Hidden in the Ionian Sea, the tiny island of Antipaxos shimmered under the sun like a forgotten jewel. It was no secret that it belonged almost entirely to one man: Andreas Cantacuzino. His family had owned the island for generations, and their imprint—both physical and spiritual—was carved into the olive groves, the whitewashed chapel atop the cliff, and the winding paths that led down to the private cove. To the outside world, it was a billionaire’s sanctuary. To Andreas, it was equal parts fortress and refuge.
Tall with broad shoulders that once bore the effortless grace of youth, Andreas still presented an imposing figure at forty with relatively few regrets. Yeah, Andreas knew he had physical faults and human failings but he still made decisions in his own life.
The island’s breeze tugged at his linen shirt, half-unbuttoned, revealing a chest hardened by years of swimming and carrying stones up slopes just to prove he could. From a distance, he looked like a man who owned the world. Up close, the picture blurred.
The estate was ringed with layers of security—drone surveillance swept the skies regularly while a team of South African ex-military guards manned the compound hidden behind a wall of olive trees. The guards rarely smiled. They weren’t hired to smile. In the shallows of the private beach, nets lay concealed beneath the waves, an invisible curtain keeping outsiders from floating too close. This was a place meant to be untouched, pristine, and above all else—controlled.
That was the part Andreas had always found comfort in: control. He managed his business empire with precision and discretion, never indulging the media, never confirming or denying rumors about wealth, power, or lovers. He was, in almost every way, a textbook case of masculine authority. Although in the quiet of Antipaxos, surrounded by the sound of cicadas and the hush of the waves, he was beginning to question the narrative he'd written for himself. Maybe he wanted more?
The first doubts crept in after his last health screening. Nothing life-threatening, the doctors had said—just markers, elevated enzymes, subtle signs that the body wasn’t bouncing back the way it used to. He felt it, too. The aching knees after a morning swim. The tiredness that lingered longer than it should. The way his hands trembled ever so slightly after too much wine. These weren’t things he liked to talk about. Not with his staff, and certainly not with the few friends he allowed into his world.
More unsettling were the moments of silence when his mind drifted. There had been fleeting sexual experiences in his youth—things never named, never spoken of. He'd filed them under curiosity and locked them away. In his world, masculinity was non-negotiable although he never wanted to be seen as predatory with anyone. His father, stern and immovable, made sure that Andreas behaved like a gentleman with women and that his word was his bond with men. Even now, years after his father’s death, Andreas carried the weight of expectation like a second skin.
He told himself he was straight or στρέιτ. That’s what he’d always told others. . He had the affairs to prove it, the disinterested flings with models and heiresses. Still, there were moments in the early hours of the morning—unexpected and sharp—when something inside him stirred in unfamiliar directions. These weren't crises exactly. More like questions echoing in a marble hall. What if? Why now? Who would he be if no one was watching?
Then there was his son, Nikandros. Raised in the baroque stiffness of a Bavarian estate by Andreas' estranged ex-wife and her blue-blooded family, the boy—now nearly a man—spoke more German than Greek and looked at his father like one studies a painting in a museum: with distant admiration, tinged with discomfort. Their visits to each other were polite but cold, each careful not to break the porcelain of their relationship.
Andreas sometimes lay awake at night wondering if he’d failed the boy somehow. Whether the walls he’d built to keep others out had also kept his own son at bay. Nikandros was smart, observant. Andreas knew he couldn’t fake invincibility as a man and as a father forever—not with Niko. Perhaps that’s what scared him most. That one day the son would see through the father. Maybe Niko would come to hate his father?
On the surface, Andreas had it all. Wealth that measured itself in islands and superyachts, freedom to disappear from the world on a whim, lovers who never asked for more than he was willing to give. Although under the sun-drenched facades of Antipaxos, his thoughts wandered into quiet unrest. The life he’d built—this perfect, fortified dream—was beginning to feel more like a museum of himself.
He still swam every morning, still barked orders to his staff with the clipped authority of a captain used to being obeyed. To anyone watching, he was the same Andreas. In reality, he was starting to linger a little longer at the edge of the sea, squinting into the horizon as though expecting it to answer him. What was it all for? The silence of Antipaxos had become deafening.
