The sun was already dipping low by the time Arielle's boat pulled up to the dock. The resort looked like something out of a dream—floating tiki-style bungalows connected by winding wooden walkways, each structure perched elegantly over crystal-clear water that shimmered with every flicker of sunlight. Even the air felt different—cleaner, warmer, kissed by salt and hibiscus. It was heavenly. Her Pinterest boards and YouTube videos did no justice.

A line of attentive resort staff waited at the end of the dock, each dressed in crisp white linen uniforms, welcoming guests with cool towels, tropical drinks, and broad smiles. A faint melody from a steel drum band played nearby, giving the entire arrival an almost cinematic energy. Arielle took a breath, letting it all soak in. This was what she needed. This was why she came. To remember she was more than deadlines and boardrooms.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming video call. She smiled before even answering.

"Tell me you're walking up now," Zara's voice rang through the screen.

"I'm two minutes out. Are y'all in the room?"

"Girl, we're in the water. Tropical oasis was calling me. The floor of this place is glass, and I swear I saw a stingray just glide under my damn feet."

"It's paradise," Latrice chimed in, appearing in the frame behind her. "And we got the welcome fruit tray with that bougie sparkling mango water you like. So hurry up."

Arielle laughed and ended the call as a smiling staff member whisked her away in a golf cart down the winding path toward their suite. Vines bloomed along the walkway, and the hush of waves mingled with the hum of insects and distant laughter. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt, already feeling her skin loosen.

Their private bungalow was tucked away at the far end of a long pier, promising extra privacy and an unobstructed view of the horizon. It had a thatched roof, an open-air design, and massive sliding glass doors that looked out onto a private plunge pool. The floors inside were glass-bottomed, revealing a shifting gallery of bright blue tangs, parrotfish, and the occasional lazy sea turtle drifting by. She almost didn't want to leave this little sanctuary.

Zara was sprawled across a white linen chaise in a neon green swimsuit and sheer sarong. Her braids were up in a high bun and oversized sunglasses covered half her face. Latrice, barefoot and radiant in a coral wrap dress, had already made a dent in the fruit tray.

"Look who decided to show up," Zara said, lowering her sunglasses with a grin.

"Took you long enough," Latrice added, hugging her tight. "You look exhausted. But fine, as always."

"I am exhausted, but mostly from the flight drama," Arielle sighed, kicking off her sandals and letting her microlocs fall free across her shoulders. "And don't even get me started on this guy I met in the lounge."

Zara perked up immediately. "Oh? Lounge guy?"

"Rude. Arrogant. Too confident. Not worth the energy."

Latrice raised a brow. "Which is Arielle-code for 'I wanted to see what's under that shirt.' "

"I did not—" She paused, shrugged. "Okay, maybe once. But only because he ordered me a drink like he owned the bar."

"Mmm. Bold," Zara purred.

"He called it knowing his value."

Both women dissolved into laughter.

____________________________________

A warm shower, a full glam session, and a glass of something fruity and dangerous later, Arielle emerged from the bungalow brand-new. She wore an airy linen two-piece: cropped top that showed off her abs, flowy pants that kissed her hips just right. Gold hoops, a soft smoky eye, nude heels, and her microlocs swept into a neat bun. If she was going to forget about boardrooms and smug lounge men, she'd do it beautifully.

The on-resort club was already pulsing by the time they arrived that night. It perched above the water, its stilted base glowing soft blue like it floated on liquid neon. Inside, glass walls framed the moonlit sea, and the music was slow island beats mixed with sultry R&B. It wrapped around her body like a promise.

Everything shimmered. From the bar's mirrored surface to the silver sandals gliding across the floor. Arielle felt her shoulders drop, her hips loosen, her pulse hum to the beat.

"Okay, now this is a vibe!" Latrice shouted over the music. They claimed a high table near the bar, ordered cocktails that tasted like fruit and fire, and let the bass work its magic. Latrice was already dancing in her chair. Zara was filming everything was a hashtag. #BaddiesInTheBungalows already trending in their group chat.

"I'm grabbing another," Arielle told them, needing to stretch her legs—and maybe the tension in her chest.

She turned from the bar, fresh drink in hand, and smacked into someone solid. Liquid splashed down her wrist.

"Oh, I am so—" She froze.

Joon-ho.

Gone was the black shirt. Now it was a short-sleeved linen button-down, top buttons open, skin warm from the sun and drink. He looked unbothered; smug even.

"You again" he smirked.

Arielle's mouth twitched. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Resort guest. You?"

"Same."

His grin was slow and wicked. "Fate has jokes tonight."

"More like coincidence."

"Mm. Fate."

She could feel Zara and Latrice's eyes drilling into her back from their table, whispering girl with every look.

"Careful," Joon-ho said, catching the glance. "Your friends look like they're writing a group chat about me right now."

"They probably are."

He stepped closer, invading her personal space with a lazy confidence that shouldn't have made her pulse skip. "Let me replace what you spilled. On me. Again."

She tilted her chin. "It was tequila, neat."

He gestured to the bartender without breaking eye contact. "Then neat it is."

They clinked glasses. "To unexpected second chances."

"To good tequila," she shot back.

They drank—closer now. The club lights painted shifting patterns across his face. She smelled his cologne—clean, citrus, something expensive and subtle.

"You don't strike me as a club type," he said, voice low.

"You don't strike me as the type to chase strangers."

"Who says I'm chasing?"

She raised a brow. "You're standing in front of me, aren't you?"

"Touche'."

The DJ flipped the vibe—slow beat, deep bass, sensual. The air turned thick.

He offered a hand. "Dance with me?"

"You don't seem the type to ask."

"You don't seem the type to say yes, Ms. Tequila Neat."

She almost said no. Almost. But the tequila burned warm in her belly, and the ocean breeze slipped in through the open doors, and it had been so damn long since she let herself want something just because.

She slid her hand into his.

They moved to the dance floor, the lights flickering soft amber overhead, stars glinting through the open lattice. He pressed in—just enough to be polite. But Arielle didn't feel polite tonight.

She leaned into him, rolling her hips slow, teasing. His palm traced the small of her back, fingertips dipping dangerously low, thumb brushing bare skin beneath her cropped top. He smelled like salt and citrus. His mouth dipped close enough to graze her temple.

"You dance too well," he murmured.

"I do everything well," she breathed back, emboldened by the heat between them.

He let out a low chuckle, his breath hot on her ear. "Dangerous woman."

She dipped lower, dragging her hips against his thigh, slow enough to feel him tense beneath her touch. She began to dance with intention. Sultry, teasing. She dropped it low and she felt him hard against her thigh, a thrill buzzing up her spine.

Payback. She laughed under her breath—rich and wicked—when she felt just how much she'd gotten under his skin.

When she turned to face him again, she pressed her chest to his, her hands braced against his shoulders. Her eyes locked on his mouth for a single heartbeat longer than she should have.

"Can I see you again?" he asked, voice thick, fingertips grazing the curve of her hip.

Arielle let her nails drag lightly down his collarbone. "Maybe."

He pulled out his phone, handed it to her with a look that said I know your type.

"Fake numbers not allowed," he teased.

She took it from him, typed it in—slow enough for her fingertips to brush his hand. She hit save, eyes locked on his, then pressed the phone against his chest with a smug little smirk.

She turned and walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking—a deliberate remember me in motion.

Zara practically shrieked when she reached the table. "Girl! What was that?"

Arielle picked up Latrice's unfinished drink, throat still tight with a delicious, reckless thrill. "That," she said, letting the fruity drink slide over her tongue, "was a maybe."

And tonight, a maybe felt like a promise she wasn't ready to break.