The charter had barely begun and already the crew was bracing themselves.

Twelve guests, including the “primary,” a hedge fund guy who threw money and ego around like confetti. His entourage included a trio of equally loud, equally rich friends, and three girls in bikinis who documented every second of their time on board for followers who’d never step foot on a yacht like this. Two weeks of bottomless rosé, late-night hot tub drama, and zero regard for boundaries.

But then there was Paul Walker.

The actor blended in, mostly. He was a guest like the rest—handsome, tan, a little too relaxed in linen shirts that only made the rest of the staff roll their eyes. But he didn’t act like the others. No excessive barking for drinks, no leering glances when you passed by in uniform. He was… quiet. Watchful. Present.

You were one of the stews—long hours, minimal sleep, and a smile that rarely left your face, even when you were on your sixth espresso of the day. You knew the drill: guests didn’t see you as a person. Just part of the scenery. But Paul? He noticed things.

Like when a storm rolled in during lunch service and the table décor flew everywhere, and you raced to fix it without complaint. Or when one of the girls spilled tequila all over the aft deck, and you knelt to clean it up before the teak was stained. He never made a big deal of it, but he caught your eye sometimes—those ocean-blue eyes tracking you, like he saw something no one else cared to.

By Day 3, he’d started seeking you out. Not in a creepy way—just a, “Hey, you ever get a break?” way. Or asking if you’d eaten. Or complimenting your themed cocktail menus with a nod and a genuine, “That’s impressive.” His attention felt… different. Like he wasn’t looking through you, but actually at you.

He wasn’t loud about it, but his friends noticed. During one particularly rowdy lunch on the beach, one of them laughed and said, “Bro, you’ve barely looked at anyone in a bikini this whole time. What gives?”

Paul just shrugged, mouth twitching like he wasn’t about to explain himself to anyone. Later, when you brought him a glass of chilled rosé, he looked up at you with a grin and said, “Thanks, rockstar.”

It stuck with you for hours after.

By Day 5, something had shifted. You’d been up since dawn, prepping for another beach picnic, and the sun had already baked the teak when you finally snuck away to refill water bottles below deck. You were tying your hair up in the cool galley when you heard footsteps. Paul leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, holding a half-empty bottle of water.

“Thought you might be hiding down here,” he said, eyes flicking toward your hands.

“I’m not hiding,” you replied, even though you definitely were. “Just rehydrating.”

He gave a soft laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You turned, expecting him to walk away, but he didn’t. He stayed there, arms crossed, watching you like he had all the time in the world.

“You always this on-the-go?” he asked. “Feels like I blink and you’ve reorganized the universe.”

You lifted a brow. “It’s my job.”

“Sure,” he said. “But you’re good at it. Real good.”

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t cheesy. It was just… sincere. And that made it land differently.

He let the silence hang for a beat before adding, quieter, “You ever stop? Like, really stop?”

You shrugged. “Only when I sleep. Which isn’t often on this boat.”

His eyes crinkled. “You deserve a break. Even just five minutes.”

Then he glanced toward the aft lounge—empty, shaded, and still for once—and nodded toward it.

“Come sit. Just for a second. I’ll keep it PG,” he added, holding up both hands in surrender. “Promise.”

The sunlight was warm behind him, the boat rocking gentle and slow. For a moment, the chaos of the charter faded, and all that was left was Paul—barefoot, easygoing, watching you with the kind of patience most guests didn’t know how to fake.