No one knew, not really, how hard it was to be Andreas. To be the sum of tradition, strength, and desire—while never letting the seams show. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted to understand if there was a life beyond the image. Was there space for softness, for vulnerability? Could he allow himself to be curious, even afraid, without shattering the identity he’d spent decades crafting?
The questions stayed unanswered. For now. He wasn't ready to confront them fully. Every day, they pressed a little closer, like water against rock. Not enough to cause collapse. Just enough to wear down the edges.
The fishing boat brought an end to his thoughts and grumbled to a stop just off the narrow dock, its old diesel engine hissing as if grateful to rest. A plume of smoke drifted toward the dry rock face that bordered Andreas’ private cove blurring the view for a moment before the heat burned it away. The odor of fuel and sun-cooked fish clung to Tony Stevens like a second skin.
He’d missed the sleek motor launch sent by Andreas to collect him—blame it on nerves or poor directions—but here he was, stepping barefoot off a fisherman’s boat, clutching a folder under one arm and his balled-up shirt in the other. His face was flushed from both sun and embarrassment, dark dirty blonde hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that made him look younger than his eighteen years. Andreas was a little worried by the fact that Tony looked so young.
Tony had sharp features softened by youth, eyes that shifted quickly as if always calculating how he was being perceived. His frame was lean, toned in the unpolished way of someone who played sports but didn’t live in the gym. There was a charm to his awkwardness, like he knew he was handsome but hadn’t yet figured out how to use it.
Heat pressed down from all sides. The stone beneath his feet radiated back the day’s fury, and even though Andreas waited under a canvas awning stretched across the terrace, the air was thick, barely breathable.
Tony climbed the steps slowly, hoping to buy time to cool down before he spoke. His hand slipped a little on the brass railing from the sweat that ran down his arms. He was conscious of the way his shorts clung to him, how unprofessional this all looked. The papers he carried—copies of a confidential shipping agreement with partners in Limassol—were slightly curled at the edges now, creased from the sea breeze and his tight grip.
Andreas didn’t stand to greet him. He remained in a white linen chair, shaded by the awning, a tall glass of something cold and citrusy sweating beside him. He wore dark sunglasses and a loose-fitting shirt open to his chest. Though his body bore the weight of his forty years —he radiated the authority Tony had seen in two previous boardrooms and shareholder meetings. There was something Grecian-statue about Andreas, if statues could narrow their eyes and measure you with a glance.
“You found the scenic route,” Andreas said in Greek-accented English, voice low and amused. Mildly mocking.
Tony forced a grin, squinting against the sun. “Missed the launch. The guy with the fishing boat said he knew the way. I didn’t want to be late.”
“You’re late,” Andreas replied coolly. “You brought the papers, I assume?”
“Right here, sir.” Tony held them up, his hand betraying a slight tremor. He took the final few steps onto the tiled terrace and passed the folder over, trying not to flinch as their fingers brushed.
Andreas took his time flipping through the pages. The only sounds were the buzzing of insects and the faint whir of a drone overhead—standard security patrol. His guards, who lived in a hidden compound further inland, rarely made appearances unless summoned, though Tony imagined they were watching everything from cameras tucked in the rocks and trees. Andreas had no problems with people watching him.
Tony wiped his forehead and glanced toward the horizon. The water sparkled like shattered glass. Off in the distance, a speedboat darted past the outer edge of the bay, only to veer away once it reached the invisible line where underwater nets blocked further passage. Privacy here wasn’t just a luxury; it was an obsession.
“It’s forty degrees in the shade today,” Andreas said without looking up. “You’ll want to stay hydrated.”
“I’m trying,” Tony mumbled. His throat felt parched. “Didn’t want to be disrespectful, showing up shirtless.”
Andreas set the papers down beside him. “I’ve seen worse than you on this island.”
This wasn’t how things usually went on Antipaxos.
Typically, it was older men—stiff-collared attorneys or silver-haired executives—who ferried documents to the island, not younger men just out of adolescence. Men who understood boundaries. Men who knew the rules, if not always how to follow them. Tony was different. Eighteen, an adult, but he looked small somehow. Slender and lightly freckled, with a kind of unguarded openness that made Andreas uneasy.
