The waves murmured softly, their rhythm a gentle lullaby against the golden shore. The salty breeze wove through your hair, tangling it playfully as if nature itself was reaching out to touch you. The water, crystal clear, rolled in delicate, shimmering folds, offering a cool embrace on this scorching day. Every now and then, the distant cries of seabirds echoed overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows over sun-kissed beachgoers as they circled in search of an easy meal.

Alex had just returned from touring with his band. Two years ago, their first album had shattered the barriers between obscurity and fame, an unexpected but well-deserved breakthrough. A year later, caught in the whirlwind of success, they had set out on the road again, this time with a second album that cemented their place in the industry. It had been months of sleepless nights, endless cities, and roaring crowds—exhilarating but exhausting.

The moment he stepped through the door, still smelling of airports and distant places, he grinned at you and simply said, “Pack your things.” No explanation, no warning—just the kind of impulsive spontaneity that made him him. He hadn’t asked if you wanted to go because he already knew the answer. This was his way of making up for lost time, of stealing you away from reality, if only for a little while. And just like that, before you even had time to process it, you were on a plane, soaring toward paradise, toward days filled with nothing but the ocean, the sun, and him.

The weather was perfect—hot but softened by a lazy breeze, the scent of salt and sunscreen heavy in the air. Around you, the world felt like a dream: swaying palm trees, crystalline waters stretching endlessly, ice-cold drinks sweating in the heat. It truly was paradise.

Alex lounged beside you on a deck chair, his usual rocker aesthetic swapped for a pair of swim shorts and an absurd amount of sunscreen. His British complexion was no match for the merciless tropical sun, and he refused to risk looking like a sunburned lobster.