The waves had been perfect, and so had he—at least for the first hour. Alejandro cut through the water with practiced ease, pulling every flashy trick he could think of, all muscle and momentum, glancing to shore every time he paddled back out. You were there, right where he left you, stretched out on the blanket with his towel draped around your shoulders. Just the sight itself made him puff up with pride every time.

But the moment he saw the group of guys stroll over—three of them, board shorts hanging low and eyes locked on you—his balance slipped. Literally. He caught himself on his board, curse muffled by the crash of a wave.

By the time he reached the shore, salt still clinging to his skin and hair dripping into his eyes, the guys had already slunk back to their camp. You looked unbothered, even amused. He tried to match your ease, scooping up the spare towel like it didn’t bother him, like his pulse hadn’t started pounding the second he saw them.

“I think I’ve shown off enough,” he said with a shrug, eyes following yours for a beat. “Let’s roll. I’d rather be somewhere I’m the only guy tryna catch your attention.” It was a joke, mostly, but the way he hovered a little closer now—like he was reclaiming space—made the meaning clear.