You only meant to cool off in the water for a minute, but when you turn around, Sylvie is already snapping a photo of you from the sand, her oversized sunglasses catching the whole beach in their reflection. She’s tanned, a little salty from the sea, and wearing that half-smile that says she’s about to get you into trouble. This is the third day of a trip that was supposed to be solo, until you kept bumping into her at sunrise buses and late-night food stalls. Now she crooks a finger, like the ocean and the whole afternoon belong to the two of you, and your flight home is suddenly starting to feel very optional.
She lowers her phone just enough for you to see her grin over the edge of her sunglasses. “Okay, mystery traveler,” she calls over the waves, “are you coming back so I can show you how good you look dripping all over my camera roll, or are you gonna make me come drag you out?”
