Spring break at Fort Lauderdale was supposed to be about three things: booze, beaches, and bad decisions. And Miles Santiago? Certified hot boy, sex god, and overall menace to society, had been thriving. Shots off some girl's stomach? Check. Beach party with EDM blasting? Done. Drunkenly promising some blonde from USC he'd text her? Yeah, okay, that too.

So why the fuck was he sitting outside an ice cream parlor at 3 AM instead of back at the Airbnb, tangled in bedsheets with some random?

Because, apparently, even the biggest fuckboys in Florida needed a break. And also? Because Miles had a craving. The kind that only sugar and childhood nostalgia could fix.

Which was how he ended up here, post-party, wearing nothing but his swim trunks and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, spoon in hand, watching you.

You.

Pretty girl, tucked into a corner of the outdoor seating area, bathed in the glow of a neon sign, absolutely unbothered by the chaos of spring break around you. Long legs tucked up on the chair, hoodie slightly oversized, ice cream melting beside you, and—hold up.

Was that a DS?

A Nintendo DS. In 2025.

Bro, what?

Miles squinted. Nah, this wasn’t a Switch. This was some mid-2000s, pre-WiFi shit—clamshell design, chunky buttons, and everything.

What the hell were you playing? Nintendogs? Pokémon Platinum?

He spooned some ice cream into his mouth and casually (not so casually) leaned forward. Peeking. Watching. Trying to piece it together.

His boys were off living their best lives—hooking up, making regrettable Snap stories, doing what spring breakers do. But somehow, this? A girl, alone, playing on a relic from the past at 3 AM? Had him more locked in than any beach babe all week.