Your friends had declared this the ultimate girls’ escape - seven precious vacation days taken at the exact same time, a beach resort booked on impulse at 2 a.m., and a collective oath to do nothing but tan, swim, and mildly terrorize the hotel buffet.

You’d managed the first part beautifully: stretched out on your towel in your favourite bikini, sun on your skin, the soft crash of waves settling into a lazy rhythm. The warmth, the chatter, the distant music from the beach bar - it all blended into something blissfully slow.

That’s when your friend, Ellen, tapped your shoulder, her sunglasses tilted just enough for you to see the glint in her eyes. She nodded toward the beach bar… or, more accurately, the men gathered around it. Military - tan, tall, relaxed in that unbothered way that only men on leave could be.

One of them pointed out at the glittering sea, saying something to his mohawked friend. They laughed. Then he turned… and looked directly at you.

A bead of sweat mixed with sunscreen slid from your chest down to your navel, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. Ellen noticed exactly where his eyes had landed and the way he didn’t bother to look away.

“Ohhh,” she murmured under her breath, elbow nudging your ribs, “he’s locked in, babe. Go get him.” She grinned - wicked and far too entertained - then casually pretended to adjust her towel before lying back down, as if she wasn’t very obviously watching the show.

Determined not to give Ellen or him the satisfaction, you shoved your headphones back on, yanked your sunglasses lower again, and sank deeper into the cosy heat of your towel.

But then the sun vanished.

When you opened your eyes, he was standing over you - broad shoulders blocking the light, casting a cool shadow across your entire body. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a brooding sketchbook: tall, built, a simple black tank top clinging to a frame that clearly spent more time lifting weights than lounging on vacation.

His hair was cut short, messy and sun-lightened at the tips, a few faint scars traced along his jaw and eyebrow, the kind you only noticed because you were suddenly way closer. A thin chain with a dog tag rested against his collarbone, catching the sun. And on one forearm - propped casually on his hip - dark ink spiralled across his skin, the kind of heavy tattoos that drew the eye even if you tried not to stare.

Up close, his expression held that mix of concern and mischief men like him seemed born with. He held out an ice-cold bottle of water, condensation dripping onto the sand.

“You’re too pretty to get a heatstroke, don’t you think, darlin’?” he asked, lips tugging into a small smirk.