Tulum Nights

I hadn't taken a real vacation in three years. Not since I started my own graphic design business and convinced myself that hustle culture was a personality trait. But when my doctor used the phrase "dangerously close to burnout" and my best friend staged an intervention involving plane tickets and a non-refundable beach house deposit, I finally accepted defeat.

That's how I ended up in Tulum, Mexico, standing on a balcony overlooking the Caribbean Sea with a frozen margarita in my hand and absolutely nothing on my calendar for two whole weeks.

It felt strange. Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.

My name is Jordan Ellis. I'm twenty-nine, chronically overworked, and apparently incapable of relaxing without pharmaceutical assistance. My therapist says I have "control issues." I prefer to think of it as "being thorough."

The beach house was nicer than I expected—white walls, turquoise accents, a hammock on the deck that I fully intended to use exactly once before getting bored and checking my work email. But Sarah, my best friend and intervention organizer, had confiscated my laptop and changed my email password.

"You'll thank me later," she'd said at the airport. "Now go get some color. You look like a vampire."

I probably did. My relationship with sunlight was adversarial at best.

The first day, I didn't know what to do with myself. I walked on the beach. I read half a chapter of a novel before getting restless. I ate tacos from a stand that may or may not have been structurally sound. By sunset, I was already calculating how many days until I could go home without Sarah murdering me.

That's when I saw her.

* * *

She was standing at the water's edge, silhouetted against the orange sky, her body in some kind of yoga pose I couldn't name. Warrior something. Or maybe a tree. Her arms were extended, her balance perfect, and her dark hair streamed behind her in the evening breeze.

She was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

I stood there like an idiot, frozen on my balcony with my margarita slowly melting, watching her flow from one pose to another with a grace that made me acutely aware of my own body's limitations. I once threw out my back reaching for a coffee cup.

When she finally finished, she walked toward the row of beach houses—including mine—and I ducked inside like a coward. Which was absurd. She wasn't going to look up. She wasn't going to catch me staring.

She looked up.

Our eyes met through the balcony railing, and she smiled. It was a small smile, curious, and it made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the tacos.

I raised my margarita in an awkward salute. She raised an invisible glass in return and kept walking.

Smooth, Jordan. Really smooth.

* * *

Day 3

I didn't see her again until the third day, when I finally worked up the courage to venture to the beach itself instead of watching it from a safe distance.

She was in the water, swimming parallel to the shore with strong, even strokes. I spread my towel on the sand, applied approximately seventeen layers of sunscreen, and tried to read my book. I failed spectacularly. My eyes kept drifting to the figure in the water.

When she emerged, walking toward her own towel a few meters away, water streaming down her brown skin, wearing a white bikini that should be illegal in most jurisdictions, I stopped pretending.

"You're the balcony girl."

She was standing right in front of me, blocking the sun, drops of seawater falling onto the sand like diamonds.

"I... what?"

"Two nights ago. You were watching me do yoga and then you hid when I looked at you." Her accent was lilting, melodic. Brazilian, maybe. "It was cute."

"I wasn't hiding. I was just... going inside. Coincidentally. At that ex

act moment."

"Of course." She smiled again, and I noticed the dimple in her left cheek. "I'm Lucia."

"Jordan."

"Are you here alone, Jordan?"

"For my sins, yes."

She laughed. It was a beautiful sound, warm and unguarded. "Then you should have dinner with me tonight. There's a restaurant in town—best ceviche in Tulum. And no one should eat ceviche alone."

"I..."

Say no. You don't know this woman. You're supposed to be relaxing, not getting entangled with gorgeous strangers on Mexican beaches.

"Okay."

Dammit.

"Good. I'll pick you up at seven. House four, yes?"

"How did you know—"

"I'm house five. We're neighbors."

She walked away before I could respond, her hips swaying slightly, and I sat there in the sand wondering what the hell I'd just agreed to.

* * *

The restaurant was called La Luna, and Lucia was right—the ceviche was life-changing. We sat on a rooftop terrace under string lights, sharing plates of fresh fish and drinking white wine that tasted like sunshine.

Lucia was from São Paulo. She was a dancer—contemporary, mostly, with some classical training. She was in Tulum for a month, between shows, because she needed "to remember why I move."

"When you dance for audiences every night, you start performing instead of feeling. You know? The movement becomes external. I come here to make it internal again."

"That's beautiful."

"It's also very pretentious. I'm sorry. I don't usually talk about my work this way. You asked, and..." She shrugged, that smile playing at her lips again. "You have a face that makes me want to tell you things."

