The Silverlink departure terminal at Bristol Airport was a chaotic blur of rolling suitcases, overpriced meal deals, and the persistent, low-frequency hum of pre-holiday anxiety. Caleb Miller stood on the kerb of the drop-off point, his rucksack feeling heavier than the actual weight of his clothes. The air smelled of jet fuel and damp Somerset earth.
"Text me the very second you land, Caleb. Not ten minutes after. Not once you’re at the hotel. As soon as those wheels touch the tarmac," his mum said, pulling him into a hug that smelled of laundry detergent and home—a home that currently felt like a crash site.
"I will, Mum. I promise," Caleb mumbled into her shoulder. He was eighteen, technically an adult, but in this moment, he felt like he was about six years old.
"Have a good time, love. You need this. Put that... that person out of your head. Sitges is beautiful. Just be safe," she whispered, squeezing his arms one last time before climbing back into the car.
Caleb watched her drive away, feeling a cold void in his chest where his heart used to be. Two years. Two years of anniversaries, shared meals, and whispered promises of a future, all incinerated in a single afternoon. He could still see the screenshots Leo had sent him. The faceless profile, the grey grid of Grindr, and then the sickeningly familiar sight of Jacob’s bedroom in the background of a face pic. But it was the birthmark—the small, crescent-shaped dark patch on Jacob's left hip—in the following photo that had felt like a physical blow to Caleb’s stomach. Jacob hadn't even known he was talking to Caleb’s best friend. He’d just been looking for a quick fix, a stranger to fill an hour, while Caleb was at home thinking they were "forever."
The flight was a haze of recycled air and Benadryl-induced lethargy. Caleb stared out the window at the patchwork quilt of the French countryside, his mind looping the same questions: Was I not enough? When did it start? How many others were there?
By the time he cleared customs at Barcelona El Prat, the Spanish heat hit him like a physical weight. It was humid and thick, smelling of sea salt and pine. He followed the signs for the shuttle transfers, his hand clutching the voucher for the Elite Hotel. He found the coach—a large, air-conditioned vehicle with "TUI & Shared Transfers" plastered on the side.
He climbed the steps, blinking against the dim interior. Most of the seats were taken by shouting groups of lads or couples holding hands. He spotted a single empty seat near the back, next to a man who looked like he took up a seat and a half.
Caleb slid into the window seat, offering a small, tight smile. "Is this seat taken?"
The man looked up. He was broad-shouldered and thick-set, wearing a tight-fitting grey t-shirt that struggled to contain a very hairy, muscular chest. His beard was a vibrant, deep ginger, meticulously groomed but thick, and his hair was the same fiery hue, cropped short with no hint of grey despite the fine lines around his eyes.
"All yours, mate. Sit yourself down," the man said. His voice was a rich, gravelly Welsh lilt that sounded like warm honey.
As the coach pulled out of the airport, Caleb remembered his promise. He pulled out his phone and typed: Just landed. On the coach to Sitges now. It’s boiling here! Speak soon x.
"Doing the dutiful son bit, then?" the man asked, glancing at the screen.
Caleb flushed slightly, locking his phone. "Yeah. My mum wouldn't have slept if I didn't. First time travelling properly on my own."
"Nothing wrong with that," the man said, extending a large, calloused hand. "I’m Gareth, by the way. From Cardiff, originally, though I flew out of Bristol too. Saved myself nearly eighty quid on the fare, even with the bridge trek."
"Caleb. I'm from Bristol, actually. Just up the road from the airport."
"Small world," Gareth grinned, and for a second, his eyes crinkled in a way that felt genuinely kind. "You headed for the centre or one of the resorts?"
"The Elite Hotel," Caleb said. "It’s a boutique place. Gay-only, apparently."
Gareth’s eyebrows shot up, and he let out a short, dry laugh. "You're joking? I’m at the Elite too. What are the odds of that? A pair of solo West Country flyers ending up in the same guest house."
Caleb felt a tiny bit of the tension leave his shoulders. "At least I’ll know one person there. Is it your first time in Sitges?"
Gareth shook his head, his expression darkening almost imperceptibly. "Third. But the first time... well, the first time like this. I usually have a shadow. This year, it’s just me and my suitcase."
Caleb looked at him properly. Gareth looked strong—like he spent his weekends on a rugby pitch, which he probably did given the thickness of his thighs and the cauliflower edge to one ear—but there was a sadness in his posture that Caleb recognised instantly. It was the slouch of someone who had been hollowed out.
"Solo holiday for me too," Caleb admitted, his voice dropping. "Breakup."
Gareth turned his whole body toward him, his knees brushing against the back of the seat in front. "Snap. Want to guess the reason, or shall I?"
Caleb bit his lip. "Grindr?"
Gareth sighed, a long, heavy sound. "The yellow devil itself. Twelve years, Caleb. We were married for five. I thought we were the 'boring' couple. The ones who didn't need the apps. Turns out he was running a secondary life for at least three of those years. I found out through a mutual friend who saw him on there while he was supposed to be at a 'work conference' in Birmingham."
"I’m so sorry," Caleb whispered. "Twelve years... that’s forever. I thought my two years was bad."
"Don't do that," Gareth said firmly. "Don't diminish your hurt just because I've got more candles on my cake. Heartbreak doesn't work on a sliding scale. Two years when you're eighteen is a lifetime. Who was he?"
"Jacob," Caleb said, the name feeling like ash in his mouth. "My best friend, Leo, caught him. Jacob didn't put a face on his profile, but he sent... well, he sent photos once they started chatting. He sent a picture of his hip. He’s got this very specific birthmark. I’d know it anywhere. And then he sent a face pic. Leo showed me everything. Jacob was telling 'strangers' things he’d never even said to me. About what he wanted to do. What he was looking for."
