The resort’s main dining hall is a vaulted space of dark wood and lantern light, the long buffet tables groaning under silver chafing dishes that smell of saffron and seared meat. I stand before a mountain of grilled prawns, tongs in hand, and feel the precise point between my shoulder blades where his gaze lands. Like a thumb pressing a bruise. A welcome one.

“You’re holding up the line,” Amelia says from behind me, her voice the crisp efficiency of a folded napkin.

“I’m contemplating the metaphysical implications of shrimp,” I say, not moving. “They’re the jesters of the sea. Don’t you think?”

Arthur, peering over my shoulder, hums. “Biologically, they’re more like the scavenging custodians. But aesthetically, I see your point.”

I finally take a few, just to move. My plate is a chaotic mosaic: a scoop of coconut rice, a bright splash of mango salad, two suspiciously shiny dumplings. A performance of appetite. My actual hunger is a tight, fluttery thing sitting much lower, keyed to the sound of a low, British murmur from three tables over where Sebastian is discussing wine with a sommelier.

We sit at a long table near the open arches, the night breeze carrying the scent of the plunge pool. Amelia arranges her cutlery into perfect alignment. Arthur butters a roll with scholarly focus. I push my mango around.

“So,” Amelia says, spearing a perfect green bean. “The spice market was educational. You two vanished for a while.”

The prawn in my mouth turns to paste. I chew slowly, buying time, watching Sebastian approach our table. He moves through the crowded room like a ship cutting through a choppy sea, everyone else just water.

“Bathroom line,” I say, the lie smooth and rehearsed. “Epic. A saga of human endurance.”

Sebastian pulls out the chair directly across from me. Our knees could touch under the table if we both stretched just an inch. He doesn’t look at me. He pours himself a glass of mineral water, the crystals in the glass catching the light.

“I found the cardamom,” he says, to the table at large. His voice is a clean, dry stroke against my skin. “Quite a robust selection.”

“For your famous scones, Seb?” Arthur asks, smiling.

“One requires the proper tools.”

His eyes lift then, over the rim of his water glass, and meet mine. Blue, unwavering. The memory of the alley, of his mouth, of the cold wall against my back, flashes between us like a struck match. I feel the flush creep up my neck. He sees it. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his lips. He takes a slow sip.

Amelia watches the exchange, her gaze sharp as a scalpel. “Imogen’s never been patient enough for baking. All that precise measurement.”

“Some things,” Sebastian says, setting his glass down with a soft *click*, “are worth the meticulous approach.”

The dinner becomes a quiet war of glances. The brush of his foot against mine under the table, brief and shocking. The way he listens to Arthur, nods, but his thumb traces the stem of his wineglass in a slow circle that I feel in my stomach. I eat my chaotic plate of food, taste nothing, am full of him.

When Amelia rises to visit the dessert buffet, Arthur amiably in tow, the space she leaves behind feels charged, hollowed out. Sebastian leans forward slightly, his voice dropping.

“You’ve massacred that mango.”

“It was plotting against me.”

“Naturally.” A pause. The noise of the dining hall fades to a distant roar. “My room. After the post-dinner coffee ritual concludes. Not before.”

It’s not a question. It’s a parameter, delivered in that calm, professorial tone. My skin tightens everywhere. “What if I have other plans?”

“Do you?”

I don’t. My plans are him. They have been for days. I shake my head, a tiny, frantic motion.

“Good.” He leans back, the moment broken as Amelia returns with a plate of delicate pastries. “The lychee panna cotta is apparently unmissable.”

An hour later, the goodnights are a theater of unbearable normality. A peck on Amelia’s cheek. A clap on Arthur’s shoulder. Sebastian’s hand rests on the small of my back for a single, guiding second as we turn toward our adjacent suites. The shared courtyard is a dark pocket of garden between our doors.

“Sleep well, Imogen.”

“You too, Professor.”

We step into the courtyard. The door to his room closes behind us with a soft click, sealing us in the warm, jasmine-scented dark. My heart is a wild thing in my throat.

