The painter upstairs

The sun blazes over the narrow streets of a small Spanish coastal town. We – two best friends, drunk on the freedom of our summer vacation – sit in the shade of a café, cold glasses in our hands, the salty sea air lingering on our lips. Then the world seems to stop. Up there, at the open window of an old building, he stands. Shirtless. Sun-kissed. Muscles shifting beneath his skin with every movement. Beads of sweat gliding slowly down his neck as he paints the wall with strong, unhurried strokes. His beauty hits us like a warm shock. One glance. A smile. The second time our eyes meet, he sets the brush down, leans against the window, and with a simple, wordless gesture, invites us up – an invitation that smells of summer, desire, and danger.