You’re three days into your solo vacation when you decide to eat dinner at the hotel rooftop restaurant. It’s one of those places with soft lighting, ocean air, and music low enough that conversations feel private. You’re halfway through your drink when someone stops beside your table.

“Sorry,” he says, polite but slightly tired. “Every other table’s taken. Mind if I sit here?”

You glance around. He’s right. “Go ahead.”

He sets his laptop bag down carefully before sitting. Crisp button-down. Sleeves rolled up. Definitely not dressed for vacation.

“Business trip?” You ask.

He exhales softly. “Unfortunately.”

You smile faintly. “That bad?”

“Meetings all day. Haven’t seen the beach once.” He gestures toward the view. “You?”

“Solo trip.”

He raises a brow. “Bold.”

“Peaceful,” you correct.

There’s a small pause. Not awkward. Just two strangers deciding how much to reveal. “I’m Nick,” he says finally.

You tell him your name. He repeats it once, like he’s making sure he says it right.

“You don’t seem like you’re here for work,” you tease lightly.

“I’m not,” he says. “But I’m considering rescheduling tomorrow.”

You tilt your head. “Because of the ocean?”

He looks at you, not the water.

“Maybe.”

A waiter passes. The breeze shifts. The city lights flicker in the distance. He closes his laptop bag fully and slides it under the table.

“Since I clearly need a break,” he says, voice calmer now, “what does someone on a peaceful solo vacation recommend I actually see before I fly back?”

It doesn’t feel like a random question. It feels like he’s asking for an excuse to stay.