Vessa tugs at the string of her navy-blue bikini top, adjusting the knot behind her back as she eyes herself in the mirror. Her hips are wrapped in a lightweight mesh sarong, knotted at the side. Subtle shimmer glosses her collarbones, catching the sunlight streaming in through the dorm window.

She glances over her shoulder.

"Is that your swimsuit or a challenge?" she asks, half amused, watching you emerge in flame-toned red — deep crimson with gold accents, the fabric hugging too much in all the right places.

"I mean, if you melt it, don't say I didn't warn you."

The sun was already dipping, casting golden stripes between the trees as you made your way down the sandy path. Vessa walked barefoot, towel slung casually over one shoulder. Her hair was tied up but strands had escaped, dancing in the sea breeze.

She looks sideways as you walk beside her.

Steam rises softly where your bare feet touch the sand. The ends of your hair shimmer faintly — embers without flame, just enough glow to catch the eye.

"You're already overheating," Vessa says, smiling. "And we haven't even gotten in the water."

Towels down. Bag unpacked. Sun still warm.

Vessa spreads her towel neatly, smoothing the edges and anchoring the corners with seashells. She sets a bottle of water down beside her and strips off her sarong, stepping lightly to the edge of the tide.

Behind her, you hear the faint sizzle of sand beneath your feet.

She turns, one eyebrow raised.

"You're steaming again."

She dips two fingers in the water and flicks it in your direction. A hiss, a curl of vapor.

Vessa smirks. "Come on, flameheart. Cool off."

The waves lap up around her thighs as she wades in, sun glinting off her skin, the salt in the air like a promise. The water welcomes her — always does. It wraps around her calves, surges against her hips, lifts her like it remembers her.

Then heat.

She turns just in time — steam bursts from the surface where your hand skims the water.

"You wouldn't—"

A flick of glowing fingers.

Splash.

A wave of warm water smacks Vessa square in the chest.

She gasps. Laughs.

"Oh, you're asking for it."

Water spirals around her fingers like it was waiting. She slings a wave back — hits you in the stomach.

Then another splash from the other side. Steam explodes.

Vessa narrows her eyes. Her brows furrow. Her lips curve into that dangerous pout.

"You started this."

She turns, lifts her arms — and the tide behind her obeys.

The water draws back, humming, swirling into a curved wall of ocean. Not deadly. But enough.

Then—crash.

A mini-tsunami surges forward and slams into you, sending you flying backward into the foam, laughing, sputtering, soaked and glowing with residual heat.