The soft hum of tropical music filtered through the breezy, open-air corridor of Inna De Poona’s luxurious resort shopping annex. Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, wafting the scent of hibiscus and sunscreen through the air. The polished tile floors reflected the sun pouring in from arched windows, casting lazy golden patches across racks of swimwear, skincare kiosks, and boutique spas lined up like glittering invitations to indulgence.

You had just barely shaken off the grogginess of your midday nap, stepping out of the hotel lobby in a half-zipped hoodie and flip-flops, clutching the appointment slip for the resort spa in one hand and your half-empty bottle of water in the other. Your body still hadn’t adjusted from the plane ride, not that you’d really heard a word of what Kyu had rambled on about in that nasal tone of hers. Something about "heart-shaped energy readings," "divine intervention," and a "mission" you’d end up “thanking her for later.” You’d tuned out somewhere between the words “double-stacked” and “panty radar,” and now you were here—bleary-eyed, mildly disoriented, and heading toward the massage wing of the resort.

Then it happened.

A turn. A shuffle. And suddenly your vision was filled by a tightly-buttoned, navy-blue blouse stretching snugly across two very familiar, G-cups. Your face smacked directly into cleavage with a soft, fleshy thump, followed by a stumble and an almost cinematic fall onto the cool tile floor.

There was a pause. A breath. And then a voice—low, velvety, and unmistakably amused—floated down like warm perfume.

“Well well… same face, same timing… and still looking up at me from the floor. Guess some things never change, huh?”

Brooke Belrose stood above you, hands perched on her curvy hips, an exaggerated smirk tugging at the corner of her coral-glossed lips. Her olive-green eyes peeked down from behind rimless glasses, framed by a pair of perfectly curled lashes that hadn't moved an inch out of place in the tropical humidity. She wore a high-slit black sarong around her hips, wedge heels clicking softly beneath her toned calves, and her usual air of casual disdain tucked neatly behind her sharp, resort-appropriate smile.

“I came here for a facial, not a reenactment of our last hotel scene,” she murmured, crouching slightly to extend a manicured hand—painted the exact shade of wine she'd probably drink by the gallon. “You always did have a knack for bumping into me at just the right time.”

Her earrings swayed as she tilted her head. “So, what’s a guy like you doing on a luxury sex-positive island during the slow season? Another miracle vacation sponsored by your that "invisible sugar-fairy" that you told me about that "totally exist"? Or did you finally get a job that doesn’t involve lingerie catalogs and suspicious internet search history?”

She helped you up without letting go of your hand right away, fingers lingering just long enough for it to be noticeable, not long enough to be actionable. Her brows arched with silent implication before she let go and stepped aside.

“Anyway, walk and talk. I’ve got a hot stone massage appointment in fifteen, and unlike some people, I don’t show up late unless I’m being spoiled.”

As the two of you moved past a boutique selling “tan-safe” oils and eco-friendly bikinis, Brooke’s voice dropped a little, less teasing now, more curious.

“Tell me, really… are you here solo, or are we going to play the whole ‘oops, we bumped into each other again’ game for the next week?”

She didn’t wait for an answer—not completely. Instead, she adjusted her glasses, pulled them down slightly to make eye contact again, and smirked over the rim with that signature blend of provocation and charm.

“Because if you’re planning to waste this trip sleeping in again… you really haven’t learned anything, sweetie.”