Before going on the trip, Sanders made sure to stock up on almond milk for Becks's mornings.

He prays for a good day, takes his shower, goes on his run, comes back to wake everyone else.

He throws the covers off of Becks—her side of the bed, not Adan's—and places the milk on the bedside table. "Rise and shine, ugly."

Becks groans loudly in irritation and pulls the covers back up to her head. "Go away!"

"It's breakfast time," Sanders chirps cheerfully, striding over the curtains to pull them open. "Get up. You too, Adan."

It takes everyone an hour to get up and get moving, look decent, and head to the cafe nearest to the house for breakfast.

And Sanders lets it pass for a while.

It could've been a slip of the tongue. (Too many slips of a tongue.) It could've been an in-the-moment thing—she was drunk, Sanders just came back from making out with someone—maybe she didn't mean it.

And Sanders has three options:

A. He can ignore it and keep it to himself, just as he promised. Hear her words over and over in his head when he can't sleep. They don't have to talk about it—save himself from whatever heartache or pain this will bring him. (This, being, being with his best friend. Who he happens to have been in love with for three years.)

B. He can bring it up. Ruin their friendship. Burn it, watch it go up in flames. (Tell her to shove her feelings up her ass, and hope that it goes away, and...well, feelings ruin shit, as they've pointed out, and they've just gotten back to normal.)

C. He can give it a shot. Again. (Sorry, heart.)

(No, he's not.)

When Becks comes back from the beach to keep him company for lunch, with sunburnt skin and weary eyes, Sanders thinks: his heart has never been the quiet type—it will burst and burst and burst until everything comes spilling out, and—and Sanders will admit. He wants to know. Was it out of jealousy? When did she know? Did she mean it?

So, he asks. When they finish lunch and everyone's happy and fed and go about doing their own thing (Maxon, Suho and Adan want to head to the market for some shopping, and Siam and Rosen take a boat ride), Becks retreats to her room and sprawls across the covers, and Sanders lies down next to her, back up the headboard, and the others won't be coming back until later, and Sanders really, really wants her to mean it.

He takes a deep breath and says, "Becks. Is it true?"

She doesn't look at him. "Hm? What is?" she mumbles, sleepy, keeping her eyes closed.

(Option C.)

"You told me you like me."

"I wouldn't be trying so hard at cooking if I hated you," she says, nonchalant. No hesitation, no thinking twice.

Sanders sighs. "That's not what I meant. What you meant."

Becks looks at him. Her eyes are blank. "And when was this? When did I tell you this?"

"You were drunk. You told me you like me. Is it true?"

"No," she says. "You heard wrong. You were tipsy, too."

"You don't get to lie to me," Sanders says, holding her stare. "You don't. You can't fucking confuse me anymore, I've had enough of that shit."

"And so what if I like you, fuckface?" Becks snaps, raising her eyebrows as she sits up. "Why do you need to know? I said it when I was drunk—clearly, I didn't want you to know, else I would've told you sober. Why are you—"

"I'm not going to be a rebound, Becks," Sanders cuts in quietly.

Becks stiffens.

Even though...even though Becks has already said she doesn't feel anything more for Maxon, Sanders is wary. He has good reason to be. Or so he believes.

He swallows the lump in his throat. He takes a deep breath, and says, "That's not fair to me."

"Who said you were a rebound?"

"You don't get over a four-year crush in a few months."

"And this is why I didn't want to tell you," she mutters, standing up. "Because I knew you would...you would doubt me like this. And I don't want you to feel...to feel obligated to return my feelings just because I have them now."

"You can't blame me for doubting you, I had to watch you be in love with Maxon for months."

Becks shuts her eyes. Her chest rises, and then falls, and when she speaks again, she doesn't look at him. "Can you just..." She takes another rise and fall, and her—her lips are trembling. "Can you just forget whatever I said?" she whispers. "Just forget about it, let's not talk about it anymore, forget everything that I said."

Sanders stands up, too. Takes a step closer. "Becks. I don't want to."

