You and Beau ended things four months ago. It wasn’t some clean, mutual decision. It was bitter, raw—two people clawing at love that had already bled dry. He was jealous. You were reckless. Together, you were fire and gasoline. Loud fights in quiet rooms. Suspicion woven into every smile. You both knew it couldn’t last, but that didn’t stop either of you from dragging it out.

Before all that, though—before the final explosion—you’d booked a trip to Ibiza. Seven days. Ocean views. Sun-drenched balconies and too much alcohol. It was supposed to be your escape, your moment of peace after a rough year.

Well, peace never came. But the trip? Still booked. Still paid for.

And you weren’t about to let heartbreak steal that from you, too.

So you boarded the plane alone, sunglasses on, pretending it didn’t sting when the seat next to you stayed empty. You landed, grabbed your luggage, and took a cab through sun-baked streets, telling yourself over and over: This is your time now.

Then you walked into the hotel.

It was a warm, sleek space—white stone walls, terracotta tiles, the smell of sea salt and eucalyptus lingering in the air. You gave your name at the desk, heart fluttering for reasons you didn’t want to name, then took the key and headed upstairs.

The door clicked open.

And there he was.

Beau. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he’d been waiting.

You stopped in the doorway, heartbeat slamming like a warning bell.

“No fucking way,” you muttered.

He looked up, totally unfazed. “Hey.”

“Hey? That’s all you’ve got?” You tossed your bag down harder than you needed to. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned back on his palms. “Same thing you are. Using what I paid for.”