“What do you miss most about it?” I ask. There’s a faint knock at the door, and I wonder if it’s the pastries being delivered. Elle and Jack haven’t come back from their excursion to the kitchen, but the smell of coffee lingers in the air like there’s a pot brewing there.
She pauses, considering. “The mountains. The slow, steady rhythm. Knowing everyone, even if that could get suffocating sometimes.” A small smile flickers, then fades. “But it was too small for me. I always wanted more, daydreamed with my best friend Martina about leaving. I ended up in Buenos Aires for university, then New York.” Her voice softens, the last words slipping out like a confession. “I’m sure it’s a universal immigrant experience, and I’m not the only one who feels like this occasionally. A lot of the time I wonder if I’ll ever belong anywhere.”
I lean forward, needing to close the space between us. My hand stretches of its own accord and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “You do. You will.”
She gives me a look, not exactly skeptical but more like she doesn’t trust herself to believe me.
And because I can’t leave it there, I add, “I minored in Spanish in college. Thought I’d go to Argentina for a semester abroad. Ended up in Chile instead.”
Manuela’s whole face lights up, her laugh breaking the tension in the air. “Chile?” She says it like it’s the punchline to a joke. “Why would you do that to yourself?”
I grin, glad she’s laughing, glad it’s me who caused it. “It was cheaper, I think? Or maybe the program filled up? I don’t know. I regret it, though. My buddies that ended up in Argentina had a blast.”
“As you should.” She tugs the blanket higher, smirking now. “Chile is fine, but… come on. You picked wrong.”
“Guess I’ll need a local guide if I ever want to fix that mistake,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and amused. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”
The blanket shifts again, her knee brushing mine, and I don’t move away.
20
MANUELA
The hallway creaksunder my bare feet. The house is mostly quiet, except for the muffled sound of rain sliding down the windows and a laugh or two drifting from behind closed doors one floor below. I clutch my phone against my chest like it’s a valid excuse for what I’m about to do, heart hammering way too fast for something as innocent as needing a charger.
Connor’s door is closed, but there’s a thin stripe of warm light from under it, and I wonder if maybe he’s asleep. I stop, turning back around to head back to my room, but then change my mind again.
Something about never being this forward with men flashes through my mind. In Buenos Aires, dating was easy—messy, sometimes, but familiar. Two longish relationships, a handful of casual things that burned bright and quick. There was always someone to go out with, to laugh with, to text late at night.
But when I moved to New York, I stopped. It never felt like I could risk the distraction when I was barely keeping my head above water. Everything there still feels temporary, like I’m borrowing the life I’ve built and might have to give it back at anymoment. Dating means letting people see you, and I’ve never been sure I’d be staying long enough for that to matter.
And suddenly, here I am in the hallway of a Swiss villa in the middle of the night. It feels reckless. Especially so because this is someone from the friend group, and what’s the saying? Don’t shit where you eat?
Maybe I’m rusty. Maybe I don’t know how Americans do this—if this even is a thing people do outside of movies. For all I know, he’s going to laugh, hand me a charger, and send me back to bed.
I knock softly.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, rougher than usual.
I push the door a little. He’s sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard with his laptop open, shirt stretched across his chest. His hair is damp, like he showered after dinner, and a knot of nerves coils low in my stomach. Not regret, exactly—just the sharp awareness that whatever happens next could change everything.
“Sorry to interrupt your…” I hold up my phone. “Do you—uh, have a charger?”
“Not interrupting. I was catching up on the news.” He arches a brow, mouth tilting. “That’s the excuse you’re going with?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “What, I can’t need to charge my phone?”
Before I can blink, he’s off the bed, across the room, pulling me inside. The door clicks shut softly behind me, and then my back is pressed against it with urgency. His body is close, his hand braced beside my head.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, voice softer now, eyes dark.
I can’t. Or maybe I don’t want to. Instead, I smile and lift my chin slightly, forcing all the confidence I left in the hallway. “I need a charger.”
That’s all it takes. He kisses me hard, like he’s been holding himself back since that night on the terrace. His mouth is warm and insistent, tasting faintly of toothpaste and whatever wine they opened after dinner. My mouth parts on a soft sound I don’t mean to make, and he swallows it like he’s been starving. His other hand slides down my side, palms my hip, and my knees threaten to give out.
He eases the kiss slower, then slower still, like winding the dial back on purpose. A press, a pause, a drag of his lower lip. It turns me inside out, and I’m ready to climb him, drop this phone, and forget there are people outside in this same house.