Finally, she opens her eyes. Looks at him through her tears of humiliation. "Then what do you want, Sanders? I know it's ridiculous, right after Maxon, like I just moved on from one candy to the next—but whatever I felt for Maxon was not even an inch of—you know my stomach feels like it's falling into pieces when you're near? You know how—" She inhales tightly, and her next words—her voice shakes. "I do like you, Sanders," Becks admits. Out loud, and sober, and in front of him. "I do like you, and I tried—I really tried to ignore it, I thought it was just because of our fight, or because you're going out with other people, but it's not, and I—I like you. No, it's...it's not just that. But I'm afraid to say the stronger word."

"If you're going to love me," Sanders says. Saying the stronger word for her. Softly. He holds her gaze, and, ah. Fire. "If you're going to love me, Becks, do it without thinking of Maxon. Because I'm not going to stand for it if I'm just here to replace him."

"That's not what I—"

"It will hurt me again," he murmurs. "It will hurt me, and I—I don't want to be hurt by you again, Becks. I didn't mind before, but I talked to God." Sanders inhales deeply. Clutches his chest where his heart lays. It's steady. "I talked to Him, and I asked Him, as my birthday wish, to be able to give my heart when I can be properly loved in return."

Becks stares at him. Her fingers are curled into fists. "I don't want to hurt you again, either."

"Then let's take the summer off, after our two weeks here," Sanders says. "See if we want this."

"I don't need the summer to think about it."

"I do." Sanders offers her a small smile. "Trying to keep my heart safe here, Becks. I'm sure you understand."

Becks looks down at her hands, where her fingers are clutching the hem of her hoodie. "You don't have to."

Sanders already knows where this is going. "Don't have to what?"

"You don't have to do this, Sanders," she mumbles, refusing to look at him. "Whatever I said...we can just forget about it. I don't need pity just because I'm your best friend. I don't need scraps of whatever you want to give me because you feel bad. Let's just ignore it, we've been doing well so far—"

"I'm really fucking tired of ignoring whatever is going on between us."

"I don't want you to feel obligated—"

"And how do I know you're just doing this because you feel obligated?" Sanders counters, eyebrows furrowing. He tries to keep his voice steady and calm. "Because of our argument?"

"I wouldn't feel so fucking hurt picking you up from your one night stand if I did," she snaps back, finally raising her head to look at him. "I wouldn't have been upset at you going on dates, for kissing someone last night, I wouldn't have cried myself shitless when you were going through your slump or—or healing from your injury if I felt obligated. I wouldn't have kept it to myself because I knew you deserve better, because you wouldn't believe me after Maxon. Jesus." Becks stands up. Wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands. "I'm sorry," she suddenly whispers, shaking her head. "I, um, I don't think we should talk about it, let's just forget about this whole thing—"

"Will it make it better if we don't talk about it for the rest of the summer?"

Becks stares at him. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks are red and blotchy, and her nose is bright pink, and Sanders knows the bells are coming before he even hears them. He's numb, and he's helpless, he's been helpless since she smiled at him for the first time, months after they've been living together, and now they're both hurting, and—and Sanders doesn't want to forget. He doesn't want to forget.

"Because I don't want to forget about it, Becks," he murmurs, when Becks doesn't answer. "We saw what happened to us when we tried forgetting about mine."

The silence stretches on, but Sanders can hear her shaky breaths, the fast beats of her heart. When she speaks, it's quiet, but firm, and pleading. "Then can I ask one thing?"

Numbly, Sanders nods.

"After everything I've done to hurt you," she starts, and Sanders opens his mouth, already about to protest, but she shakes her head, and continues, "please don't worry about hurting me. I don't want you to be stuck thinking about it, feeling guilty about it, when you should be having fun and meeting other people, like what you did last night. I know I said it upset me, but I'm fine, I shouldn't have said anything, because now I've burdened you with it, but I can't take it back. And—and just—"

"You're telling me I should fuck around with other people," Sanders says flatly.

"I'm telling you it's easy to fall in love with you, Sanders," she corrects quietly, holding his gaze. "I told Maxon it was hard not to fall in love with him, but Sanders." Becks laughs once, sniffling, shaking her head in disbelief. "Your heart is louder. It's loud, and it's pure and golden, and—as much as I want it again, I don't deserve it."

You already have it. "You don't get to tell me who deserves it and who doesn't."

