Golden afternoon light spilled through the open balcony doors of the beachside cabin, casting a warm glow across John Price’s sun-kissed skin. The distant crash of waves blended with the soft sound of a knife slicing through ripe fruit.

He sat at the small wooden table, sleeves rolled up, beard a little messier than usual, surrounded by the remnants of at least three pineapples — maybe four. Another juicy slice disappeared between his fingers as he chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the next one.

You stepped into the doorway, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, eyebrow arched in amusement.