"A face?"

"Open. Honest. Like you're actually listening, not just waiting for your turn to talk."

I felt my cheeks heat. "I'm a graphic designer. I stare at screens all day. My social skills are mostly theoretical."

"You're doing fine so far."

The wine was making me brave. Or stupid. Probably both.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why did you ask me to dinner? You don't know me. I could be anyone."

Lucia tilted her head, considering. "You looked lonely. And not the sad kind of lonely—the chosen kind. Like you've been so busy taking care of everything else that you forgot to take care of yourself. I recognize that look." She paused. "Also, you're very pretty, and I wanted to look at you over candlelight."

I nearly choked on my wine.

"I—that's—"

"Too forward?"

"Unexpected."

"Life is short. I've learned not to waste time being coy about what I want."

"And what do you want?"

She reached across the table and took my hand. Her fingers were warm, her touch electric.

"Tonight? I want to finish this lovely dinner. Walk on the beach. Watch the stars. And maybe, if you're willing, kiss you goodnight at your door."

My heart was hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it.

"I think I could be willing."

"Good."

* * *

The beach was empty when we walked back, the moon full and bright, the sand cool under our bare feet. Lucia had taken off her sandals, and I'd followed suit, and we walked close enough that our shoulders occasionally brushed.

"Tell me something true about yourself. Something you don't usually share."

I thought about it. "I'm scared that I've spent so much time building my career that I've forgotten how to have a life. That I'm going to wake up one day and realize I'm forty and alone and have nothing but a successful business to show for it."

"That's very honest."

"You asked for true."

"I did." She stopped walking, turning to face me. The moonlight caught her features, making her look like something out of a dream. "Here's my truth: I came to Tulum because my ex-wife got remarried, and I couldn't stand to be in São Paulo for the wedding. I told everyone I needed artistic renewal. Really, I was running away."

"That sounds painful."

"It was. It is. But being here, meeting you..." She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "I'm starting to think maybe running away was the right choice after all."

She kissed me then. Soft and slow, her hands cupping my face, her body warm against mine. She tasted like white wine and possibility, and I kissed her back like I'd been waiting my whole life for exactly this moment.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against mine.

"I promised just a goodnight kiss."

"You did."

"Would you be disappointed if I broke that promise?"

I answered by pulling her back to me.

* * *

We didn't make it to either of our houses. There was a secluded stretch of beach behind a cluster of rocks, hidden from the main shore, and we stumbled there together, unable to stop touching each other long enough to walk properly.

She spread her wrap on the sand and pulled me down onto it, her mouth never leaving mine. My hands found the hem of her dress, and she helped me lift it over her head, revealing a black lace bralette underneath.

"God, you're beautiful."

"So are you. I've been thinking about this since I saw yo

u on that balcony."

"You have?"

"The way you looked at me... like you wanted to devour me but you were too polite to try."

"I wasn't being polite. I was being a coward."

"Then be brave now."

I kissed down her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She arched into me, her breath catching when my mouth found her nipple through the lace. I pushed the bralette aside and took her in my mouth properly, and she moaned—loud, uninhibited, shameless.

"Jordan... more..."

I gave her more. I kissed down her stomach, hooked my fingers in her underwear, pulled it down her legs. She was beautiful everywhere—strong thighs, flat stomach, a neat strip of dark hair between her legs.

I spread her open and buried my face in her.

She cried out, her hands finding my hair, her hips rising to meet my mouth. She tasted like the sea, like salt and something sweeter, and I couldn't get enough. I worked her with my tongue, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her whisper my name like a prayer.

"There... right there... don't stop..."

I didn't stop. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that made her back arch, and she came apart with a cry that echoed across the empty beach. I worked her through it, gentling my touch as she came down, until she was panting and laughing softly.

"That was..."

"Good?"

"Incredible." She pulled me up to kiss her, tasting herself on my lips. "Your turn."

She flipped us, and suddenly I was on my back looking up at the stars, with a gorgeous Brazilian woman straddling me and tugging at my clothes.

My dress came off. My bra followed. She kissed down my body with the focused attention of someone who truly loved what they were doing, and when her mouth finally reached where I needed her, I understood why she was a professional dancer.

The woman had incredible mouth control.

She played me like an instrument, bringing me to the edge and backing off, again and again, until I was begging.

"Please... Lucia... please..."

"Please what?"

"Make me come. I need to come."

She obliged. She sucked my clit hard while sliding her fingers inside me, and I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, stars exploding behind my eyes, pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming.

