Tiago intertwines his fingers with mine, and I let him lead me away from our bench, back toward the main path. The world beyond our moment comes rushing back—students with backpacks hurrying to class, the distant chime of a chapel bell marking the hour. I straighten my shirt with my free hand, wondering if my lips look as swollen as they feel.

But I don't let go of Tiago's hand. Not yet. The weight of it in mine—familiar, solid, real—anchors me in the present.

We walk away from the campus, our footsteps falling into rhythm despite the months apart. Tiago's hand rests at the small of my back, not quite possessive but present, a warm anchor against the summer air.

"How much farther?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Three blocks down, two to the right.

"Not far." His thumb traces small circles against my spine. "You forget already?"

The inconsistencies in his English grammar always emerge when he's excited or nervous. Right now, I suspect he’s both. I don't correct him. I never do. His English, imperfect as it is, carries more honesty than my Portuguese ever managed.

A squirrel darts across our path, pausing to chitter at us before disappearing up an ancient hairy tree. Tiago laughs, the sound rumbling through him and into me where our sides touch. "Even the animals here act crazy."

We turn down Main Street, where century-old trees form a canopy overhead. Shadows dapple the sidewalk, creating patterns that shift with each step.

"We don't have to analyze it," I say, slipping my hand into his back pocket as we walk. A bold move that makes his eyebrows rise. "Sometimes things just happen."

"Things don't just happen, Lucia." He pronounces my name the Brazilian way, emphasizing the second syllable. "People make choices."

My thumb finds the ridge of his hip bone through the denim. "Then I'm choosing this. Right now. No promises beyond today."

He stops walking, turning to face me in the middle of the sidewalk. His eyes—dark as fresh-turned earth—search mine. Whatever he's looking for, he must find it, because he nods once before leaning down to press his lips against mine, brief but firm.

"No promises," he agrees when he pulls back. "Just now."

We resume walking, but something has shifted. The pretense stripped away, we move with new purpose. His house waits just around the corner—the blue one with white trim and uneven front steps.

"My friends thought I was crazy," Tiago says. "Letting my ex stay in my house."

"Am I your ex?" I ask, genuinely curious. We never officially ended things, never had a final conversation about what we were or weren't anymore.

He shrugs, a fluid motion that ripples through his compact frame. "What's the word for someone who lives in your heart but not in your life?"

The question catches me off guard, poetry from a man who claims to hate books. I don't answer. Can't answer. Instead, I let my fingers trail down his arm until they tangle with his.

We reach his house, climbing the three creaking steps to the porch. The paint beneath our feet is worn through in spots, revealing older colors—green, then gray, then the original wood.

Tiago fishes his keys from his pocket, the familiar dolphin keychain catching the afternoon light. A souvenir from our trip to Itamari two years ago, when we rented a hotel room and spent most of it in bed, venturing out only for food and the requisite tourist photos.

"You remember Itamari?" he asks, again seeming to pluck the thought from my mind.

"The sunburn," I say, keeping my tone light. "Hard to forget."

He laughs, unlocking the pedestrian door. "You fell asleep on the beach. I told you—Brazilian sun is different."

"You could have woken me up."

"You looked peaceful." He pushes the door open, standing aside to let me enter first. "I didn't want to disturb you."

The memory unspools between us—me waking with a yelp as the sun turned my shoulders lobster-red, him applying aloe vera with gentle hands, the way we made love that night with him careful not to press against my burned skin.

I step inside, greeted by the familiar scent of his house—laundry detergent, coffee, and something distinctly male. The living room with its mismatched furniture spreads before me. To the right, the narrow hallway leads to the bedrooms—his at the end, mine (the guest room) adjacent, sharing a wall thin enough that I've heard every toss and turn he's made these past two nights.

The living room is empty. I hear this brothers’ voices coming from the closed bedroom at the end of the hall. His parents are nowhere to be seen.

Tiago closes the door behind us, the click of the latch impossibly loud. We stand in his entryway, the afternoon sun streaming through the front window, illuminating dust motes that dance between us.

"You want something to drink?" he asks, a last courtesy before we abandon pretense. He moves into the kitchen.

I follow him, taking in the full sight of him—the way his curls catch the light, the slight flush on his cheeks, the muscle in his jaw that twitches when he's holding back. His body, compact but powerful, strains slightly against his t-shirt where his shoulders have filled out since I last saw him.

"No," I answer, my voice steadier than I feel. "That's not what I want."

Something flares in his eyes—hunger, relief, triumph. He steps forward, eliminating the space between us. His hands find my hips, thumbs hooking into my belt loops, tugging me against him.

"What do you want, Lucia?" His voice drops lower, the accent thickening with desire.

I know what this is—what we're doing. Two people seeking physical release, using familiar bodies to scratch an itch. Nothing more. Nothing that will last beyond these walls, beyond this afternoon. The knowledge should make me sad, perhaps, but instead, it liberates me. No expectations to manage. No future to worry about. Just now.

"You know what I want," I say, my hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm.

"Say it," he insists, one hand moving to cup the back of my neck. "I need to hear you say it."

I lean forward until my lips brush his ear, inhaling the scent of him—soap and skin and memories. "I want you to make me forget everything but this. Us. Right now."

He groans, the sound vibrating through me. His mouth finds mine, no gentleness now, just raw need. I match his intensity, fingers curling into his shoulders, anchoring myself against the storm of sensation.

We move through the living room without breaking apart, bumping into the couch, nearly toppling a lamp. He laughs against my mouth when I curse as my hip connects with the corner of the coffee table.

"Always so graceful," he teases, his hands steadying me.

"Shut up," I mutter, pulling him back to me.

We navigate the narrow hallway, a journey made longer by our refusal to separate. My back hits the wall beside my bedroom door, and Tiago presses against me, his body hard and insistent. His hands slide under my tank top, fingers splaying across my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

I push off from the wall and reach behind me to turn the doorknob. "Inside."