We stumble into the guest room—my temporary space with the suitcase still half-unpacked on the floor and the bedding I rumpled from two restless nights. The afternoon light filters through thin curtains, casting the room in a golden glow that softens edges and forgives imperfections.

Tiago kicks the door closed behind us. For better or worse, we've chosen this—chosen each other, if only for the afternoon.

The guest room door closes with a soft click, and suddenly the space feels both too small and too large. Afternoon light filters through the thin curtains, painting golden rectangles across the unmade bed. Tiago stands with his back against the door, watching me with eyes that have always seen too much.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. The sheets are still warm from where the sun has been hitting them all day. My suitcase gapes open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a riot of color against the beige carpet.

"Come here," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

Tiago pushes off from the door, crossing the small distance between us. He doesn't sit beside me. Instead, he kneels on the floor, positioning himself between my legs. The posture should make him seem suppliant, but somehow he maintains control, looking up at me through those impossibly thick lashes.

And I’m suddenly desperate with need, my body humming with desire.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his hands resting lightly on my knees.

The question stretches between us, layered with meanings. Is this position okay? Is what we're doing okay? Are we okay? I don't know the answer to the last two, but the first is simple enough.

"Yes," I whisper, reaching out to trace the curve of his cheekbone with my thumb.

His skin is warm beneath my touch, smooth except for the slight roughness where his five o'clock shadow is beginning to emerge. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to my palm, his eyes never leaving mine. The gesture—unexpectedly tender—makes my chest tighten.

"I think about this," he admits, his voice low. "In Brazil. Every night."

His hands slide up from my knees to my thighs, the pressure firm enough to feel through my jeans. My muscles tense reflexively, then relax under his touch. Familiar territory. My body remembers his hands even if my mind has tried to forget.

"Just this?" I ask, aiming for playful but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "No. Not just this."

He leans forward, and I meet him halfway. Our lips connect with none of the hesitation from earlier—this kiss starts where the others left off, hungry and certain. His hands continue their upward journey, spanning my waist, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my ribs through my shirt.

I sink my fingers into his curls, still damp from his morning shower. The scent of his shampoo—something citrusy and sharp—fills my senses. He makes a sound deep in his throat when I tug gently, and the vibration travels through me, awakening nerve endings I've deliberately kept dormant.

"Lucia," he murmurs against my mouth, my name a prayer and a plea.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers dipping beneath to touch bare skin. Goosebumps rise in their wake. I arch into his touch, wanting more contact, more pressure, more everything.

Tiago breaks the kiss to look at me, his eyes dark and serious. "Can I?"

I nod, lifting my arms to help as he peels the shirt up and over my head. The summer air hits my skin, but I don't have time to feel exposed before his mouth is on mine again, more insistent now. His hands span my bare waist, his thumbs tracing circles on my stomach that make my muscles jump.

I reach for the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it upward. He pulls back just long enough to let me remove it before he's pressing forward again, gently pushing me back onto the bed. The position change shifts the power dynamic—him still kneeling on the floor but now leaning over me, his upper body covering mine.

The skin-to-skin contact sends a jolt through me, like touching a live wire. His chest against my abdomen, warm and solid. The contrast of textures—his smooth shoulders, the rougher patch where dark hair dusts the center of his chest, the raised line of a scar near his collarbone from a fishing accident years ago.

His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp. He knows my body too well, knows exactly how to dismantle my defenses. His teeth graze my skin, not quite biting, the sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain.

"You smell the same," he murmurs against my throat. "Like vanilla and something else... something just you."

I don't tell him I've been using the same perfume since we met, a habit I can't seem to break despite associations that sometimes hurt to remember. Instead, I arch my neck, giving him better access. His mouth moves lower, tracing my collarbone, the hollow at the base of my throat.

"Tiago," I breathe, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or begging him to continue.

He seems to interpret it as the latter, his hands sliding beneath me to unclasp my bra with practiced ease. The straps slip down my arms, and I shrug out of it, letting it fall somewhere on the bed beside me. The vulnerability of lying half-naked beneath him while he kneels, still partially clothed, creates an imbalance that makes my heart race.

But then he's leaning down, his mouth finding my breast, and thought fragments into sensation. His tongue circles my nipple, the wet heat making me gasp. My back arches off the bed, pressing me more firmly against his mouth. His hand finds my other breast, thumb brushing across the peak until it hardens beneath his touch.

"God, I missed this," he says against my skin. "Missed you."

The words penetrate the haze of pleasure, a needle of reality that makes me squirm. I don't want this to be about missing or remembering. I want it to be about forgetting.

I push gently at his shoulders. "Too much talking."

He laughs, the sound warm against my bare skin. "Always trying to shut me up."

But he complies, trailing kisses down my sternum, over my ribs, to my navel. His hands move to the button of my jeans, hesitating there. I lift my hips in silent permission, and he pops the button open, slowly dragging the zipper down.