After the massage, we moved from one activity to the next like clockwork — or at least I did. Kenan dragged behind me at every stop: a pottery session where he barely shaped a lump of clay, a cheesy couples' cooking class where he chopped exactly one onion and declared himself done, and a tandem bike ride that ended with me yelling at him to pedal faster while he pretended not to hear.
By the time we got back to the resort to change for our final event — dinner — I was exhausted but ridiculously proud of myself. I'd booked everything, handled everything, and despite his constant complaints, we hadn't killed each other. That alone was an achievement worthy of dessert.
When we finally sat down at the candlelit table, I caught Kenan staring at me from across the flickering flame. Or more accurately, at my outfit I'd packed for tonight. He tilted his head, unimpressed.
"Isn't that a bit much for a simple dinner?"
I narrowed my eyes at him and stabbed a piece of bread. "Everything I do, you have something to say. Everything. But nobody says anything when all you wear is black, head to toe, like you're on your way to a funeral."
He arched an eyebrow, unfazed. "How do you know I'm not preparing for yours?"
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. "...Seriously?"
He smirked. I rolled my eyes, fighting a laugh. Typical Kenan. Complaining and dramatic.
As dessert arrived and the candle burned lower, a soft quietness settled between us. And for the first time in a while, neither of us had anything snarky to say.
We made our way back to the room. This time I didn't even bother to make the pillow border. I changed my outfit, brushed my teeth, and went straight to bed.
Throughout my sleep, my face kept being touched.
I murmured, "Leave me alone, Kenan," and turned to the other side.
I woke up to find myself being shaken by him.
"What?" I grumbled.
"We have to check out in the next hour."
I groaned, "Give me five minutes, please."
That "five minutes" didn't last long — Kenan's hand gripped my leg and dragged me off the bed. I clung to the sheets for dear life.
"Kenan, I hate you!" I screamed.
"That was for yesterday," he said, laughing.
I lay sprawled on the floor, left once again to contemplate life. I was still there when Kenan came out of the bathroom and nudged my leg.
"Come on, go get dressed."
I lazily pushed myself off the floor and headed to the bathroom. The second I saw my reflection, I nearly screamed.
Something was drawn on my face. I rubbed at it, but it didn't come off.
A handlebar mustache. A big, bold, twirly handlebar mustache.
I scrubbed harder .
nothing.
"Kenan, I am going to kill you!" I shouted, storming toward the door. To my "surprise," it wouldn't open; it was blocked, obviously.
"And it's not coming off! What did you use?" I shrieked.
"I used permanent," he said, laughing from the other side of the door. Where the hell did he even get a permanent marker?!
Giving up on the door, I turned back to the mirror. I used every scrub and face wash I owned and nothing happened. All I got for my trouble was red, sensitive skin and the same damn mustache.
Defeated, I took my shower, got dressed, and marched out of the bathroom with murder in my eyes.
Kenan was lying nonchalantly on the bed. I climbed on top of him and started strangling him.
"Why would you do that to me?!"
His hands grasped mine, trying to pry them off. "Hey, it was a joke!"
I squeezed tighter. "It would've been a joke if it was easy to remove!"
"This can be considered murder, Ciro," he croaked, my hands still around his neck.
"I don't mind sitting in a jail cell. You could've done anything — but you touched my face."
Finally having enough, Kenan overpowered me. In seconds, I was pinned beneath him, my hands trapped above my head with one of his.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he said, smiling.
"Are you really? I know you want to laugh." I tried to wiggle free.
As if on cue, he burst out laughing. "You look like a true gentleman."
One of my eye twitched. I twisted and turned until I managed to kick him off. He fell to my side, and I grabbed a handful of his hair.
"I know how much you love your hair. Don't think I don't notice you admiring it in the mirror."
"Ugh, fuck, Ciro. Can't you just use one of your face washes?"
"You don't think I tried?!"
About twenty minutes and several threats later, Kenan was on his phone, frantically searching how to remove it, one hand rubbing his head where I'd pulled his hair.
"I'm sure I'm getting a bald spot," he grumbled.