Andreas couldn’t afford a scandal. Not here. Not with his name. The thought of his face splashed across Greek tabloids—Καθημερινή or worse, some smug corner of Proto Thema—next to some wild, unfounded headline made his skin tighten. Greek Shipping Tycoon Preys on Intern? No thanks. All it would take was one moment of carelessness, a misread gesture, and he’d be explaining himself to lawyers.
Tony might be smart, but he was also young, eager, malleable. Andreas knew the optics. He was no predator—and he had no intention of letting a snot-nosed kid ruin the empire he built with his own callused hands. Still, Andreas was looking at the intern and he liked what he saw.
Tony didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure why Andreas had insisted on meeting him in person to sign these documents—something his assistant could’ve handled in Athens or even through a secure digital platform. There were rumors, of course. Interns talked to each other. They said Andreas liked to watch people squirm. That he enjoyed their discomfort because it told him something honest. Tony wasn’t sure what kind of honesty his sweat-soaked torso and flushed cheeks were revealing.
He tried to reset the conversation. “Mr. Cantacuzino, I just wanted to say I’ve really appreciated the opportunity to intern at your company. I’ve learned a lot working with the logistics team in Piraeus.”
Andreas ignored Tony and raised an eyebrow. “Do you read Ta Nea?”
The question caught Tony off guard. “Sometimes. I mean… when I’m trying to follow shipping news, yeah. I also check Kathimerini. My Greek’s not perfect, but I do my best.”
“Good.” Andreas poured a second glass of the citrus drink and held it out without standing. Tony took it gratefully. “If you want to succeed in my world, you need to know how it speaks. Not just in English. Not just in data.” Andreas liked the way Tony spoke halting Greek learned from Greek school back on Long Island.
Tony nodded, unsure whether this was encouragement or a test. “Yes, sir.”
The drink was tart and bitter, not alcoholic, something local, not meant for tourists. It stung going down. He resisted the urge to gulp it.
“There’s talk you’re looking for a permanent spot,” Andreas said, his voice casual.
“I’d like that, yes.” Tony stood straighter, still shirtless, feeling exposed, vulnerable and overheated but trying to summon poise.
“How far are you willing to go to earn that place?” Andreas deliberately didn’t look at Tony focusing on the paperwork.
The question hung between them, not quite suggestive, not entirely innocent. Tony hesitated. His heart pounded harder now, not from the heat. “I’ll work hard. I’ll prove myself.”
Andreas didn’t leave much to chance. Before the intern even set foot on the island, his South African security team had already handed over a discreet but thorough profile. Tony Stevens—bright, likable, sometimes a promiscuous homosexual—wasn’t exactly the picture of wide-eyed innocence. In fact, his name rang familiar in a few circles: Gay bars in the Gazi district of Athens, a private party or two in Mykonos, some whispered anecdotes from company staff about late nights and early exits.
There was no scandal, no danger in Tony—just a clear pattern. Tony liked men. He liked sex and didn’t pretend otherwise. His romantic life, if it could be called that, resembled more of a carousel than a courtship. Apps, chance encounters, a flirtation at a gallery opening that turned into an overnight visit. Never unkind, never dishonest—he simply moved through people the way others browsed a playlist.
Andreas found himself neither scandalized nor surprised. He’d lived long enough to know that appetite didn’t make someone immoral, and in Tony’s case, it might’ve been the opposite—his openness, in a way, was disarming. Still, it complicated things. Charm like that could open doors or set fires, and Andreas wasn’t entirely sure yet which one Tony would do.
The silence that followed was pierced only by the distant cry of a goat from the hills above. Tony took another sip, unsure if he’d passed some invisible test or just walked into another one.
A breeze rolled in from the sea, and for a fleeting second, Tony felt relief. He still didn’t know where this conversation was going—or what Andreas really wanted—but he’d made it this far. Whether that was a good thing or not, only time would tell.
Andreas got up from the lounger suddenly and with determination as if he made a decision, throwing the crumpled papers to the floor. He placed an elegant murano glass paperweight on them. Andreas nodded his head giving the international symbol for “Come on!”
Tony followed Andreas toward the pool on a higher terrace. Each step felt deliberate, ceremonial, processional, almost, as if by walking together they were entering some quiet pact neither of them had yet defined. The villa sat high above the beach, elegant but not overbuilt, with a sense of Greek restraint rarely found in estates of such wealth. The pool shimmered ahead—perfectly rectangular, tucked in just beyond a grove of ancient olive tress—its water a deep turquoise mirroring the sky. The mosaics on the floor were suggestive to say the least. Dionysos in informal moments. Andreas was reminding visitors that he was a sensual man, a man of passion. Something that contrasted with Andreas' outward behavior.
