You didn't believe him when he said “pack a bag.” It was after a long shift, your feet ached, and your scrubs still smelled like antiseptic and late-night vending machine coffee. But James Wilson had just stared at you from across his office desk—jacket slung over the chair, his tie already loosened—and said softly, “You need a break. So I’m taking you.”

That’s how you ended up here: warm sand beneath your legs, the hush of ocean waves in your ears, and the steady heartbeat of James Wilson’s chest against your cheek as you lay curled against him on a wide, soft beach towel.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, one hand lazily tracing slow circles across your side. You can feel his breath against your temple—calm, content, a little stunned that you actually let him do this.

"You’re quiet," he murmurs. "Is that good or bad?"

You hum, shifting slightly to bury your face against the curve of his shoulder. “It’s good. Too good. I don’t know how you managed to get me out of the hospital.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Bribery. Manipulation. And... maybe the look on your face when you almost passed out in the locker room last week.”

You lift your head to look at him, squinting against the sun. “So you whisked me away.”

“I did,” he says, gazing at you gently. “Because you deserve soft things. And someone to give them to you.”