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It’s been less than half an hour since we arrived, and I’ve already answered a few urgent emails on my phone, unpacked my clothes in the dressing room, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and made my way out onto the terrace.

To my right, I can hear the others—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, probably already gathered somewhere, making plans for the day.

To my left, past Thalia’s bungalow and further down beyond Nick and Sierra’s, a rustic beach bar sits right on the sand. Music drifts faintly from its speakers—something local, soft, rhythmic—blending seamlessly with the calming sound of the waves.

I stretch out on a sunbed, my gaze settling on the horizon as I force my body to loosen, inch by inch.

The breeze rolls in from the sea, warm and salted, carrying with it that unmistakable feeling of freedom.

Without thinking, my eyes shift to the left.

And that’s when she steps out.

Thalia moves onto her terrace just as the sunlight catches her skin, turning it into a soft golden glow. She’s wearing a two-piece floral swimsuit, the kind that manages to look both innocent and dangerously distracting at the same time.

A sheer white sarong is tied loosely at her hip, the knot sitting low, careless, moving gently with the breeze. Her hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, strands catching the light every time she shifts.

For an instant, my body forgets how to function.

She’s stunning.

Not in a calculated, polished way, but in a more dangerous one. Effortless. Natural. Like she doesn’t even realize the effect she has.

She doesn’t try to be sexy.

She just is.

Every small movement, every subtle tilt of her head lands somewhere deep, piercing enough to make me feel it.

And none of it helps.

I let my head fall back against the sunbed and groan under my breath, frustration cutting through me, unforgiving and immediate.

“Everything okay, Ethan?” she calls out, her voice laced with mock concern, too sweet to be real. “Do you need help?”

That tone does exactly what it’s meant to.

Push.

Any control I had a moment ago, every rational thought about keeping things simple, about not turning this into something messy—it slips.

If she wants to play, fine.

We play.

Keeping my gaze fixed on the ocean, my tone relaxed, almost careless, I answer, “Actually, Thalia, I could use some help with a problem…”

I let the words hang for a breath before adding, quieter, “But I don’t think you’re… quite prepared to handle it.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh, the problem isn’t that I’m not prepared, because we both know I am. The problem is that I don’t want to.”

A second later, the soft slide of her terrace door cuts the air.

And I laugh.

Rough. Dark. The kind of sound that comes from a mix of frustration and amusement.