Tony tried to keep his breathing steady. The heat had soaked into his skin hours ago, and his body still hadn’t caught up. His chest was bare, his feet dusty from the dock. He kept his eyes forward, willing himself not to look too often at Andreas, though the older man’s presence was nearly gravitational.
“You did well,” Andreas said quietly, not looking back. “Most interns wouldn’t risk arriving on a fishing boat covered in diesel.” Andreas’ face cracked a little, smiling. He liked teasing interns. A weakness of rich men.
“I really didn’t mean to miss the launch,” Tony replied, voice thin. “I just—I got confused, I guess. I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“You didn’t.” Andreas glanced over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “You’re honest and that’s rare.”
They reached the poolside, the tiles hot underfoot. Andreas took a seat at one of the chaise lounges, draping a towel across the cushion. He didn’t offer Tony a towel. He didn’t have to. The invitation to follow had already been given in the form of a glance, a barely perceptible nod.
Tony sat a few feet away, folding his arms over his knees. He could smell the salt on his skin, feel the tightness of dried sweat. Every nerve in his body felt like it was auditioning.
Andreas poured a bit more of the citrus liquor from a poolside bar into two glasses and handed one across the divide. This time it had a hit of ouzo in there. “Still nervous?”
“I guess I thought this would feel more like a meeting,” Tony said, accepting the glass. “You know—papers, pen, maybe your assistant breathing down my neck.”
“That’s not how I do things. I prefer quiet. Distance. The world out there”—he gestured with the glass toward the sea—“never stops making noise.”
Tony took a slow sip, the unannounced ouzo catching at the back of his throat. Tony wasn’t yet Greek enough to like the aniseed taste of this very Greek liqueur. He couldn’t quite meet Andreas’ eyes. “I think I get why people want to be around you.”
“That sounds like flattery.” Andreas’ cocked his head a little in what was his signature stance when he was questioning. Andreas wasn’t sure about the flattery, it was less honest somehow, learned, rehearsed and Andreas wanted the here and now.
“It’s not,” Tony said quickly. “It’s… just the truth.”
Andreas leaned back on his elbows, his body relaxed but his gaze sharp. “What truth are you chasing, Tony? What do you think you’ll find here?”
Tony found himself thinking that rich men had the ability to talk like this when every day guys just need to pay for their apartment and pay the bills.
The question caught Tony off guard. He hesitated, tracing the rim of the glass with his thumb. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. I want to belong to something that matters. Not just any job—something real. Something that feels bigger than me.”
“That’s a romantic idea.” In a way, Andreas was teasing Tony, challenging him, testing.
“I guess I am a little romantic,” Tony admitted with a laugh. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s just… dangerous for one as young as you.” Andreas was amused at the idea of Tony being romantic. After all, he had seen the security report. In Andreas’ opinion, Tony was no romantic.
Tony looked at Andreas then, really looked. There was a depth behind Andreas’ words that made him feel like he’d stepped into something vast and dark, a place with no railings to prevent a fall. Still, he didn’t want to pull back. Not yet.
“You ever feel like you don’t quite fit where you came from?” Tony asked. “Like everyone sees you a certain way, and if you try to change the shape of yourself—even just a little—they look at you like you’ve gone mad.”
Andreas considered him for a moment, the flicker of something unspoken in his expression. “All the time,” he said. “It’s getting worse every day!”
The admission landed between them like a dropped stone. Tony’s heart thudded louder. He’d assumed men like Andreas were born certain. Impeccably confident. Untouched by doubt or awkwardness. Now he wasn’t so sure. That uncertainty made Andreas feel more human—and somehow, more dangerous.
“I don’t even know why I want you to like me,” Tony said, mostly to himself. “I just—I think about it more than I probably should.”
“Do you think I don’t like you?” Andreas asked, not smiling.
“I don’t know,” Tony replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think you’re watching me like I’m some… puzzle. Like you’re trying to figure out what I’ll do if you push a little.”
“Maybe I am,” Andreas said, not denying it. “Maybe I’m trying to see how much of your reaction is you—and how much is rehearsed performance.”
