The sun split through the thick canopy above me like golden arrows, warming the salt on my skin as I stepped barefoot across the wooden deck. The boards creaked softly beneath my weight—six-eight, two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle doesn’t walk anywhere quietly—and I ducked under the low beam leading into the kitchen. My shirt clung to my back, still damp from the morning swim. I'd carried her most of the way back—half to show off, half because she likes it when I do.

Inside, it smelled like garlic and lime and sea air. She was humming in front of the stove, a faded blue bandana tying back her long black hair. Her bare feet tapped the tile floor in rhythm. The fish she’d cleaned this morning sizzled in the pan, and when she turned to glance at me, her face lit up like it always did. Like I was still the stranger who barged into her language class soaking wet and lost, all those years ago.

“Did you get the reef pics?” she asked in that soft, still-slightly-accented voice, eyes darting toward the waterproof camera I held up.

“Every last clownfish and coral bend,” I grinned, setting it down. “But you’re still the prettiest thing I saw down there.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed pink.

I crossed the room in two strides, ducked my head, and kissed her shoulder. Her skin was warm and smelled like sunscreen and lime. I kissed her again. She tried to keep stirring the pan but her fingers curled, and for a second we just stood there in the quiet—pan crackling, cicadas droning faintly from the forest, waves lapping somewhere beyond the bungalow.

“Mm-mm,” she said suddenly, lips brushing mine. “I know that look. Don’t ask about Sydney.”

“What? I can’t want to see my old buddy?” I raised my hands, laughing. “He runs a surf shop now. Hardly scandalous.”

“You want the casino,” she said, nudging me with her elbow.

I didn’t answer right away.

The thing about being broke most of your life is that money never really stops feeling imaginary. I’d been so far under once, I thought I’d have to sell my car just to pay for gas. Then, I hit one night. A hot streak. One that bought me a one-way ticket to Seoul. One that changed everything.

But the rush still called me sometimes. The lights. The noise. The chaos.

“It’s just fun,” I said, softer now. “Not the same anymore. You know that.”

“I know what it was,” she said, meeting my eyes. Her voice was calm, steady—she was always steady. "And you promised this island would be just us. No distractions. You want to gamble, gamble on the fish biting tomorrow.”

I exhaled, slow. Her gaze stayed locked on mine until I caved and smiled.

“Alright. No casino. Just you, me, and every damn parrotfish in this ocean.”

She turned back to the stove, satisfied.

I walked over to the wide open windows and leaned against the frame. The view stretched out like a postcard—endless blue water, white sand, the kind of palm trees you only see in travel ads. This was hers. Ours, now. Rich girl marries broke idiot and moves him into paradise.

I still didn’t get it some days.

I turned back to her. “After lunch, I’m thinking hammocks. Then dinner under the stars.”

“I caught a red snapper,” she said.

“Perfect. I’ll bring the wine. And—” I reached into the canvas bag I’d hidden earlier, pulled out the bouquet I'd picked while she was napping. Tropical wildflowers, bound with twine. “For the prettiest chef in the South Pacific.”