The Villa

to M.R.


Friday


You slept through most of the drive, curled slightly toward the window, your knees drawn up, like you were still half in bed. The glass kept catching bits of streetlight, running them across your cheek in long, slow bands. Your mouth had fallen open just enough to suggest you weren’t pretending.

When we hit the final stretch – that narrow road through the hills where the asphalt turns uneven, you stirred.

I gently touched your shoulder. You frowned and rubbed your eyes.
“Are we there yet?” you asked.


The Villa


The villa was white stone, low and long, its walls still warm from the afternoon sun. The kind of place that looked half-abandoned until you stepped inside.

A few orange trees pressed in close to the windows, their fruit heavy, overripe, some fallen in the grass. The garden smelled of citrus and rosemary and something dry and mineral – dust and sea salt caught in the cracks of old tile.

You stepped out of your shoes without untying them, then left them where they fell, one angled into the wall, the other facedown. Barefoot, you walked through the tiled hall.

At the sink, you drank straight from the faucet, bent at the waist, arms braced wide. Your white, loose t-shirt lifted just enough to expose a strip of the lower back. I looked not long, not hungrily, just... like blinking. You didn’t notice.


Friday night


I set the fire in the old stone fireplace: dry cedar logs crackling to life, sending thin trails of smoke curling upward. The room filled with the warm scent of burning wood. I poured two glasses of wine – a bottle of 2018 Marcassin Pinot Noir, deep and noble, with a rich texture and a complex bouquet of dark berries, wet earth, subtle spices, and hints of oak... Perfect.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, tall and lean, your frame almost as tall as mine. Your short golden hair caught the firelight, the texture tousled and casual, like it had been ruffled by the ocean breeze. Your skin, that perfect peach tone, seemed almost to glow in the flickering light.

You were starving. It showed in how you ate – careless, biting into the bread and cheese we’d brought, crumbs dropping to the floor, sauce smudging the corner of your mouth. You didn’t care. Hunger made you sloppy and alive in a way that made me smile.

Afterward, you stretched out beside me on the worn leather couch. Your eyes were bright, lips curved with mischief and… anticipation. You kissed me first, soft and sure, hands trailing down my chest. I could feel you trembling slightly, as if you wanted more.

But soon after, your body relaxed against mine. Your breathing slowed. You fell asleep mid-kiss, utterly exhausted.

I held you there. The night outside was full of distant waves and wind in the trees. Inside, the fire died down to glowing embers.

You were asleep, and I stayed awake, tracing the lines of your face in the dark.


Saturday morning


I woke up alone on the couch.

The light in the room had changed. I could hear water dripping, the hush of movement behind a half-open door.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, you moved slowly, like you were still part of the steam. Your skin flushed pink from the heat, damp curls falling over your forehead. The towel slung low on your hips, one corner darkened where it caught your bare thigh. You weren’t trying to look at me, but you knew I was watching.

You crossed the room barefoot, warm from the bath.

Behind you, I could see the shape of the tub – freestanding in the middle of the tiled floor, pale stone, deep as a bowl. The steam hadn’t cleared. It floated near the ceiling in slow spirals.

You sat down beside me, not bothering with space, your thigh touched mine.

“You know,” you said with a grin, “I kinda took your shower gel. The mesmerizing oudh accord or whatever it’s called. Now I smell like you.”

I stretched and rubbed my eyes.
“Whoa, flattered. Morning, babe.”

“Hey…”

You leaned back, let your head rest against the couch cushion, eyes half-closed, like sleep might take you again.
You didn’t say anything else.

Outside, the birds had started.


Saturday, siesta


You came to me damp from the ocean, skin grainy with salt, hair wild. You collapsed face-down on the bed, arms stretched above your head, legs half-off the edge.

I set the laptop aside.
“You were working? Seriously? You missed the most perfect sun.”
“I didn’t miss it,” I said, smiling.

I lay beside you, pressing my mouth to the hollow where your spine begins. You didn’t move. Your body hummed like a coastline – full of subtle currents, silent shifts, warning signs…

When I slid my hand under you, between the towel and your belly, you arched just barely and whispered,
“Take me. Hard.”


Late Saturday night


The villa creaked as the wind picked up. You stood naked at the window, lit only by the low bedside lamp. I watched the muscles move in your back.

You didn’t speak, just came to me, slipped under the sheet, and settled over me – not fast, not slow, just exactly. You kissed my collarbone with an absent-mindedness that undid me completely.


Sunday, post-lunch


You sat on the kitchen counter in nothing but your underwear, eating cherries from a chipped bowl. One by one, you pulled the stems with your teeth, bit down, sucked the flesh, then dropped the pits in your palm like coins.

“You’re staring again,” you said, without looking up.
“Yes,” I replied.
You handed me a cherry.
“Feed me,” you said.


Sunday evening


You leaned forward against the balcony wall, arms braced, torso angled slightly – like you were studying something far off in the ocean, though your eyes were closed.

The stone was still warm from the day. Your skin warmer. A bead of water moved slowly from your neck down the curve of your back. You didn’t wipe it. Maybe you liked how it felt.


Sunday night


It was too warm to sleep. You lay on top of the sheet, your chest rising slow under the ceiling fan. I watched you for a long time before touching you with a kind of reverence that embarrassed even me.

You didn’t open your eyes, just whispered,
“I knew you would.”

Your skin smelled like salt and linen gone warm. My hands followed the faint trail of sweat down your back.
You shifted, let your knees fall apart.

I kissed the inside of your thigh just to feel you shiver.
And when you rolled over and pulled me into your mouth – I forgot the name of the town we were in.

…


And after

…I stayed awake a little longer, listening to your breath shift beneath the slow blades of the ceiling fan.
You were lying there, all careless limbs and quiet breath, as if sleep had shaped you mid-motion and then quietly stepped away.
Your body still held the warmth of my hands, the trace of my kisses.

I wondered if you would remember this weekend at the villa.
If it would return to you years from now, sudden and uninvited –
the scent of rosemary on warm tile, sunlight through linen curtains, the hush of waves.

Maybe one day you'd walk that same stretch of beach without meaning to, and your body would remember what your mind had tried to forget.
You’d move slowly, wordlessly, the way we once did.

I didn’t need to stay beside you.
I only wanted to remain somewhere inside you,
as a blur of heat, a distant color, a fragment of a dream caught at the edge of waking.

When I was gone.
When the villa stood empty, the glasses dry, and you had grown into someone who no longer needed to look back.