Tony looked down at his hands. His knuckles were pale from the tight grip on his glass. “Then I guess I don’t know what’s real either.”
They sat in the silence for a beat too long. Somewhere near the edge of the olive grove, a drone buzzed low before lifting back into the blue. It wiggled its flight flaps and that was a sign it was being flown by the South African guards. Andreas waved a little too vigorously. It was the sign from Andreas to flick off the security grid for the poolside and cabana. Andreas didn’t mind the camera to a point.
“Naked swim?” Andreas said, standing and letting the towel drop from his lap.
Tony blinked. “Now?” He wasn’t surprised at the idea of the rich guy offering a naked swim but he was surprised that Andreas suggested this now.
“Why not?” Andreas was already moving toward the steps at the edge of the pool. “You’re already drenched in sweat, and the water’s perfect.” Andreas thought that Tony had been thinking about the possibility of getting naked. “He’s been considering his options since he arrived.” Andreas thought.
Tony stood awkwardly. His legs felt rooted. Something about being in the pool with Andreas—without context, without clothes—made everything feel more intimate. More exposed.
“You’re overthinking again,” Andreas said gently, reprovingly.
“I do that a lot,” Tony replied. “Comes with not knowing much,”
The shower stalls stood behind a curved wall of pale stone just off the pool’s edge, partially shaded by overhanging vines that clung to the pergola above. Two spouts, set into the stone like minimalist sculptures, poured cold spring water brought from under the Island in twin streams. The floor beneath them shimmered from the day’s heat, dotted with leaves and the occasional glint of real gold cubes set into the mosaic flooring.
Tony stepped toward the first stall, the air brushing against his skin. He hesitated a second, caught between modesty and impulse. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of his linen shorts, easing them down over sun-warmed thighs. He didn’t look around. That was the game—acted indifference. The shorts were kicked away with a soft slap, and he stepped out of them lightly, movements casual, almost languid. He was aware of his arousal in that moment—not exactly, but aware that he had an erection. The sun carved soft shadows along his back and down the arches of his calves. He reached up, adjusted the faucet, and stepped under the burst of cold.
The shock of it made him inhale sharply. It wasn’t just about washing off sweat and diesel—it was about shedding a layer of nerves. Water ran down his chest, tracing over the faint tan lines across his shoulders, carving rivulets down his spine. His head tilted back as he rinsed the salt from his hair, letting the droplets scatter like glass from his chin.
From the corner of his eye, he saw motion. Andreas stepped into the adjacent stall, gazing firmly ahead. He didn’t say anything. His fingers moved to the drawstring of his shorts, tugged once, then again, and then they slipped to the floor in one practiced motion. He stood for a moment—unguarded, fully exposed and fully erect then stepped under the cold stream.
The water struck Andreas’ broad chest and cascaded down his torso. His body was older, yes, but well kept, solid, deeply rooted in itself. Hair, silvered in places, His shoulders flexed slightly as he rinsed, movements exact, economical. The two men stood almost shoulder to shoulder but separate, each beneath their own column of falling water.
Neither turned toward the other. Neither wanted to be caught looking.
Tony pressed his palms into the stone in front of him, cool against his skin. He kept his eyes forward, pretending to focus on the trickle of water making its way along a groove in the tile. Every fiber of him was awake as he stood there. He could hear the cadence of Andreas’ breath, the splash of water at his feet. It would have taken nothing—less than a glance—to break the spell. Neither of them moved to do so. They washed with a Korres product, “Santorini Vine”. The scent was intoxicating.
It wasn’t fear that kept them from looking at each other. It was reverence, almost. That fragile space where admiration for the other man held its breath and resisted the urge to become something else. They both showered in silence, not quite side by side, but not entirely alone.
Andreas turned off the shower with an insolent snap. Tense, frustrated and expectant. He turned towards the pool so that for the briefest moment Tony could see his erection. Andreas was taking a cheap thrill exposing himself to Tony before entering the pool.
Tony followed, stepping carefully and slowly down the wide marble steps into the water which rose slowly over his calves and thighs. Tony stopped before he got too deep and he allowed his erection to remain above the water, visible to Andres but just for a moment before he entered the water. Tony enjoyed exposing himself to Andreas even if for an instant. The heat slipped away instantly, replaced by the shock of cool clarity. Andreas swam a few lazy strokes to the far end and leaned against the edge, watching.
