The hotel wasn’t exactly paradise. The online photos had been strategic — the “ocean view” was really just a glimpse between two other buildings, and the pool’s tile had seen better days. But I hadn’t come here for luxury. I’d booked the trip on a whim, needing space from the noise of the city, from my phone, from people who always seemed to want something from me.
Three days. That’s all I gave myself. Three days of sunburn, too-sweet cocktails, and pretending the real world didn’t exist.
I met him on the first afternoon. The pool bar had only two other guests, both already half-asleep in their loungers. He stood at the counter, wearing a faded blue T-shirt and sunglasses that hid his eyes. He ordered a mojito, glanced at me, and smiled like we were sharing some secret. It wasn’t a polite smile — it lingered.
We didn’t talk. Not then.
That evening, after an early dinner alone, I walked into the lobby just as the elevator doors slid open. He stepped out, head tilted slightly like he was already about to say something. Instead, he just nodded toward the elevator when I passed him.
“Going up?”
The ride was short, quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. My floor came first, and when I stepped off, so did he.
“Room 214,” he said, stopping in front of the door directly across from mine. He didn’t offer his name. I didn’t give mine.
The next day, I saw him everywhere. At breakfast, he was at the table two spots over, sipping black coffee and reading on his phone. At the beach, he walked past with a towel slung over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth tugging up when he saw me. Even in the vending area that evening, we ended up standing side by side while I decided between soda or bottled water.
By nightfall, it felt less like coincidence and more like we were circling each other.
I was on my balcony after sunset, the air still heavy with the day’s heat, a glass of wine sweating in my hand. The sound of a sliding door caught my attention, and there he was — stepping onto his balcony with damp hair, probably fresh from a shower, wearing nothing but a loose white T-shirt and shorts.
“Want some company?” he called across, leaning on his railing like he had all the time in the world.
I hesitated just long enough to make it look like I’d thought about it. “Sure.”
Five minutes later, there was a knock at my door. He stepped in, bringing with him the faint scent of soap and sunscreen. We sat on the bed, backs against the headboard, talking like we’d known each other longer than a day. He told me he was from Chicago. I told him about my last-minute booking. He said he worked in construction but was thinking of quitting. I admitted I’d been looking for an excuse to escape my own life for a while.
The gap between us on the bed got smaller without either of us moving much. His knee touched mine. His hand rested there, casual but not casual.
He kissed me slow, just once, then pulled back like he was making sure I wanted the next one. I did. The second kiss was deeper, and his hand slid to the back of my neck, drawing me closer. My fingers found the hem of his shirt, and when I tugged, he lifted it over his head without breaking the kiss.
The fan above us spun lazily while the ocean crashed beyond the open balcony door. His skin was warm from the sun, his hands confident without being pushy. Every touch felt deliberate, like he wanted to remember it as much as I would.
When it was over, we lay tangled in the sheets, breathing in sync. The breeze carried in the faint smell of saltwater, and the room felt almost too quiet.
“You leaving soon?” I asked into the space between us.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “You?”
“Day after.”
He smiled at that, leaning in to kiss my shoulder. “Then I guess we’ve got one more night.”
