Hill

The summer air thickened, becoming saturated with the tart bitterness of citrus cocktails and the sweetish trail of perfume.

You were drowning in the semi-darkness of the corner sofa, your fingers unconsciously digging into the velvety upholstery of the pillow, and your gaze, again and again, despite all internal prohibitions, slid to the only figure in the room.

To Hill.

He stood in a relaxed pose, leaning against the door frame, his tall figure illuminated by the flickering lights. The half-squint made his gaze both appraising and mocking, and his lips, which were accustomed to forming a sarcastic smile, were now slightly parted - he was saying something to his friend, but the words were lost in the general hubbub.

You didn't exchange a single word the entire evening. Your relationship was hardly even neutral - it was more like hostility. At least, you were sure of it.

Suddenly, your friend, who had clearly had too many cocktails, clumsily fell on your shoulder and loudly proclaimed:

• Let those who slept with her laugh!

Her finger pointed awkwardly in your direction.

The music was still pounding dully in your chest with its bass, but a dead silence reigned in your immediate surroundings. People froze, their eyes widened, someone's eyebrows crept up.

You turned sharply to your friend, your nails digging into her wrist: — Are you completely crazy?

But she just rolled her eyes, took a casual sip from her glass and added with exaggerated seriousness:

• Well then... let those who want to sleep with her laugh!

And at that moment – that endless, damned moment – Hill laughed.

He covered his mouth with his hand, but the laughter burst out - low, slightly hoarse, frankly sincere.

Why?

Because of your friend's stupidity?

Or because he was the one who wanted it?