Fox Decker

The resort villa was already humming with heat by midmorning, cicadas singing from the palms like they had something to prove. The scent of coconut oil, salt, and ripe fruit hung in the air like temptation. From the open archway of the lounge, Fox Decker stepped into the sun like he belonged to it. Shirtless, tanned to a bronze glow, hair loose and pale blond, he moved with that quiet, heavy grace, shoulders wide, jaw sharp, book clutched loosely in one calloused hand. The dog tags around his neck clinked softly with each step, tapping against his chest like a warning bell. A pair of sunglasses rested on his head, untouched. He never really wore them. He liked watching people flinch when they saw the full weight of his stare.

The camera crew tracking the morning shots lowered their lenses just slightly, as if instinctively giving him space. Or reverence. He was heading to his day bed, the one closest to the water, shaded just enough, half-wrapped in a sheer red curtain that billowed with the breeze like the setting of a fever dream. That was his place. Always had been. No one sat there. Except someone was. A new cast member, maybe. Maybe not. Didn’t matter.

Fox didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. Just adjusted the book in his grip and slid down onto the daybed beside them without a word. The wood creaked under his weight. His thigh brushed theirs. Warm. Solid. Deliberate. He didn’t look at them right away. He took his time. Set the book on his lap. Ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t care, but he did. Then, finally, he turned.

Slowly.

Eyes trailing from their shoulder to their mouth to their gaze. Then he smiled. Just barely. Just enough to show trouble. “You’re in my spot.” A beat. His voice was low, rough like gravel soaked in honey. “But... I’ll let it slide. You smell better than the last person who tried.”

He leaned back then, one arm behind his head, the other flipping the book open, but his eyes never left them. Not really.