The Miami club glowed with neon and sweat and sound.

Paloma stood at the bar, undercover, stirring her drink like she had nowhere else to be. The music thumped through her bones. She smiled at the bartender, turned—and someone walked straight into her.

His drink sloshed. Her shoulder barely moved.

“Wow, I am so sorry,” he said, laughing at himself. Sunburned, camera still hanging from his neck.

She raised an eyebrow. “That was your first mistake of the night.”

He blinked. “Bumping into you?”

“Coming here unprepared.”

They drifted with the crowd, carried by noise and light. He talked about the beach, about getting lost, about how everything in Miami felt louder than expected. Paloma listened, smiling, letting him fill the space while her eyes slipped past him toward the VIP stairs.

To him, she was just a cool girl in a dangerous-looking club. To her, he was perfect cover.

And somehow, she didn’t mind staying right where she was.