I woke up to the sound of Elliot's phone buzzing. I rubbed my eyes, glancing at the bedside table as the low buzz sounded again, the screen lighting up for a few seconds. I yawned, checking the time on my phone. It was barely seven a.m.

A shameful part of me wondered who was texting him that early in the morning, especially since it would be an hour earlier in England. His mom, maybe?

I rubbed my eyes. Elliot wasn't beside me, and I could smell the familiar, comforting scent of coffee—the one he made as I sat up in bed. I yawned again, the phone buzzing annoyingly as I clicked my tongue.

Curiosity got the better of me as I reached for Elliot's phone, glancing at the notifications on top.

BENNETT, MIDFIELDER, #11, ENGLAND: Your mum reckons four desserts is way too much

BENNETT, MIDFIELDER, #11, ENGLAND: More the merrier!

BENNETT, MIDFIELDER, #11, ENGLAND: We can get coffee today?

BENNETT, MIDFIELDER, #11, ENGLAND: There is this great new place down St George's. Totally your type :))

One of his national team's midfielders, and the rookie on SS Ambrosiana. The one who clearly had a crush on Elliot.

An ugly mix of anger, jealousy, and something else stirred violently in my stomach. I read the messages again, trying to figure out what the hell the moron was talking about. Four desserts? For what?

I placed his phone back on the bedside table after taking one last look at the messages. I glanced at the half-finished bottle of lube discarded unceremoniously on the mattress, then back at the messages, then at the ajar bedroom door before sliding the lube and condom into my pocket.

I made my way to the kitchen. Elliot was standing in front of the coffee maker, staring at it without blinking.

"Hey," I said, placing my arms around him, pulling him close. "Good morning."

"Morning," he replied, his voice somehow weak.

"You feeling okay?" I inquired, turning him around so he was facing me. He chewed on his bottom lip, but nodded. "You... sore?"

His face flushed a dark pink. "A... little."

"I'm sorry." I cupped his face, kissing his forehead. "Sorry I got carried away."

He shook his head. "No, it is fine. I... I liked it."

He blushed furiously, not meeting my gaze. I leaned in, unable to stop the drunken smile from spreading across my face as I nuzzled his nose. I gripped his chin with my thumb, making him look up at me. "Yeah, me too. Loved it. Loved the way you look while taking my cock."

His breath hitched as he kissed me, pulling my lower lip between his teeth. Our mouths opened against each other, the room heating up instantly as I lowered my hands to his back and further down, cupping his ass and squeezing hard. I lifted him onto the counter, spreading his legs as I stepped between them. "On second thought—" I smirked as I leaned back, "Kinda forgot the look on your face. Maybe you could remind me?"

He smiled shyly, his lips parted open as he gazed at me. I reached for his trousers, undoing them and rolling them off his legs quickly. He was already hard, aching. I lifted his legs around my waist, lifting and dragging his hips flush into mine before lowering my pants just enough and pulling on the condom with shaky, clumsy fingers.

I pulled the lube out of my pocket, prepping him quickly but thoroughly with two, three fingers, till he was bowing off the kitchen counter, his fingers bunched in my sweatshirt. "Look at you, so eager for me," I murmured, slowly pushing my throbbing tip into him. He let out a silent gasp, his eyes fluttering shut. I didn't waste time, pounding into him hard and fast. So every time some Bennett brought him dessert—he would remember why his entire body was sore.

Who the fuck was this guy anyway? Bringing desserts for Elliot? My Elliot? And being so fucking brazen about it. Like he had any right over him.

I gripped his waist hard, burying myself to the hilt as his moans turned into sharp whimpers, his legs quivering on either side of my torso. I placed my arms firmly below his thighs, supporting his lower body as he rode me hard.

"Kiss me—" he gasped, and I did, sucking, nipping, biting his mouth till he moaned. Our foreheads touched, sweat dripping off our skin as we moved in a frantic rhythm, like we had something to lose, something to prove.

I came fast, driven by anger and jealousy and an ugly possessiveness that I had no right to have. His thighs shook around me seconds later as he spilled between us with a deep sigh. I reached for the box of tissues on the counter above, cleaning him up while kissing his neck, his jaw, the shell of his ear.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Elliot Hayes," I said to him, making sure he could see my face.

He kissed me in response, his eyes dark despite the sun rays streaming through the window. I helped him dress back up, smoothing down his sweatshirt. His eyes were trained on me the entire time, watching my movements with that now-familiar intensity.

A few minutes later, I had poached some eggs for myself, some avocado and toast for Elliot along with his oat milk coffee, and sat at the table across from him. I tapped the table slowly, trying to figure out a way to broach the subject without sounding like an asshole.

"So—" I began, "What's Bennett getting you desserts for?"

I picked with my fork at the eggs, waiting for his response.

He frowned at me, his eyebrows knit. "I do not know."

"Well," I started, my face burning from the embarrassment of the admission. "He texted you. It was... ringing constantly, so I checked to make sure it wasn't anything important."

"Oh." He nodded once. "He is... without my insistence, prepping for the party."

"What party?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him. "Like... some sort of team stuff?"

He gazed at me silently for a few seconds before shaking his head once. "No. Next week. My... my birthday."

"It... It's your birthday next week?" I asked, my voice an odd staccato.

He nodded.

