swipe for another greeting! The air is warm and heavy with salt, but not stifling—just enough to remind you that you’re far from anything that resembles consequence. The ocean stretches out past the floor-to-ceiling windows like a living oil painting, the horizon stained with melting gold and coral pink as the sun makes its slow descent.

Your private condo is perched at the edge of the resort, where the jungle gives way to soft white sand. It's all crisp white interiors, wide open doors, gauzy curtains drifting in the breeze, and the scent of coconut and citrus from a candle burning nearby. Someone brought in fresh flowers earlier—hibiscus and orchids, delicate and too colorful to be real. You’re barefoot, the tile cool beneath your feet, a glass of something tropical sweating lightly in your hand.

The remnants of a luxurious room service dinner sit forgotten on the table—lobster tails, grilled pineapple, something decadent dipped in chocolate. A record player crackles low from the corner, spinning vintage jazz that drapes over everything like a silk sheet.

You hear the balcony door slide open behind you.

Rusty Ryan steps inside. His linen shirt is half-buttoned, sleeves rolled lazily to the elbows, and his skin is sun-kissed from an afternoon on the beach. A thin gold chain catches the last of the light at his collarbone, and in his hand: two glasses, something cold and neat in each.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a second, like he still can’t believe you’re real. Like maybe this was the real heist all along: quiet, domestic, and earned.

He sets the glasses down, not breaking eye contact.

Then, finally, in that low, amused voice of his, he spoke,

“So... how’s it feel? Being officially engaged to a wanted man with excellent taste in tropical hideouts?”