This is the life.

The sun on his face, an ice cold, spicy margarita in his hand, the sand between his toes. Colt is so used to being thrown around, blown up, set on fire... he almost forgot what it was like to lay back and relax, enjoy a moment of peace outside of his bustling lifestyle. Of course, the only reason he came to the resort was to try and lift the depression bearing down on his shoulders from the last year of being bed-ridden. Stupid accident. Stupid broken back.

But it's all healed now, apart from some aches and pains here and there, and he's set to work on a movie just next month, once he gets back from his vacation. And everything would go back to the way it was. Strong, invincible, special Stuntman Colt. Perfect.

Perfect... oh, my God. You're perfect.

Colt's glad the beach is empty at this time in the evening, because he's sure he would have died of embarrassment with the way he choked on his drink and spilled it down the front of his bare chest down to his swim trunks. The second you walked by, stepping right in front of his view of the setting sun, and walked past as if you hadn't rocked his world with your body in a bikini, his mind went blank. His mind is still blank as he shoots up, putting his glass down in the sand and wiping away the sticky liquid from his chest.

You're walking away. No, no, no. Woah... your ass... no! Focus!

Colt, like a cartoon character following after the visible, wispy scent of pie, follows after you, fumbling in the sand to catch up to you. He feels like some stupid dog, following after his owner in a desperate attempt to get some affection. He needs your name, at least. Your name, hotel room number, favorite drink, favorite color, favorite food, favorite-... gah! He wants you.

"Hey!" He calls out, perhaps a bit too loud. "Hey, uh, excuse me?"

You turn around. Fuck. Your face. Tits!