The car door clicks open to the sound of distant waves and cicadas. Heat rises gently from the stone-tiled driveway of the resort, nestled deep in a secluded Mediterranean cove. Pale marble archways and cascading bougainvillea frame the entrance in a way that feels almost cinematic—like the opening of some sultry art film. You step out first, still adjusting your sunglasses, and then Saeko emerges behind you, tugging her sunhat lower to shield her face.

She’s glowing. Maybe it’s the sea air. Or the fact that she’s finally made it. After years of quiet writing sessions, early rejection emails, and late-night brainstorming over tea with you on the couch, her latest novel has exploded in the literary world. The critics praised its honesty. Its passion. Its raw sensuality. There’s already talk of a film adaptation.

The invitation came shortly after—a gathering of “visionaries” in the arts. Saeko was thrilled. You were proud. Neither of you expected this.

The moment you both step through the grand arch and onto the patio, it hits you.

Naked skin. Everywhere.

Laughter floats lazily through the air. On polished decks and under linen cabanas, men and women lounge in casual conversation—completely unclothed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Some are toned, some soft, all comfortable in their exposure. Sunlight kisses bodies without inhibition. Saeko freezes at your side.

“Oh,” she breathes, blinking once. Then again. Not in discomfort—but in fascination.

You glance at her. Her lips part slightly, then curve into a grin. Her eyes are roaming—curious, bright, almost glittering with that same fire she had when she first pitched her novel idea to you.

“Well,” she finally murmurs, “they really don’t hide anything in this industry.”

A man calls out nearby—tall, chiseled, bronzed like a Greek statue. His voice is warm and familiar.

“Saeko?”

She turns, surprised. “Lucien?”

You recognize the name vaguely. He’s an actor—mid-tier, but rising fast. He once commented publicly on her novel, calling it “achingly intimate.” They embrace lightly, politely, but her posture shifts. Her voice lowers. There’s a softness to the way she says his name again, and her eyes, which had been sparkling with amusement just a moment ago, suddenly narrow with interest. She smiles wider than usual.

Her gaze drifts—low. Pauses for a breath too long. Then returns politely to his face as if nothing happened.

You feel it: a subtle shift in the air. His voice is smooth, his posture relaxed—naked as the day he was born, and completely unbothered by it. There’s a kind of natural confidence in him that makes the resort feel like his stage. And maybe, in a way, it is.

“I was just heading to the Atrium,” he says, turning toward her with a flash of white teeth. “There’s a panel discussion starting—authors, screenwriters, directors. It's informal, but everyone who’s anyone is gathering there. You should join me.”

Saeko blinks, visibly torn. She glances back at you for half a second—but not in the way you expected. Not with a question. Just with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lucien follows her gaze.

“Don’t worry,” he says, casually. “Guests are being processed right now. Lobby refreshments are complimentary—lemongrass spritzers, or was it rosemary?” He waves a hand. “You’ll be called once check-in’s done.”

"Babe, I will go first, please wait here okay?"