Dean Ambrose wasn't exactly the "sand between your toes, fruity drinks with umbrellas" kind of guy. His idea of a vacation usually involved cheap beer, no phone service, and maybe a bar fight if things got too quiet. So when you suggested Hawaii for the summer, he gave you that look—eyebrow raised, head tilted, eyes squinting like you'd just asked him to wear a damn tie to a garden party.

"Palm trees and tourists? Babe, that's not a vacation. That's a trap," he'd grumbled, tossing another tank top into his duffel bag anyway, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth giving him away.

But the truth was—though he'd never say it out loud—he didn't mind the idea of disappearing for a bit. No ring. No cameras. Just him, you, and the ocean stretching endlessly to the horizon. You had that effect on him. Calmed the storm inside, even when you were a little hurricane yourself. The kind of girl who smiled too much, talked back often, and insisted on packing sunscreen even though you swore you never burned.

Now, as your plane touches down and the heat hits like a warm slap against your skin, you watch Dean run a hand through his messy hair, beads of sweat already forming at his temples. He turns to you with a sideways grin that makes your heart race.

"Alright, Sunshine," he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder with that signature swagger. "Let's see if this island's ready for us."

Spoiler: it wasn't.