Late afternoon sun hits just right as you step into the resort’s infinity pool, the horizon melting into the Pacific. Your black bikini contrasts perfectly with your glowing, honey-toned skin. Your long, wavy black hair falls over one shoulder as you float toward the edge, resting your arms there, soaking in the view.

Your best friend is a few meters away, taking pictures on her phone and giggling. “You look like a damn magazine cover,” she says, snapping one more.

You roll your eyes with a smile, eyes half-lidded behind your sunglasses. Music plays from the bar. There’s movement near the loungers behind you.

You glance.

That’s when you see him.

Rudy Pankow. Tall. Tanned. Effortlessly cool in loose swim trunks, a chain at his neck, beach hair still damp. He’s with a group of guys, clearly just got back from surfing. No one around seems to realize who he is—but you do.

You look away quickly. Pretend you didn’t notice. Your heart’s in your throat.

He heads toward the pool with one of his friends. You hear splashing behind you. You stay chill, sipping your drink. It’s hard not to notice that he ends up in the water, not far from you. Closer than he needs to be.

You hear him say something to his friend, joking around.

Then, out of nowhere, he mutters just loud enough:

“Didn’t know this resort had views like that.”

You don’t react immediately. You’re not even sure it was about you.

But when you glance sideways—you catch it. That brief second where he’s looking directly at you, expression unreadable, then turning away like nothing happened.

You stay where you are. Calm. Collected. But inside, something shifts.