Tony drifted in the shallows, barely moving.
“This is better,” Andreas said.
Tony was teasing, “Than what?”
“Pretending.” Andreas wasn’t pretending now. This was the authentic Andreas, naked and with the security switched off.
Tony turned, meeting his gaze. His throat felt dry despite the water. “Are we still pretending?”
The older man smiled. “That depends on who you are when no one’s watching.”
Tony didn’t answer. He just floated toward Andreas, slow and unsure, each ripple carrying him closer without quite letting him touch.
The sun softened its grip on the afternoon, casting long golden streaks across the pale stone of the terrace as Tony and Andreas lingered in the pool. The heat still clung to the air, but the edges had started to dissolve, leaving behind a kind of radiance that didn’t so much burn as glow. It was the hour where everything slows, when time feels like it might stretch out indefinitely if no one breaks the spell.
There was no posturing, no seduction—just the quiet, vulnerable ease of someone craving relief from the heat of the day. Tony's body moved through the water with a fluidity he didn’t know he had, and he let the silence wash over him. He didn’t feel watched exactly, but he sensed a presence—aware, still, attentive.
Andreas’ body was heavier now than it had been in his prime, but he wore it without apology. He swam with calm, confident strokes, each movement deliberate, economic. His gaze drifted toward Tony now and then, not overtly, not in any way inappropriate—just taking him in. There was something almost paternal in the attention, though that too didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t ownership or desire. It was recognition.
Their movements were slow, unhurried, like a conversation without words. Tony floated toward Andreas, cautious but drawn. The older man rested with his arms stretched along the pool’s edge, chin tipped slightly upward, eyes tracking the shifting light overhead. Neither of them had to speak to feel the shared current flowing between them.
Tony couldn’t help but glance at Andreas’ form—broad chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, the curve of his shoulders, the soft tension in his jaw when he exhaled. There was a kind of gravity to him, a dignity that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with how he moved through the world. It made Tony ache in a way he didn’t understand, not with longing, but with the desire to be seen, to be understood without speaking.
Andreas, in turn, was watching Tony in the fractured reflections of the water’s surface. The intern's body was all lean muscle, sun-warmed skin, a gaze that flickered with both hope and hesitation. He admired how Tony held himself, unaware of his own beauty, unaware of the effect he had just by existing in the same space.
There was masculinity in the air—not aggressive or performative, but still potent. They had both arrived at this moment from different ends of a long, winding road. Andreas, with his practiced detachment and battle-worn solitude. Tony, with his desire to belong, to be seen for who he might become. Their bodies weren’t speaking desire so much as vulnerability, mirror reflections of uncertainty dressed in strength.
Tony broke the silence first, his voice barely louder than the breeze. “I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable like this. I mean, being naked. With you.”
Andreas gave a small smile, not indulgent, just honest. “Neither did I. I don’t swim like this with many people and certainly not with men”
Tony blinked, his surprise evident. “You? You seem so at ease with everything.”
“That’s the illusion. Comes with age. I’m still learning how to be at ease with myself.”
They floated a little closer, not touching, but close enough that their arms cast overlapping shadows beneath the water. A dragonfly hovered near the edge of the pool, then darted away into the cypress trees.
Tony tilted his head. “What do you see when you look at me?”
Andreas was quiet for a moment. “Potential. Restlessness. A mirror.”
Tony swallowed, unsure what to do with those words. Part of him wanted to press further. The other part feared what might be revealed. He let himself sink until the water lapped just beneath his chin.
“I look at you and think, maybe that’s who I want to be, or maybe who I’m afraid I’ll never be.”
Andreas turned slightly, shifting so that he faced him more directly. “You don’t have to be me. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“To be fully yourself,” Andreas said. “To know where your edges are, so you stop being afraid of them.”
Tony nodded slowly. “That’s hard to do when no one gives you permission.”
“You don’t need permission,” Andreas replied. “You need courage.” As soon as he said the words Andreas felt like a fraud because he wasn’t always himself and he did censor and edit his life,
For a long while, neither of them spoke. They simply floated, skin glistening in the honeyed light, water stirring around them in slow, lazy ripples. No lines had been crossed. No gestures extended beyond what the moment allowed. Still, something unspoken had been exchanged—admiration perhaps, or the quiet acknowledgment that seeing and being seen could happen without needing to possess.
