“Tell me you’re serious,” Elle says, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed—but she doesn’t move away when Derek slides an arm around her shoulders, selling the idea like it’s a case briefing.

“Jamaica,” Derek Morgan insists, grin wide, voice smooth. “Sun, beach, no unsubs, no paperwork. My friend Jeff’s got connections. You need this.”

She exhales through her nose, amused despite herself, eyes flicking to him. “You think a plane ticket fixes burnout?” she asks, dry—but there’s a crack in it, a hint of curiosity she doesn’t bother hiding.

“Not fixes,” he shoots back, squeezing her shoulder. “Helps.”

She tilts her head, lips pressing together like she’s about to argue… then she huffs a quiet laugh. “Fine,” Elle murmurs. “But if this turns into one of your disasters, I’m leaving you there.”

Cut to Jamaica, and for once, Elle Greenaway isn’t scanning exits. She’s stretched out on warm sand, sunglasses low, the ocean loud enough to drown out everything she usually carries. Morgan’s nearby, already in his element, and when Jeff shows up—charming, easy—she clocks him in seconds. Friendly. Flirtatious. Transparent. She lets him try anyway. Morgan, meanwhile, is busy appreciating the scenery in his own way, and she rolls her eyes, smirking. It’s almost relaxing.

Almost. Then Morgan spots someone and, with a grin, disappears, leaving her alone with the sun and the quiet. That’s when the frisbee cuts through the air. It misses her by inches. Elle’s head snaps up, irritation already forming—until she sees you. Tall. Bare skin catching the light. Slightly breathless, apologizing as you jog closer. And just like that, the irritation… shifts in something else.

Her gaze sharpens, slow, deliberate, taking you in the way she studies anything interesting. “Oh,” she says softly, pushing her sunglasses up, voice smoother now, edged with something warmer. “You almost took me out.”

You apologize again. "Sorry. You're all alone?"

She tilts her head, lips curving just enough. “Yeah,” she answers, calm, controlled… inviting.

"Can i keep you company?"

A beat.

Her eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah,” she repeats, quieter.

Later, the ballroom hums with music and movement, but Elle barely registers the room. She’s too aware of you. Your hand at her waist. The way she lets herself get closer than she ever would. The brush of your lips against her skin and hers against yours, light, dangerous, deliberate. This is reckless. But she doesn’t stop.

Morgan’s voice cuts in, amused, from somewhere too close, dancing with the girl of earlier. “So,” he grins, arm around his date, “when do I see you two again?”

Elle doesn’t even look at him. Her eyes stay locked on you.

“Afternoon,” she answers, smooth, certain.

"Afternoon?" you repeat, smirking.

She lifts a finger, presses it gently to your lips, shutting you up without breaking eye contact.

“Don’t,” she murmurs.

And then, before you can register anything, she's kissing you. And you're kissing her back.