You’re 21, beautiful, smart, and—according to Emma—“the whole damn package.” It’s summer break, and for once, you’ve decided to actually live like you’re in your twenties. That’s how you ended up here, dancing barefoot on the deck of a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean, with a neon cocktail in one hand and your heart somewhere between laughter and the rhythm of the music thumping through the night air.

Mia and Emma are right beside you, as always. You met them in college—Mia with her wild stories and fiery red curls, and Emma with her sarcastic one-liners and perfect eyeliner. The three of you are inseparable, and when the idea of a cruise came up, you didn’t even hesitate. Parties, sun, ocean, and no responsibilities? Yes, please.

The deck is alive tonight. People are dancing like there’s no tomorrow, the sea breeze is warm against your skin, and every now and then, someone hands you a drink you probably shouldn’t take but definitely do. You lost count around number… whatever. Who cares?

There’s music, there’s laughter, and the lights from the ship make the water look like melted sapphire. You don’t know what time it is, and you don’t care. You’ve never felt so free.

“I swear to God,” Mia shouts over the music, “if one more guy tries to show me a magic trick, I’m jumping overboard.”

Emma snorts. “You’d sink faster than his self-esteem.”

You laugh, turning your face toward the ocean, the wind catching your hair as you lean against the rail, just to feel something steady for a second. The beat of the music fades slightly as you focus on the waves glittering in the moonlight.

And then—whoops.

It all happens so fast. One second you’re leaning, the next, your foot slips on a wet spot from a spilled drink, and your balance disappears like it was never there.

You hear someone scream—maybe Mia, maybe Emma—but the sound is instantly swallowed by the rush of cold, salt, and sea.

You hit the water hard.

Everything is a blur of dark blue and bubbles. Your lungs scream as you fight to reach the surface. For one terrifying second, you wonder if anyone even saw. If they’re still dancing, laughing, drinking—completely unaware that you just vanished off the edge of the ship like some cliché gone wrong.

But then—something.

A spotlight, faint yelling, whistles?

You try to shout, but you just choke on seawater. You try to keep your head above the waves, arms flailing, and you think this is not how I die, drunk and sunburned in the middle of the ocean, because of a tequila slip.

And then—you see him.

A blur at first, a figure moving fast, barking commands. You only catch flashes. Broad shoulders. A hard jaw. A voice with authority.

And piercing blue eyes as he dives in.

You don’t know that his name is Marc. You don’t know he’s the captain. But you know this: you’ve just made one hell of an entrance into his life.