"Why... is he—" I gulped, "Bennett—" his name sounded like acid on my tongue. Someone who didn't have an image to protect. Someone who could give Elliot what he wanted. What he needed.

What he deserved.

"I see," I stated, swallowing the words like vomit.

"I... wanted to ask you."

"Hm?" I looked up at him.

"It is a very small number of people. Bennett. Adams and Sox—" I recognized the names of his England teammates. "My mum, her boyfriend, and his daughter. It is a very small affair."

"Right." I shoved the eggs into my mouth, chewing on the sand with a cold, empty chest.

"If you were to come... there would be no cameras. Not... unless requested."

"You want me... to come?" I asked slowly.

He nodded. "I... was not sure if I should. But... I would like you to. If... if you could."

I chewed deliberately on the eggs, forcing myself to swallow them as my head throbbed suddenly. The idea of Elliot with a guy who was ready to give him everything. A stupid guy who had nothing to lose. In a room full of food, alcohol, music.

"I don't know," I admitted, the words erupting from my voice box like shards of glass. "Next week, you say?"

"Friday," he said. "At Manchester. One of my mum's places."

I couldn't. Not only because I was a coward—but also because I had to visit Nonna next week.

"I..." I gulped. "I'll see."

A few minutes later, I stood leaning against the doorway as he put on his coat, rubbing his sunscreen gently onto his face in front of the mirror where I had taken him so thoroughly last night.

"Elliot—" I began, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror and his face instantly reddening, like he too was remembering him panting and whimpering and moaning desperately on his knees. "This... Bennett... person," I cleared my throat, "—is he... nice? To you?"

"He is polite," Elliot answered, shoving his sunscreen into his coat pocket and turning around to face me. "Why do you ask?"

"Has he ever, uh, said anything to you?" I asked, treading lightly around the subject.

"About... what?" he frowned, his eyebrows knitted together.

"I believe... he has feelings for you," I said finally, my voice shaking on the last syllable, and for once, I was glad he could not hear me well enough to notice.

"Oh, that," he shrugged once. "He has asked me out multiple times and, yes, he did tell me once that he fancies me."

My heart plummeted to my stomach. "Oh." I sighed, regretting my entire existence. "What did you say to him?"

"Thank you."

"Hm?"

"I said thank you to him," he responded.

"He said he likes you, and you said—thank you?" I clarified.

"He actually said that he loves me," he replied as I let out a laugh. "What is amusing?"

"He's talking out of his ass," I said, suddenly giddy. "What, he doesn't even know you, and he just loves you? Just like that?"

"I am merely telling you what he told me."

"Did he say that before or after he knew who you were?" I asked, now almost sure I knew what Bennett's plan was.

"After," he said, narrowing his eyes at me as if trying to deduce a statistical analysis. "Everyone there knows who I am. Especially in the football world. Why is that relevant?"

"It's relevant because—" I sighed, groaning as I  massaged my suddenly throbbing temple. "Come on, Elliot. Use that brilliant brain of yours."

"I do not understand," he said slowly.

"Well, obviously, he's new. Probably trying to make connections through you. Or—" I nodded at him, "Trying to get in your pants."

"Is that... the only reason why anyone could like me, Luca?"

"God, no," I shook my head, blinking. I realized the way I had sounded and winced, my fingers suddenly cold at the implication. "No, of course not. I'm just saying, he doesn't know you at all. And he's out here like, what—" I let out a weak laugh. "Giving you love confessions. Like... like love-bombing you. You don't think he's being for real, do you?"

His chest heaved as he stared at me silently.

"I don't... I don't want you to get hurt—" I shrugged. "I mean, if you wanna d-date him—" I was rambling nonsense now. Unsure what my point was. Unsure I even had a point.

"I do not want to date him," he said, taking a step closer to me and glaring up at me, his shoulders squared.

"He's just... he's just being pretentious," I declared, even though I had no basis for knowing. "He's like... he's like acting... like... selling you some perfect... perfect story. Like... like he could be your perfect boyfriend or—" I gulped. "Don't f-fall for it."

The idea of Elliot being someone else's was like eternal torture. Picturing him on a date across from slimy Bennett, who brought him flowers, who brought him gifts, kissed him in front of everyone, held his hand like he meant it, who could promise him the world in a way I never could.

"I am aware—" he said slowly, "That I am not the most... fun person."

"What are you talking about?" I scoffed. "Elliot—that's not what I—"

"But I do have... I have things to offer, Luca," he said again. "Maybe not... maybe not things you want."

"Elliot... what are you talking about? I... I told you," I reached for him but lowered my hand, thinking better of it. What could I say to him? That I cared about him, that I liked his company. That I was so deeply, maddeningly, and devastatingly in love with him that it was killing me every second of every day that I couldn't have him the way he deserved. The way I wanted. The random guy outside Chiara's, Bellini had already written too much, and if I slipped up even an inch at Euros—

"I will not be expecting you on Friday," he said finally, his voice taking that plain analytical tone that it did when he was stating a fact.

I stood frozen against the doorway as he went and picked up his luggage, walking out the door and shutting it behind him with a click that reverberated through my soul.

Tuesdays have to be one of the worst days of the week. Definitely among the worst three...

Anyway, so what do you guys think will happen? More angst, momentary relief, absolutely devastation? None or all of the above, perhaps?