"Well, that's good," I said, glaring at my reflection in my phone camera. The mustache still refused to budge.
"They said rubbing alcohol should work."
"On my face?!"
He shrugged. I grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
"We have to check out. I'll get it at the pharmacy. I'll drive you back to the dorm," he said, still laughing.
He better. Because there was no way I was walking around with this ridiculous drawn mustache on my face.
We checked out, and I tugged the hood of my sweatshirt low over my face as we crossed the parking lot to his car. Kenan opened the front passenger door and gestured for me to get in like he was some chivalrous prince or something.
What a gentleman. Please.
The pharmacy wasn't far just a ten-minute drive but every second felt like an eternity. I leaned my forehead against the window, muttering curses under my breath. "I will never forget this, Kenan."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smirk. "It'll be gone in a minute."
"The only thing that's gonna be gone is you if it doesn't come off," I snapped, lifting my head just enough to glare at him only to find him already watching me instead of the road.
"Hey! Eyes on the road!" I scolded, then dropped my head back against the glass, sulking. This could've been a peaceful Sunday morning. I could've been home, warm, unbothered but no. Kenan had to ruin it.
"Look at this poor baby pouting," he teased, reaching over to pat the top of my head like I was a puppy.
I recoiled in disgust. "A baby? Really?"
He only laughed and pulled over by the pharmacy entrance. "You're not coming in?"
I shot him a look that said he should know better. "You think I'm stepping into public looking like this?"
He glanced around, clearly unimpressed. "It's early. There's barely anyone here."
I immediately pointed at an old man shuffling past the hood of the car at the slowest speed possible. "Barely? That grandpa is enough. Age never stopped anyone from judging. Now hurry up and buy it before I sue you for emotional damage."
I shooed him out of the car like a queen dismissing her servant.
He didn't take long. A few minutes later, he slid back into the driver's seat, tossing a small pharmacy bag onto my lap. I peeked inside: cotton swabs and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
Without waiting, he tore it open, but I snatched the supplies out of his hand. "Hand it over. You're not touching my face."
I poured some alcohol onto the cotton and scrubbed at the offending spot like my life depended on it. "Is it gone yet?" I demanded, turning my cheek toward him.
Kenan leaned closer, squinting at my skin.
"Hold still and let me do it," he insisted, snatching the cotton swab from my fingers before I could protest.
I flinched away, pressing myself against the car door. "Touch my face and you die, Kenan."
"Stop being dramatic. Come here." He grabbed my chin anyway, ignoring my weak attempts to slap his hand away. His fingers were annoyingly gentle as he dabbed at the mark I'd been so desperate to erase.
"Ow! Be careful!" I hissed.
He rolled his eyes but didn't stop. "It's literally just a tiny mark. You're acting like you got stabbed in the face."
"Because you gave me this mark, genius!"
"You're welcome."
"Not a compliment!" I swatted his shoulder for emphasis.
He pulled back slightly to inspect his work, lips twitching like he was holding in more smart remarks. "There. Happy now, drama queen?"
I twisted the mirror down and squinted at my reflection. My skin was a little pink but thankfully clear. I let out a sigh of relief and finally slumped back in the seat. "Whatever. Just drive."
He tossed the used cotton into the bag and started the car again. "You're welcome, by the way. You owe me a thank you."
I scoffed. "Thank you for being the reason I needed rubbing alcohol in the first place? Yeah, okay."
He snorted and merged back onto the road. The drive was quiet for a while, broken only by my occasional annoyed huff and his low hums at stoplights.
When we finally pulled up outside my place, he killed the engine but didn't move to open his door yet. Instead, he looked over at me, eyes annoyingly soft for once.
"Hey… next time, try not to pout so hard. It makes you look like a kicked puppy."
I stared at him, then flicked his forehead with my finger. "Next time, try minding your own business. It'll make you look less like an idiot."
He just laughed, completely unfazed, and leaned back in his seat.
I pushed open the door and climbed out, hoodie still covering half my face.
I slammed the door shut before he could say anything else, walking up towards the entrance to enter the building while he honked once behind me, just to be annoying.
What a perfect way to end the world's longest weekend.