"Please," Becks croaks pleadingly. "Sanders."

I've already tried. Thrice, Sanders wants to say. More than thrice, actually, if he counts Charles and Liam and Scarlet. But he knows there's no getting Becks out of her ridiculous and utterly absurd mindset and request.

So. He takes a deep breath and nods. "Fine. Fine, okay."

She offers him a small smile of gratitude. "Good."

Sanders swallows hard. "Wash your face then come back out. Let's get McDonald's, there's one around here somewhere. I'm starving."

"Right with you." Becks turns around and heads to the bathroom.

He'll figure out later why his heart, loud and pure and golden as it is, wants the person who dips her fries into her sundae, gets Oreo stuck in her teeth after three McFlurries. The person who can eat two BigMacs and gets excited over a Happy Meal, laughs her hairball laughter when Sanders spits out an unnoticed pickle in his burger.

He'll figure it out later.

(He doesn't.)

*

Sanders doesn't fuck around with other people.

For the remainder of the trip in Mako, all of his senses seem like they're hardwired to—to Becks.

He couldn't sleep. After their talk, all Sanders did was toss around in his bed, hugging his pillow, not even noticing that his cheeks were starting to hurt from all the silly grinning and that his feet were unconsciously kicking the covers, the way he does when his stomach is erupting with butterflies. Finally, at five in the morning, while staring at the ceiling and repeating Becks's words all over in his head, Rosen threw a pillow at him. "Go to fucking sleep!" he shouted in complaint.

Sanders didn't even hit him back. He hugged that pillow too, and closed his eyes.

After that...well. It was hard enough to contain his feelings when Becks told him it was uncomfortable, but containing them now, when Becks has said she liked him, too, finally—after three fucking years—is downright impossible. It's like his brain is in this mush, and all of the little Sanders up there, who have been quiet, Sanders just noticed, are drowning and melting in giddiness.

Same, Sanders thinks.

It's hard not to notice when Becks sits next to him at dinner, grabbing him a glass on the way back from the buffet table, or when she hurriedly looks away when he comes out of the room with no shirt on (it's hot, sue him). It's also difficult to keep his fingers away from touching a curl on her head, or a dangling hand when they're walking, and the urge—God, the urge to kiss her senseless while she's scolding Siam for straying away too far and ends up getting lost.

"Sorry," his little brother mutters, looking away. He's holding a plastic bag behind his back. "I just couldn't find my way back."

"You should've told one of us," Becks says, tone firm and eyebrows scrunching. She crosses her arms. "We were having drinks and then suddenly you were gone. Jesus, Siam, even your phone was out of reach. You know how troublesome it was to find you? We had to split up into groups and search the whole beach, your brother was losing his mind."

Siam bows his head. Sanders feels a little bad for the dude, but Becks is right. One second looking away from his brother and Siam was gone—headed to the bazaar to wander alone, to buy surprise gifts for them, he said. He didn't notice his phone was low on battery, too.

He was hysteric. Becks gripped his forearm tight, and Sanders, in the middle of the shortness of his breath, the panic slowly washing over his bones at the thought of his brother being unsafe, looked at her.

"Calm down," she said to him softly. "We're going to find him, okay? Take a deep breath for me."

Sanders did. And then Becks gripped his hand, faced the group and said, "Rosen, go with Suho and check the market. Adan and Maxon to the bazaar, and Sanders and I will check the beach. Keep your phones with you in case you see him."

Sanders wasn't much help with the searching, his brain was too busy thinking of all the worst scenarios Siam could've gotten himself into. Becks had to hold his hand and drag him along the sand. She didn't care if she was waking anyone up while shouting Siam's name.

Gingerly, Siam raises his head and meets Sanders's gaze. "I'm sorry, pîi-chaai."

Sanders sighs and opens his arms. Siam may be eighteen already, but he's his little brother, for fucks sake. Siam hugs him. "Don't fucking do that to me ever again, you hear me?"

Siam nods against his chest.

Sanders pats his back and lets him go. His lips curve upward into a smile. "You wanna give me what you bought?"

He'll thank Becks later. He'll thank her for keeping him sane.

He'll also thank her for...catching the grasshopper moving around the house.

