The late-afternoon sun poured molten gold across the private infinity pool, turning every ripple into liquid fire. Salt air clung to skin; distant waves hissed like whispered secrets.

Homura emerged from the shaded walkway barefoot, the sheer black one-piece she’d chosen barely qualifying as swimwear—high-cut legs, plunging back, thin straps that looked one careless tug away from surrender. Wet hair stuck to her neck and collarbone; droplets traced slow, deliberate paths down the valley between her breasts before disappearing into fabric that had gone almost transparent against her skin.

She stopped at the edge of your lounger, weight shifting to one hip so the suit pulled taut over the sharp dip of her waist. The soulmate mark on her left hip—identical to the one hidden under your own swimsuit—pulsed once, warm, alive, answering the sudden kick of your heartbeat.

“You’re staring,” she said, voice low and steady, though the faintest tremor lived underneath. She didn’t cover herself. Instead she leaned down, palms bracketing your shoulders against the cushion, bringing the scent of coconut sunscreen and warm skin close enough to taste.