Lifted hated sand.
It was invasive, chaotic, the exact opposite of his meticulously ordered life. He could code an entire web app in one sitting, predict website traffic spikes to the hour, and automate away anything even mildly inefficient. But he could not figure out why the fine grains of hell managed to creep into every possible seam of his newly coped Air Jordan retro 4 sneakers the moment he stepped off the shuttle van.
"Welcome to Milano Beach Resort!" the driver chirped. "Enjoy your stay!"
He was staying. For a week. Against his will.
His boss called it a "mandatory wellness break," which translates into: 'You've worked 181 days without a day off and you're making the interns uncomfortable.'
The resort entrance smelled like coconuts and sunscreen. Too bright, too loud, and too many people in swimsuits with no respect for personal space or indoor voices.
Lifted slung his laptop bag over his shoulder, clutching it like a life raft. He ignored the welcome drink being offered by a perky staff member and made a beeline for the front desk. His eyes were already scanning the lobby's interior design: it was probably built in the early 2000s, minimal structural upkeep, he thought. A decent website could triple their bookings if they just let him—
WHAM!
Something, no, someone collided with his side, sending his bag flying and his water bottle clanking to the marble floor.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"
He blinked, stunned for half a second, before his gaze finally met hers.
Tall. Sunglasses perched in her curly hair. A neon pink beach towel around her shoulders like a cape. Dark skin, bright smile: maybe too bright — like she lived in a world made of glitter and daydreams.
"You weren't watching where you were going," he muttered, bending down to retrieve his bottle.
"Excuse me?" Her hands snapped onto her beautifully shaped hips. "You practically mowed me down with your backpack. Is that thing made of bricks?"
"It's a laptop. It's not a weapon," he said dryly.
"Are you sure about that? My ribs might disagree."
Lifted stared at her, then he strode to the front desk, calculating how many more social interactions stood between him and silence. Too many.
She offered a mock salute and stepped aside. "No harm done, grumpy tech guy."
"How do you know I'm in tech?" he asked, slowly turning his gaze to her.
"You've got the aura," she said over her shoulder. "And the all-black outfit. At a beach resort. Iconic," she scoffed.
He rolled his eyes. "It's called dressing like an adult."
"It's called dressing like a shadow."
The check-in process was slow. Apparently, the system had "glitched" and room assignments were being done manually. Lifted fought the urge to offer his services in return for silence. But the woman from earlier — Charlotte, as her name tag read — had returned, standing two guests down in the line, now barefoot and sipping some fruity nightmare from a pineapple.
Of course, she was barefoot.
Of course, she was drinking a pineapple.
She caught him staring and gave a sarcastic little wave. He turned back to the desk.
"Mr.… Lifted, is it?" the clerk asked. "Yes," he nodded.
"You've been placed in Room 308. Third floor, ocean view. And—oh! Looks like you're sharing a balcony."
Lifted frowned. "Sharing?"
"Yes. Each pair of rooms shares a joint balcony space. But don't worry, there's a small divider for privacy."
"Just perfect," he muttered, storming out.
The elevator smelled like mangoes and children. Lifted tried not to breathe through his nose.
Room 308 was small but modern, with a view of the beach and sliding doors that led to a balcony — a wooden divider splitting the space in half. He slid his door open and stepped out.
And there she was.
Charlotte.
Leaning against the railing, her sunglasses back on, sipping another drink. "Oh, no," she said as she saw him. "We're neighbors?"
"Looks like it."
"What are the odds?" she asked.
"I calculated them while riding the elevator," he replied. "Roughly 1 in 34, assuming random assignment and single occupancy."
She stared.
He blinked.
Then she laughed.
"Okay, that was kind of impressive. Still weird, but impressive."
Lifted turned to go back inside.
"You're not very fun, are you?" she called after him.
"I don't vacation for the reasons most people do."
Charlotte shook her head. "You vacation to avoid burnout. At least, that's what my therapist says."
"Mine just prescribed this place."
"Let me guess — Silicon Valley burnout?" she teased.
"Tech fatigue," he corrected, half turning. "And you?"
"Real estate. Charlotte Gold — top seller of coastal homes in the tri-county area. I'm here to schmooze a developer who might list a beachfront property."
"Sounds... loud."
"Only if you're fun enough to be invited."
He shut the sliding door, muting her laughter.
Charlotte, however, wasn't finished. A soft knock sounded against the divider, followed by her voice, playful yet oddly persistent.
"You know, Grumpy, you can't avoid me the whole week. We share a balcony. That makes us… allies. Or enemies. Your choice."
Lifted ignored her, opening his laptop, but his eyes betrayed him — darting to the glass door where her shadow stretched across the wooden floor. She was humming now, something light and teasing, the sound threading into his thoughts in a way he couldn't debug or silence.
Finally, he closed the lid with a snap. "Allies require trust," he muttered under his breath. "And I don't trust people who drink out of pineapples."
A laugh spilled over the divider, quick and bright. "Guess that makes us enemies, then."
Her shadow moved away, leaving him alone again — but not really. For reasons he couldn't explain, the room suddenly felt warmer, as if she'd left a trace of her energy lingering in the air.
Enemies. Perfect.
"I can handle enemies. Can't I?" he said to himself.
That night, the sunset was obnoxiously perfect. Purple-orange skies, gulls flying in formation, waves curling like poetry. Lifted sat on the edge of his bed, trying to ignore the sound of music drifting from Charlotte's side of the balcony. Is she dancing?
He opened his laptop. He had half a mind to check the resort's website: out of spite — and list every bug in an unsolicited email to management. But instead, he found himself glancing at the divider.
Maybe she'd be quiet soon.
Maybe this week wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe. Just maybe