"Fuck, fuck!" Maxon screams, running from the kitchen and jumping on the couch. Sanders, Rosen and Suho, who were all playing cards on the floor, abandon their decks and jump on the sofa, too—shocked and confused. Adan and Siam are taking a shower. "There was a fucking grasshopper!"

Suho's eyes go wide. "A what?"

Rosen hides behind Sanders. "Uh. That's...not good."

Sanders doesn't want to admit it, but he's not catching that thing. He'll catch spiders and bugs and cockroaches, those things Becks will stand on a chair for until he gets home, but not a...a grasshopper. He inches as far away from the floor and hugs himself. "Where? Where is it?"

"It was on the plant near the window, scared the shit out of me," Maxon says, panting, curling in on himself. "Cal was there too, she was making a smoothie."

If he weren't scared shitless, Sanders would've gone to the kitchen. "Becks?" he calls out, nervous and shaky. He's not moving from the goddamn couch. "Becks, you okay?"

Five seconds pass, and then: "I got it!"

"Got—got what?" Suho sputters, clutching onto Maxon, eyes glancing between all of them.

"Got—got the grasshopper?" Rosen asks hesitantly, face morphing into shock, amazement, and disgust all at the same time.

Becks appears by the kitchen doorway. She's holding a leaf in her hand.

Suho screams first. "Go away! Put it out!"

"This is harmless," Becks says flatly, rolling her eyes.

Rosen is hugging Sanders. "Becks," he says, hiding behind him. "Just...get rid of it."

Sanders watches her with a fast heartbeat. He watches her watch them, and then—

She takes a step forward, holding out the leaf, and all four of them scream. Sanders is not proud of this.

When she finally, finally opens the door to take it out, Maxon sags against the couch and closes his eyes, clutching his chest. "Jesus."

Rosen slaps Sanders's cheek weakly. "You like her?" he asks shakily, sagging against Maxon. "I think you should really, really reconsider."

Despite the scare, Sanders manages a grin. "Lucky for you, Rosen, I don't care about your opinion. She just got rid of a grasshopper for you."

"Shut up," the blonde says, shaking his head. He's panting, too. "Shut up, I hate you."

And when their second to the last day comes, and Sanders's phone is filled with pictures of him and his friends and his skin is tan from all the sunbathing, and he's managed to hold himself back by keeping his eyes strictly on Becks's face, never straying below her neck—he takes off his shirt after dinner and wine and cards and relaxes by himself in the hot tub.

The exhale of relief he lets out is loud when he lets his arms spread behind him, hanging his head back and sinking his body further into the water. Instantly, he feels relaxed. The sky is clear and the stars are bright, and even from up here, he can hear the splashing of the waves down from the beach.

Sanders closes his eyes.

He only opens them when Becks's voice says, "You're going to drown if you sleep in there," and he—fuck, he instantly regrets it.

Because the first thing he registers is the ridiculous length of her legs—bare, dark-skinned, would look so good straddling his waist (fuck). Sanders really, really tried his best not to notice, but after their day at the beach, Becks just threw on whatever large white shirt she could find over her bikini and didn't bother putting on shorts.

Sanders flicks his eyes up to her face. Bare, still, with no makeup, sun-kissed, curls gathered into one ponytail and tied low over one shoulder, and her fingers hold in between them a mug of hot tea.

He gulps and sits straight. "I thought you went to bed with the others."

"Please." One corner of her lips quirk up into a smile, and she raises the mug to her mouth. "Rosen and Adan need some...alone time, apparently. A fucking hassle, actually—Maxon took Siam and Suho out for a bit. I didn't want to leave, so I thought I'd just stay here. You want tea?"

Sanders blinks, and shakes his head.

Becks takes a sip. She keeps her eyes on him.

Sanders clears his throat. "So they're fucking?"

"Mm." Becks puts the mug down on the table. "Is the water warm?"

Sanders gulps again. Oh, God. "It's called a hot tub for a reason."

"Smartass," she mutters, rolling her eyes, and then—then, to his horror, she takes off the shirt.

Sanders turns his head to the side and doesn't move.

Becks clicks her tongue, and her voice sounds louder when she says, "You're not a child, Sanders. You can look if you want, I don't care. S'not weird, right? If I come in?"