As the first shadow from the villa stretched long across the pool’s surface, Andreas lifted himself up from the pool onto the edge and sat with his feet in the water. Tony stayed where he was, arms folded across his chest, looking up at him—not asking for anything, not retreating either. They held each other’s gaze for a beat too long and let the moment pass without comment. They were showing themselves to each other, enjoying the experience, teasing each other.
It wasn’t desire in the traditional sense. It was something older, slower. Something that didn’t need to be named to be felt.
In that space between words and movement, they shared a kind of quiet reverence. For themselves. For each other. For what they didn’t yet understand.
Once or twice Andreas had got out of the pool making for the poolside bar and now the empty ouzo glasses rested on the stone ledge by the pool. The bottle lay half-drained beside it, sweating against a linen napkin. The cicadas had grown quieter now, their hum slowed by the soft wind rolling in from the sea.
Andreas moved along the poolside with casual certainty, hips relaxed, spine long, shoulders still squared despite the weight of time on them. His legs, muscular and firm, carried him across the heated stone. The sun bronzed every plane of him—each scar, each muscle softened by life and wine. His back, wide and lean, flexed subtly with each stride, glistening as the water evaporated in patches. The buttocks were firm, muscular. There was no performance in the way he walked, just the quiet proof of a man who didn’t seek approval.
Tony watched from the middle of the pool, still half-submerged. His breath caught as he saw Andreas disappear quietly into the shaded entrance of the cabana. A trail of wet footprints marked the path, irregular and fading quickly in the heat. The air felt heavier suddenly, weighted with the quiet suggestion of something unfinished. The space Andreas left behind seemed charged, as if his presence still lingered in the shape of the light.
Tony drew himself from the water slowly. Each step out of the pool reminded him of the warmth that had cocooned him inside it—now replaced by the prickling contrast of a slight breeze against wet skin. Droplets rolled over his chest and stomach, catching in the curve of his buttocks, sliding past the faint line of hair beneath his navel. His body, still lean from high school soccer, carried the kind of understated strength that didn’t announce itself. His shoulders were square but not bulky, arms wiry rather than thick. His back was smooth save for the sun’s new claim—pink along the shoulder blades.
Tony walked slowly across the terrace, barefoot and uncertain. Every footfall felt deliberate, every wet print a quiet question: should he follow? Was it a real invitation or was it something Tony imagined? His jaw tightened with indecision, the kind of indecision he was used to hiding behind jokes or deflections. This time there was no one to perform for.
His heart pounded with a strange combination of fear and wanting—not lust, exactly, not something that needed release. This was deeper. It was curiosity drawn out under sun and shadow. He wasn’t following a man into a room. He was following the shape of something unspoken, something fragile, something real.
Tony reached the slightly open door of the cabana. Inside, the air conditioner hummed in the ceiling, casting cool relief into the soft shadows of the space. Linen curtains stirred slightly. The room smelled of lemon balm and cedar, the clean scent of wealth. It was dimmer here, the outside world reduced to golden slats of light slipping through the shutters.
He stepped past the threshold wondering how many women Andreas had brought here. Tony didn’t think that Andreas had a history with men, he was too tentative always testing the landscape. Maybe this was his first experience for years.
The floor chilled his soles instantly. The shift from sun to shade raised goosebumps along his arms. Water dripped down from his jaw, slid along his neck, curled around his collarbone.
He followed the prints—broad, steady marks across the polished stone—toward the inner room. His own steps landed between them, smaller, hesitant.
From behind the thin veil of an ajar door, the hiss of water filled the quiet. A shower was running, its sound sharp and clean, cutting through the soft hush of the cabana’s air. Tony stood just outside, uncertain whether to speak or wait, his body electric with sensation and stillness. He didn’t know what would happen next. He didn’t want to presume anything. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to walk away.
He leaned lightly against the doorframe and closed his eyes, letting the cool air trace the edges of his damp skin. Behind the doorway, water hit stone walls and the floor in steady rhythm. Every drop seemed to echo with questions he wasn’t ready to answer yet.
The door remained open.
Tony stayed there, just inside the line between decision and desire, waiting in the hush of his own heartbeat.
