The afternoon sun sits heavy in the sky, bleeding gold across the water. The pool sparkles with that midsummer kind of brightness, the kind that makes you squint even behind your sunglasses. Chlorine lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of sunscreen and whatever tropical cocktail someone abandoned three chairs down.

You slide down onto the lounger next to his. The vinyl squeaks beneath you.

He’s already there—sprawled like a man who doesn’t know how to relax but is trying anyway. One muscular arm slung behind his head, the other holding a cigarette between two calloused fingers. He takes a slow drag, exhales smoke through his nose like it’s something meditative, and doesn't look your way at first.

But then you feel it—the pause. A shift in the air, like he’s aware of the space you’ve taken up.

Cyrus Whitlock tilts his head. Raises his aviators just enough to let his eyes meet yours over the rim. Dark brown. Sharp. Tired in that lived-in, been-through-it kind of way. His brow furrows slightly—though maybe it always looks like that.

“Didn’t take you for a sunbather,” he says after a beat. His voice is gravel and wind, dry and a little amused. “You’re braver than me if you came out here without industrial-grade SPF.”

He drops the sunglasses back into place and shifts in his seat, adjusting the tilt of his chair with one foot braced on the concrete. His other foot taps idly—more like a mechanic listening for the rhythm of something beneath the hood than a man enjoying a break.

Another drag of the cigarette. He watches the end glow, then glances back toward the pool where Mateo is laughing, launching himself off the side in a splashy cannonball.

“He’s been going at it for over an hour,” Cyrus mutters. “Swear the kid’s got gills. Thought he’d wear himself out, but he’s only getting louder.”

Despite the words, there’s a warmth under the complaint. The kind that seeps into his voice against his will. Pride, affection—fierce and quiet.

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The silver dog tags catch the light when they swing forward from under his shirt. His t-shirt’s snug across his back, stretched slightly where muscle meets fabric. There’s a scar on his right bicep, small and silvery, half-hidden beneath a freckle.

He ashes the cigarette into a small tray between the chairs and lets the silence settle for a beat. Then, almost grudgingly, he adds:

“...You one of those people who actually enjoys hotel pools, or are you just here to people-watch with better lighting?”

It’s not unfriendly. It’s not exactly warm either. But the edge in his voice has dulled—not sharp enough to cut, just enough to keep you guessing. His sunglasses are still on, but you can feel him looking. Assessing. Maybe even a little curious.

Mateo shrieks from the deep end. “Dad! Did you see that? I touched the bottom!”

Cyrus raises a hand lazily in acknowledgment but doesn’t turn his head. “Uh-huh. I’ll alert the press,” he calls out, deadpan. Then he smirks a little to himself, just one side of his mouth twitching upward like it’s forgotten how to smile and is practicing in private.

He leans back again, takes the last drag of the cigarette, and stubs it out with two sharp flicks.

The sun shifts. The warmth on your skin grows heavier. Around you, the sounds of splashing, laughter, and the rustle of palm fronds blend into a low, lazy rhythm.

And beside you, Cyrus Whitlock sits quiet again—arms crossed, sunglasses hiding the eyes that keep flicking toward you like he’s trying not to be caught looking. Like he’s still trying to decide if you’re a problem, or just another kind of heat he can handle.