Sanders doesn't look. "Why. Why would it be weird."

"Okay, then." The water moves around, and Sanders moves, feeling Becks's body come closer to where he's sitting up against. She leans back beside him and exhales. "This feels nice. I've never really used this hot tub since we started coming here."

Sanders has been using it since they started coming here, even before when it was just him and Siam. He forces his head to look forward and leans back, too. "What did my stupid brother get you, by the way?"

"Oh." Even without looking, Sanders can hear her smile. She raises her foot above the water to show him, fingers around her ankle—and it's a thin, gold chain around her skin with turquoise beads and one seashell, and it's pretty. "He got me an anklet. Isn't it cute? I mean, I'm still pretty pissed he got lost and had us all worried, but the gift makes up for it."

Siam got Sanders a scented candle. Granted, he does like the smell, but it wasn't worth losing his mind over when he got lost for it. Jesus. Sanders scowls at her anklet. "He still has a crush on you."

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to blurt out, because Becks drops her foot and says, "I'm in love with his brother, though."

Sanders stiffens. His brain freezes and he stops breathing, too. He can hear his pulse ringing against his ears.

He's not—he's not used to Becks being so...bold about her feelings for him (for him!). It's only been a week, a couple of days since then, and they...well, they did agree on not talking about it for the summer, but hearing her say it so nonchalantly, so decisive, and insistent, and firm, like she's sure, she's not taking it back, she's not just saying it because of some rooted jealousy or replacement for Maxon. Hearing her say the stronger word, when she was afraid of it just a few days ago, and—shit, it's making him dizzy.

Becks takes his silence the wrong way. She sighs and mutters, "Sorry. I know I begged that we shouldn't talk about it over the rest of the summer, and that you should fuck around with other people, so I shouldn't be saying those kinds of things."

Sanders swallows thickly. He keeps his eyes on the shirt she took off and tossed at the back of a chair. "You sounded sure."

He's having a crisis. He wants to—wants to just say fuck it and say it back, say he loves her too, he has been for the longest time, when knowing was not just a realization of oh. OH. oh, shit, I'm in love with my best friend, but just an acceptance of the seed, a bud, a sinking feeling to his bones and muscles—that was dormant inside him for so long, said it when his chest burst open the morning he woke up next to her, tangled in his sheets.

It's not so much of doubt anymore. Becks wouldn't—Becks has been showing it. Sanders has thought, in more times than once, that this—boiling his eggs, waiting for him to come home to eat dinner together, almost about to punch the shit out of Austin for almost laying a hand on him, sleeping next to him until her back ached because she was worried during his slump, praying for him, and God, Becks doesn't pray—and more, so much more—might mean she loves him.

It's more of taking their time. Not wanting to hurt each other. Being sure they want to leave friendship behind—because one step forward and there's no fucking going back.

He wants to pack this crisis up and ship it to England, but then Becks speaks, and her voice is soft. Soft, but decisive, and firm, and—"I am sure."

Sanders makes a noise at the back of his throat and closes his eyes. For a second, he thinks about leaving—he needs to go before he can do anything rash, but he exhales shakily through his mouth, and there's a cloud of smoke in the air from his breath, and he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead, "We'll talk about it after the summer."

Becks doesn't even argue. She nods. "Okay."

"And it's not because I still think I'm just a rebound. And no, I'm not going to fuck around with other people. You aren't, either."

There's a smile in her voice when she repeats, "Okay."

"It's just." Sanders inhales one, quick, staggering breath. "I really, really, really want to fucking kiss you and it's really hard not to. Now, with us half-naked and talking about our fucking feelings, feelings I've had for three years, and a few days ago, when you shouted at Siam."

Becks scoffs out an incredulous laugh at the confession. "I was scolding your little brother and you were thinking about kissing me?"

Sanders has no one to blame but himself for being wired this way. "The former is just because I'm romantic as fuck and sort of tipsy and kind of horny. The latter was because I wanted to thank you for keeping me sane when I was losing my shit. You held my hand."

His best friend hums. If Sanders didn't know any better, that she's equally as nervous, verging into honest and new and facing this—whatever this is between them—territory, he'd think she's teasing him. "I'll say you're welcome for the latter." Becks pauses. And then: "But you can't look at me because of the former?"

