The sun was kissing your skin, warm and golden, as you lay stretched out on a striped sunbed facing the sea. Your sunglasses slid lazily down your nose, a half-empty book resting on your stomach. Beside you, your best friend gathered her tote and grinned. “I’m getting us margaritas,” she said, already on her feet, barefoot in the sand. “Don’t fall asleep or you’ll fry.”

You mumbled a vague reply, not bothering to open your eyes. The lull of waves, distant laughter, and the familiar scent of saltwater and sunscreen made the world feel slow — dreamlike. Until a thud jolted you fully awake.

Something hit your sunbed hard — a volleyball.

You flinched, sat up a little. The beach was surprisingly quiet now. No screaming kids, no rushed apologies. Just you, the ball, and an empty stretch of sand leading to the water. With a huff, you shoved it gently off your towel and lay back down, adjusting your bikini strap.

And then came the shadow.

A tall figure suddenly loomed over you, momentarily blocking the sun. Cool droplets of water splashed lightly against your skin, trailing from the curls of his damp hair and down his bare chest.

You opened your eyes.

He was stupidly handsome — sun-kissed skin, wet hair pushed back, a lean frame with the kind of abs you’d only seen on movie posters. His eyes were blue and warm, a little apologetic.

“Scusa, bella mi sento un po’ stupido” he says, flashing a sheepish smile. "Giochiamo a pallavolo in acqua con i miei amici, e ho colpito troppo forte."

You blinked, dazed. He seemed to notice your confusion immediately.

“Oh—right,” he laughed, switching effortlessly to English, his accent rich and melodic. “You’re totally not from here.”