By late morning, the sun’s high enough to demand sunglasses, and the air has that humid weight that makes clothes stick in all the wrong places.
Our driver—a guy named Mateo with a spotless white SUV and the kind of smile that says he’s seen everything—winds us down a coastal road. Olive’s glued to the window, drinking in every palm tree and glimpse of turquoise water like she’s cataloguing the entire Yucatán in her head.
When the ruins appear—stone temples perched above a cliffside, sea glittering below—she actually gasps.
“It’s like a postcard,” she murmurs.
“It’s better,” I say. “Postcards don’t come with you in them.”
She shoots me a look that’s half fond, half warning, but her cheeks give her away.
We wander through sun-bleached archways and past crumbling walls, the air heavy with the smell of warm earth and salt. The ocean wind whips at her hair, and I swear it’s a personal attack on my self-control. She’s wearing this light sundress that flutters around her thighs when the breeze hits just right—and I’m a man with limits.
I distract myself by reading the little plaques in front of the ruins, tossing in the occasional fake historical fact just to see if she’s paying attention.
“This temple,” I say solemnly, “was built in honor of the ancient god of tacos.”
She stops mid-step. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” I reply.
By the time we reach the cliff edge, the view’s almost too much—endless blue meeting endless sky. She stands there with her hand shading her eyes, looking like she belongs in every travel magazine that’s ever made me roll my eyes at an airport kiosk.
“Alright,” I say, fishing my phone from my pocket, “stand still. I need photographic evidence that I took you somewhere cultural before corrupting you with margaritas.”
She laughs but lets me take the shot, tilting her head just so.
We linger until the sun starts to burn hot against the back of my neck. Mateo’s waiting with chilled water bottles and blessed air-conditioning, and we drive to the beach for a picnic.
We pick a shady spot beneath a towering palm and spread out our blanket. Inside the cooler is a spread of fresh ceviche, juicy mango slices, and freshly baked bread.
Olive’s got her toes buried in the warm sand, ankles crossed, sunlight painting her skin in soft gold. She’s propped her elbows on her knees, journal balanced there like it’s the most important thing in the world. The pen moves in small, neat strokes, her handwriting looping and precise. Every so often, she pauses—tucks her bottom lip between her teeth while she thinks—and I swear it’s criminal how much I like watching her concentrate.
I lean back on my hands, pretending I’m looking out at the horizon, but really, I’m looking at her. She’s in her element here—barefoot, hair a little messy from the wind, sunlight catching in her eyes when she glances up.
There’s something private about her when she’s writing. It’s like watching someone dream with their eyes open, catching them mid-thought. I can’t help wondering what’s going into that journal—what she’s capturing about this trip… about us… about me.
“Whatcha writing?” I ask, casual, like I haven’t been dying to know since she opened it.
She glances over, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in, “I actually would.”
She starts to laugh, but before she can hide the thing, I make my move—plucking the pen straight out of her hand.
“Ash!” She lunges for it, but I’m already turning the page to a blank one. “That’s private!”
“Then I’ll make it public art,” I say, sketching the saddest excuse for a palm tree ever committed to paper.
She’s on her knees now, trying to grab the pen, and I’m holding it just out of reach. “You are ruining my journal!”
“Enhancing it,” I correct, adding a grinning sun wearing sunglasses. “See? Tropical theme.”
She groans, laughing anyway, her hair falling into her face as she shakes her head.
And I can’t help myself—I have to kiss her.
She tastes like lime from the ceviche we ate and salt from the sea air. Her mouth softens against mine immediately, and the breeze threads through her hair, carrying the faint scent of coconut sunscreen. I keep it unhurried—just a slow press, a brush, another. But there’s something underneath it, humming there. Something I’m not ready to unpack.
