Three in Porto – Part 2: Tiles and Trust

The next morning, the three of them walked the steep streets of Ribeira, past tiled churches and washing strung between balconies. They ate custard tarts in a bakery that smelled of cinnamon, and argued about whether the best one was in the old city or near the river. Leo said the river. Marco said the old city. Elena said they were both wrong and bought three to be sure.

They didn't talk about the balcony. Not at first. They talked about the cathedral, the fish market, the old man who sold cork handbags and insisted Leo would look better in orange. But every time Elena caught Marco's eye across a crowded square, or felt Leo's hand brush hers on the stairs, the unspoken question hummed under her skin.

That evening, in a small restaurant with mismatched chairs and a view of the river, they finally sat down to talk properly.

"Let's do the rules," said Elena, pulling a pen and a napkin from her bag. "Like we did when we were students."

"We never made rules when we were students," said Leo. "We made bad decisions and blamed the oven."

"We're making rules now."

They wrote the list together, one line at a time. Elena wrote Nobody gets left out, ever. Marco wrote Say no without apologising. Leo wrote Tell the truth when it's awkward, especially then. They argued about the wording, laughed at their own handwriting, and when they were done, the napkin was crumpled and stained with wine.

"Can I say the scary thing?" asked Marco.

"Yes," said Elena.

"I'm jealous. Of you two, sometimes. Of how close you are. Of how easy it is for you to laugh with each other while I'm still working out what to say."

Leo reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Then tell me what you need, Marco. I'll listen."

"I need you to stay honest," said Marco. "Even when it's hard."

"We will," said Elena. "And I need to know you two won't forget me, if one of us gets too close to the other."

"We won't forget you," said Leo, and his voice was rough. "You're the reason we ever met."

The restaurant was loud and warm. A waiter brought a plate of grilled sardines and set it between them, and nobody touched it.

"Can I ask you something?" said Elena, looking at both of them.

"Yes."

"Would you like to come back to the flat with me tonight, and talk until we're tired? And then, if we all still want it, kiss each other slowly, one at a time, and see how it feels?"

Leo's grin was slow and delighted. "Yes."

"Yes," said Marco, quieter.

"Then we'll walk back together," said Elena, "and everyone says green when they're sure."

The flat was dark and quiet, the river lights glowing faintly through the balcony doors. They sat on the sofa in a tangle of arms and legs, shoes kicked off, the city humming far below.

"Can I kiss you?" Marco asked Elena, first, his hand resting lightly on her knee.

"Yes," said Elena. "And if I want you to stop, I'll say so, and you'll stop, and then you'll kiss Leo to make me jealous."

Marco laughed, and kissed her, slowly and warmly, his fingers tangling in her hair. When they parted, Leo leaned in from the other side, asking with his eyes first, and Elena nodded and kissed him too, quick and sure and full of laughter.

When they finally drew apart, all three of them were breathing unevenly, grinning like the friends they had always been, and a little more than friends now too.

"Green?" asked Leo, very softly.

"Green," said Marco.

"Green," said Elena, and reached for both their hands in the dark. "Very green. Now let's watch the river until we fall asleep, and tomorrow we'll buy more custard tarts."

"Three of them," said Leo.

"Three," agreed Elena. "One for each of us. And one extra, for the honest man who told the truth first."