She jerked upright, dragging the sheets like armor. Her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear. And there he was. Lifted. Half in shadow, shirt wrinkled, hair sticking up like he'd ripped his own hands through it all night.
He froze too. Eyes on her. Sheets. Pillow.
Her face burned.
He opened his mouth. Shut it.
Silence stretched out like barbed wire between them.
She wanted to scream. To tell him to get out. To drag him forward, sink her nails into his shoulders, make him finish what her body still begged for. She did none of it. Just glared until he backed out, slow, door sliding shut like an accusation.
I couldn't breathe after that. Couldn't stop seeing her when I shut my eyes. Sheets bunched at her chest, hair a mess, cheeks flushed in a way that wasn't sleep.
I'd walked in on her. I knew exactly what I'd walked in on.
And the worst part—she didn't even deny it. Just looked at me, wide-eyed, caught. And I stood there like an idiot, nothing in my mouth, nothing in my brain.
Now I'm pacing my room. Laptop open but untouched. Cursor blinking like it knows I'm not doing shit. Every time I sit, I see her face again. Every time I close my eyes, I hear that sound she made last night, right before she came apart under me.
I told myself it was nothing. A mistake. I told myself she'd forget it. But then I heard her breathing when I slid that door open, the kind of heavy desperate breathing that meant she hadn't forgotten anything.
And I can't. Stop. Thinking.
Next morning. Makeup heavier than usual. Armor. Big sunglasses even though it's cloudy.
Group activity posted on the chalkboard in the lobby: Beach volleyball, team game, participation encouraged. She almost laughed. Participation. Like this whole resort wasn't one big trap forcing her to play along.
And of course, of course—he was already there. Black t-shirt. Shorts that looked like he'd never once thought about fashion. Laptop bag slung over his shoulder like he couldn't detach it from his body. At a volleyball game.
"God!" She groaned out loud.
"Something wrong?" one of the other guests asked. Some guy. Too tan. Teeth too white.
"Nothing," she lied, plastering on a smile.
But her eyes kept drifting. To him. Always him.
I don't play sports. Not since high school. Volleyball makes no sense—sand flying everywhere, rules bent depending on who's calling them. Total chaos.
But I let them shove a ball into my hands because apparently "participation is mandatory" if you want your wellness voucher to count.
And then she walked up. Charlotte. Sunglasses. Lip gloss. Hair pulled back like she didn't care but somehow it made her look even better.
I pretended to look past her. Like she wasn't there. Like my entire body didn't light up remembering her legs tightening around me.
God!
The game started.
Sand everywhere. Screaming. People laughing too loud. Charlotte laughing too, at something the guy next to her said. Some tall, tan idiot who probably sells surfboards for a living.
My stomach twisted. Couldn't focus. Ball smacked my arm, bounced off into the ocean. Everyone laughed. I didn't care. I was staring at her. Staring at the way her smile tilted at Tan Guy.
She could feel him watching. Didn't even need to look. His stare burned hotter than the sun.
She leaned closer to Eric, or whatever his name was—laughed harder than his stupid joke deserved. Maybe she just wanted to prove she wasn't still thinking about last night. Maybe she wanted to prove she wasn't still aching from this morning. Maybe she wanted to see if Lifted would break.
She glanced over her shoulder.
He already looked broken.
And the stupidest part? It hurt.
The ball smacked down into the sand again, and everyone cheered like someone scored. I don't know who. Didn't matter.
All I saw was Charlotte leaning too close, laughing too bright, pretending I didn't exist.
And all I could think about was her gasping my name, even if she never said it out loud.
I wanted to walk off the court. I wanted to drag her away from everyone. I wanted to forget the way my chest caved every time she looked past me like I was just another grain of sand under her feet.
Instead, I stood there, sweating, burning, losing every point.
The game ended. Didn't matter who won. Everyone clapped, high-fived, wandered off toward the pool bar.
Charlotte brushed past him on her way out. Didn't even touch him, just close enough he could smell her shampoo, coconut and salt.
She didn't look back.
And Lifted stood there in the sand, fists clenched, wondering how the hell two people could be this close and still feel so far apart.