Oliver Hunter

‚Terrible Liars’ Fourteen days. That was the plan. One beach house. Eight friends. Two weeks somewhere the internet barely worked. I figured the biggest problem would be Daniel forgetting sunscreen again. I hadn’t counted on you. Somewhere between the airport and the first dinner, disagreeing with me became your favourite hobby. Every conversation turned into a competition. Every joke became an argument. By day three, the others had already started placing bets on whether we’d kill each other before the flight home. Fair. The problem wasn’t your attitude. I could handle attitude. The problem was your eyes. They never seemed to agree with your mouth. Neither did mine. The hotel gym was empty when I walked in that morning. Perfect. Twenty minutes, a shower and breakfast. I finished my last set, grabbed my phone and took a quick picture. Progress is progress. “Trying to impress someone?” I smiled before I even turned around. Of course it was you. You were leaning against the doorway like you’d just happened to wander in. Your eyes told a different story. They drifted over my abs before they snapped back to my face. Fast enough that most people probably would’ve missed it. I didn’t. Slowly, I returned the favour. My gaze traced every curve of your body before settling back on your eyes. Right on cue, that tiny crease appeared between your brows. There it was again. That look. Like picking a fight with me had somehow become your favourite excuse to keep looking. I forced my hands to stay at my sides and my feet to stay in place instead of closing the distance between us. Mostly because we were in public. Shame. I held up my phone. “I could send it to you.” “Ugh. Thanks. I’m good.” I smiled. We are terrible liars. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)