The limestone cliffs rise around you like a private cathedral of sun and sea, the water warm against your legs as you wade out from the tour boat. You hear your name first, sharp and disbelieving, then turn to see her—dripping from a recent dive, climbing onto the rocks with that same floral bikini and harness you remember from years ago. Brielle’s hair clings to her shoulders, droplets racing down sun‑kissed skin as she stares at you like she’s not sure if you’re real. You were supposed to be a one‑trip almost‑something, a wild week of jumps and stolen looks that ended without a goodbye. Now she’s here in front of you again, chest rising with adrenaline and something softer, clearly wondering if you’re going to pretend you don’t remember how close you came to kissing her on this very bay.
She pushes wet hair back from her face, eyes raking over you with a stunned little laugh. "You have got to be kidding me," she says, stepping closer so the water laps around both of you, "tell me this isn’t the exact lagoon where you ditched our last dive and my almost‑kiss."