Sanders can't do this. He's going to lose his mind.

He places a palm on the ledge of the tub and stands. "I'm going to take a shower—"

Becks snatches his wrist, and Sanders' eyes meet her wide, dark ones. She's in a ribbed maroon bandeau top with flimsy straps, and Sanders's favorite color is maroon, and under the light, he can see every inch of the skin he wants to touch.

Becks pulls him down, and without any fight, Sanders's body goes willingly. Frozen, Becks pushes his back against the ledge and swings her leg over his waist until she's seated on his lap.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

"Now your face is blank," she says, raising an eyebrow and biting her lip to keep from grinning wide. Her hands let go of his wrist and splay themselves on the broadness of his bare shoulders. "It's usually doing five things at once when you're confused, or lost, or shocked—"

"Becks," Sanders chokes out, tilting his chin up to look at her. She's grinning now. Fucking idiot. "Becks, I don't think we should—"

"You said you were kind of horny."

"I didn't expect you to sit on my lap and actually do something about it, Jesus Christ," he groans, tipping his head back. His legs and the thing in between them are so fucking stiff under the water and under her, and he's—"Becks, if you don't get off, we're going to regret—oh, shit."

It gets worse. She buries her head on his neck and her hips move a little, and Sanders gasps, and she says, "The goal is to get off."

"Becks, please."

Becks laughs near his ear, and her breath on his skin makes him shiver. "You're trying so hard not to touch me, oh my God."

He doesn't notice his fingers are gripping the measly bench they're sitting on—he's sitting on. Painfully, he chokes out, "Becks, come on, I think this is too cruel."

"What if I want to kiss you? Just that."

"No. If you do, we're not going to stop. I'm not going to stop."

She stops moving. It fucking aches, it really does—but if he's going to lay his hands on her, it won't be here, in the middle of the night, when they said they're going to talk about making things official and clear after the summer. When he lays his hands on her, he's going to take his sweet, sweet time with it.

I'm sorry, Sanders whispers to his head up there and down there. Really sorry, buds, but I'm going to do this right.

Becks sighs, and Sanders shudders from her lips on his neck. "Fine. I'll take this as you being sweet and the more careful and patient between us and not as rejection."

"No," Sanders agrees quickly and breathlessly, shutting his eyes. "Not rejection. Never rejection. I wouldn't be painfully hard if this was rejection."

Becks moves off of him with a smile. "Okay." And then she leans forward and plants a quick kiss on his cheek, and he's so—so light-headed, and fuzzy-feeling, and he feels like he's riding a slow carousel, and drunk—and she steps out of the tub and Sanders looks away, not wanting the image in his head. When she puts on the shirt, Sanders looks at her, and she's still grinning. "You're so cute."

"Fuck off, idiot, I hate you," Sanders hisses.

Becks laughs. She brings her mug with her inside. "Goodnight!"

As soon as he hears her come in the girls' bathroom, Sanders covers himself with a towel, speed-walks to his own bathroom, and stands under the shower.

It doesn't take long—his orgasm. He just closes his eyes and thinks about Becks and he's gone.

Rosen is happily sated when he comes in. Sanders throws a pillow in his face. "Piece of shit."

His friend smiles, eyes glinting. "Jealous?"

Sanders lies down on his bed with a huff and hugs the pillow. Doesn't bother answering him.

*

(Sanders doesn't look at Becks during breakfast and the packing up. He snaps at everyone and everything, even at the poor plant he accidentally stabbed his toe against, even at poor Maxon, who looks like a fucking puppy, when he was taking too long with his pictures before they left the house.

On the drive back, Becks sits next to him again. She faces him and says, "You've been on edge since this morning."

"I slept late and had shitty coffee for breakfast," Sanders answers monotonously, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Mm." Even without looking at her, Sanders knows she's smiling like a fucking idiot. "Is that it?"

Sanders clenches his jaw. "Shut up."

"I heard you in the shower."

"Shut up, I swear to God."

Becks grins. "Okay. Want a gummy bear?"

"No. Keep those to yourself."

She feeds him one, anyway. Maybe two, or three.)