Gareth reached out, patting Caleb’s arm. His hand was heavy and warm, the skin covered in a fine layer of ginger hair. "It’s the betrayal of the intimacy that kills you, isn't it? It’s not just the sex. It’s the fact that they took the private language of your relationship and broadcast it to the highest bidder on a Tuesday night."
"Exactly," Caleb said, feeling a lump form in his throat. "He swore we were monogamous. He used to get jealous if I even talked to other guys at uni. It’s the hypocrisy that makes me feel sick."
"My ex, Mark, was the same," Gareth said, staring out at the Mediterranean coastline as it began to peek through the hills. "He was a Barista, like me. We ran our lives around the same schedule. Or so I thought. I’m thirty eight, a stocky lad, I play amateur rugby, I’m not exactly the 'pretty boy' type, and I always thought Mark appreciated that. But I found out he was looking for something completely different online. He wanted the gym-bunnies. The lads half my age. It makes you look in the mirror and wonder if you were ever actually seen."
"I feel like I don't even know who I was with," Caleb said. "Was it all a lie? Every 'I love you'?"
"No," Gareth said softly. "It wasn't a lie for you. That’s the bit you have to hold onto. You were honest. You did it right. He’s the one who's fractured. You’re still whole, even if you feel like a smashed plate right now."
They sat in silence for a few minutes as the coach wound its way down the narrow roads toward Sitges. The white-washed buildings and blue-tiled domes of the town began to appear, shimmering in the heat.
"So, what’s the plan then, Caleb?" Gareth asked, breaking the silence. "Are you going to be a hermit in the hotel, or are you going to let me buy you a very large, very overpriced drink by the pool?"
Caleb looked at Gareth. He saw the strength in the man’s frame—the "bear" physique he’d heard people talk about but never really encountered in Bristol’s student bars. Gareth looked solid, dependable, and currently, he was the only person in the world who seemed to understand exactly why Caleb wanted to scream.
"I think a drink sounds okay," Caleb said. "I wasn't planning on talking to anyone. I just wanted to hide."
"Hiding is overrated," Gareth said, standing up as the coach hissed to a halt outside a sleek, modern building with a discreet rainbow flag near the entrance. "I’ve spent the last month hiding under my duvet in Cardiff. It doesn't fix anything. It just makes the room smell like despair and unwashed socks."
Caleb laughed—a real, genuine laugh that surprised him. "Fair point."
They hopped off the bus, the driver hauling their bags out of the hold. Gareth grabbed his own massive suitcase and then reached for Caleb’s smaller one, hoisting it onto the pavement with ease.
"I can get that," Caleb protested.
"Don't worry about it. I need the exercise. If I don't lift something heavy once a day, I start getting twitchy," Gareth winked.
The lobby of the Elite Hotel was cool and fragranced with citrus. The décor was all mid-century modern, with plush velvet chairs and art-deco lighting. It felt worlds away from the cramped flat Caleb shared with three other students.
As they checked in at the marble counter, the receptionist smiled at them. "Two rooms for Mr. Miller and Mr. Jenkins? You are together?"
"Just met on the bus," Gareth said, leaning an elbow on the counter. "But we’re travel buddies now. Put us on the same floor if you can manage it. I need to make sure this one actually eats something other than hotel Pringles."
The receptionist tapped away. "I have two rooms on the third floor, balconies overlooking the garden. Is that acceptable?"
"Perfect," Gareth said.
They took the lift up in silence, the mirrored walls reflecting the stark contrast between them—Caleb, thin and pale in his oversized t-shirt, and Gareth, the ginger-bearded mountain of a man in his rugby-fit gear.
When the lift doors opened, Gareth led the way down the carpeted hall. He stopped at room 304 and Caleb at 305.
"Right then," Gareth said, turning to face him. "It’s nearly eight. Give yourself an hour to shower off the Bristol grime and unpack. I’ll knock for you at nine. We’ll go down to the bar, get a table by the water, and we can talk about how much Jacob and Mark suck until we’ve cleared the air. Deal?"
Caleb looked at the door to his room, then back at Gareth. For the first time since Leo had sent those screenshots, the crushing weight on his chest felt a fraction lighter.
"Deal," Caleb said. "And Gareth?"
"Yeah, bach?"
"Thanks. For the lift. And for... you know. Not making me feel like an idiot."
Gareth’s expression softened, his hand resting briefly on Caleb’s shoulder. "We’re members of a very shitty club, Caleb. The least we can do is look out for each other. See you at nine."
Caleb entered his room, the air-conditioning humming a welcome. He walked straight to the balcony and pushed open the glass doors. The scent of jasmine and sea air rushed in. Below, the pool glowed a deep, ethereal blue, and he could hear the distant sound of music from the seafront.
He pulled out his phone. He had a dozen messages from Leo asking if he was okay. He ignored them for a moment and opened his chat with his mum.
Hotel is amazing. Met a guy on the bus who’s staying here too, he’s from Cardiff. Going for a drink with him later so I’m not alone. Feeling a bit better already. Love you.
He set the phone down on the nightstand and headed for the shower. As the hot water washed away the sweat of the journey, he didn't think about Jacob’s birthmark or the grid of Grindr. He thought about the ginger-haired man in the next room, and the strange, unexpected comfort of a shared disaster. He wasn't fixed—not by a long shot—but for the first time in weeks, he wasn't afraid of the next hour.
