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He lets himself out through the courtyard.

I’m alone in Casa Sirena, where the air conditioner hums, the ocean rolls beyond the glass, and Paul’s invisible ownership sits on every clean surface like dust I shouldn’t disturb.

I look down at the envelope in my hand.

Keys. Code. Wi-Fi. Permission, sort of.

The first thing I do is stand there like an idiot. My body gives in before my brain does, shoulders dropping, jaw loosening, lungs taking air deep like I haven’t taken a breath since the customs line.

“Oh, this is fucked,” I say to no one.

I roll my suitcase two feet into the living room and stop, the wheels making a little track across the clean floor.

I’m too sweaty to sit on anything in this place.

Casa Sirena is already doing something weird to me.

I leave the suitcase where it is and move toward the patio doors. The ocean sits blue and bright beyond them. Too much to ignore.

I slide the glass open, and humidity punches me right in the face.

“Nope.”

I go to the kitchen instead.

The island is cool under my palms. Smooth stone, pale gray with little veins running through it. Just fancy enough to impress vacationers into leaving five-star reviews. Still nicer than any kitchen I’ve ever paid rent to use.

There are two bottles of water on the counter. I grab one and twist the cap off too fast, spilling some down my wrist.

Classy.

I drink half of it without breathing.

Then I stand there, cold water in my stomach, looking around at the room that is apparently, for now, mine.

I did it. Actually did it.

A laugh comes out of me.

Then, right behind it:

Oh fuck. What am I doing?

A painting over the couch takes my focus, because something has to. Two men on a beach, but not like a beach poster. No sunset, no abs, no bottle of beer sweating in the corner. One man sits with his knees up, head turned away. The other stands farther down the shore, shirt open, body angled like he’s about to leave or come back and has not decided which story he wants to be in.

It’s not hotel art. Hotel art wants nothing from you. It hangs there and behaves.

This wants something, but I’m not sure what.

I look for a signature in the corner.

Paul Benton.

Of course. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once.

My phone buzzes.

Kev.