He’s already turning, already pulling me to him. His mouth finds mine in the shadows. It’s a deep, claiming kiss that steals my breath. His hands are at the tie of my dress, fingers working the knot. The silk whispers to the tile at our feet.

He walks me backward, never breaking the kiss, until my bare shoulders meet the cool stucco wall. The heat of him is everywhere. He’s hard against my stomach. I fumble with his belt, my fingers clumsy. He helps me, his own hands urgent, and then his trousers are shoved down just enough. His fingers slide into me, testing. I’m already wet, slick for him. He groans into my mouth.

He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his hips. He pushes inside in one smooth, relentless stroke. The stretch is perfect, a sharp, sweet fullness that makes me cry out into the night air. He swallows the sound with his kiss.

He fucks me against the wall, deep, driving strokes that jolt my spine against the rough plaster. The air is cool on my skin, his body a furnace against my front. I can hear the wet, rhythmic sound of our joining, smell the night blooms and our sweat. I bite his shoulder to keep quiet. His pace quickens, becoming ragged, desperate.

He comes with a stifled groan, pulsing deep inside me. His forehead drops to the wall beside my head, his breath hot and ragged on my neck. He holds me there, pinned, until our breathing slows.

He carries me inside, to his bed. He lays me down and looks his fill in the lamplight. His mouth follows his gaze. He licks into me again, his tongue rough and demanding, until I come with my fists in the sheets.

Only then does he shed the rest of his clothes and slide up my body. He enters me again, slowly this time. We move together in the quiet dark, a slow, grinding rhythm that feels like truth. He comes again with a shudder, his face buried in my hair.

In the morning, the courtyard is just a courtyard. We leave through our separate doors and meet in the sun-drenched hallway two minutes later, as if by chance. We go to breakfast together. It would not be odd. Our suites are next to each other.

Amelia gives me a look over the coffee pot. I take a slice of pineapple from the buffet.

The plans are made: they have final seating chart consultations with the wedding planner. We have a “beach day.”

“Try not to get sunburned,” Amelia says, giving me a look that says she knows exactly what our ‘beach day’ entails. “Or arrested for public indecency.”

“No promises,” I sing-song, grabbing a banana from the buffet.

The beach is a crescent of white sand dotted with thatched umbrellas. The ocean is a brilliant, impossible turquoise. We claim a spot far from the other resort guests, spreading out towels. Sebastian is methodical: sunscreen applied to his own torso first, then, without a word, taking the bottle and turning to me.

“Arms.”

I hold them out. His hands are firm, thorough, working the lotion into my skin. He turns me, does my back, his thumbs smoothing over my shoulder blades. He kneels to do my legs, his touch businesslike until he reaches my thighs. Then his fingers slow, drift higher, under the edge of my bikini bottoms. A single, deliberate stroke. I suck in a sharp breath.

“All done,” he says, his voice perfectly even, as he screws the cap back on. The bastard.

We swim. The water is bath-warm. He floats on his back, eyes closed against the sun. I splash him. He retaliates by dunking me, coming up under the water to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me against him. We kiss, saltwater on our lips. It tastes like freedom.

Back on the towels, drying in the sun, we share a paperback—a battered copy of *Persuasion* he produced from his bag. He reads a passage aloud, his voice low and measured, pointing out a turn of phrase. I argue with his interpretation. We bicker amiably about Captain Wentworth’s letter until I’m laughing, and he’s smiling that rare, true smile that reaches his eyes.

He leans over, brushes a grain of sand from my lower lip with his thumb. His eyes hold mine. The noise of the beach fades. Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he closes the distance and kisses me. It’s soft, sun-warmed, and over too soon.

“Stolen,” he whispers against my lips.

“You’re a thief, Professor Fairfax.”

“Only of moments.” He kisses me again, a little deeper this time, his hand coming up to cradle my jaw. When he pulls back, his eyes are the color of the deep ocean. “And only from you.”

We stay like that for a long time, the book forgotten between us, the sun moving across the sky, stealing kisses and glances under the wide, blue horizon. For now, there is no wedding, no sister, no future. There is just this: the sand, the sea, the salt on his skin, and the secret we keep together, glowing between us like the afternoon sun.