When I finally came back to myself, she was lying beside me, tracing patterns on my stomach, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"What are you thinking?"

"That I have eleven more days in Tulum. And I want to spend all of them with you."

I should say no. This was supposed to be a relaxing vacation, not a whirlwind affair with a Brazilian dancer. This was supposed to be about reconnecting with myself, not getting lost in someone else.

But lying there on the sand, with the sound of the waves and the warmth of her body and the lingering haze of the best orgasm I'd had in years, I couldn't remember why any of that mattered.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Eleven days. Let's make them count."

* * *

Day 7

We fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for yoga on the beach—she taught me the basics, laughing when I fell out of poses, patient when I got frustrated. Afternoons were for swimming, exploring, eating at every restaurant we could find. Evenings were for wine on the balcony, watching the sunset, talking about everything and nothing.

Nights were for each other.

By day seven, I'd learned the map of her body better than I knew the streets of my own neighborhood. The sensitive spot behind her left ear. The way her breath caught when I kissed the inside of her wrist. The sounds she made when I slid my thigh between her legs and let her ride me to orgasm.

I was also, terrifyingly, starting to fall for her.

"You're thinking too hard again."

We were in her bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and jasmine. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and somewhere outside, a guitar was playing.

"How can you tell?"

"Your forehead does this thing." She smoothed her thumb between my eyebrows. "Right here. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. That's the problem."

"I don't understand."

"This... us... it's been perfect. Too perfect. And in seven days, you're going back to São Paulo, and I'm going back to Chicago, and this whole thing becomes a beautiful memory I torture myself with."

Lucia was quiet for a long moment. Then she sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts.

"Jordan. Look at me."

I looked.

"Do you know why I came to Tulum? Really?"

"You said... your ex-wife."

"Yes. But that's not all." She took a breath. "I came here because I was tired of living a life that looked good from the outside but felt empty from the inside. The dancing, the success, the glamour—none of it meant anything because I was doing it alone. I thought being alone was the price of freedom. Then I met you, and I realized... freedom means nothing if you have no one to share it with."

"Lucia..."

"I'm not asking for promises. I'm not asking you to upend your life. But I'm also not willing to walk away from this just because it's inconvenient. We have seven more days. And after that... we figure it out. Together. If you want."

I pulled her down to me and kissed her, pouring everything I couldn't s

ay into the kiss. She responded in kind, her body melting against mine, and we made love again—slower this time, more tender, like we were memorizing each other.

"I want," I whispered against her skin. "I want."

* * *

Day 14 - Final Night

Our last night in Tulum, we went back to La Luna. Same table, same string lights, same ceviche. But everything felt different now—sharper, more precious, tinged with the sweetness of endings.

"My company is opening a branch in New York next year. They want me to choreograph for the American dancers."

I nearly dropped my wine glass. "New York? That's—"

"Three hours from Chicago. Less if you catch a good flight."

"You'd do that? Move to another country?"

"I told you. I'm tired of living a life that looks good but feels empty." She reached across the table to take my hand. "These two weeks... this is the most alive I've felt in years. You make me want to be brave. To take risks. To build something instead of just surviving."

I thought about my life in Chicago. The business I'd built from nothing. The apartment I never spent time in. The friends I barely saw because I was always working. The hollow feeling in my chest that I'd been medicating with hustle and achievement.

"I was thinking about going remote. For the business. Most of my clients are overseas anyway. I could work from anywhere."

"Anywhere like New York?"

"Anywhere like wherever you are."

Her smile was like sunrise. "That's very romantic."

"I have my moments."

She stood up, pulled me to my feet, and kissed me right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. I heard someone whistle, someone else cheer, but I didn't care. I was too busy falling, finally, completely, into something I'd been too afraid to name.

"Let's go home," she murmured against my mouth.

Home. Such a small word for such a big feeling.

"Yes. Let's."

* * *

We made love that night like it was both an ending and a beginning. Slowly at first, savoring every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. Then harder, more urgent, as if we could fuse ourselves together through sheer will.

Afterward, we lay in my bed—our bed, for these fourteen days—watching the moon through the window.

"I love you."

She said it quietly, like a secret.

"I love you too."

I said it back like a promise.

"This is crazy, isn't it? We've known each other two weeks."

"Completely crazy."

"Are we doing it anyway?"

I rolled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress, looking down into eyes that had become my favorite color.

"We're doing it anyway."

She laughed, and I kissed her, and outside the waves rolled in like they always had and always would—indifferent to the small miracles happening on their shore.

Two weeks ago, I came to Tulum burned out and broken. I was leaving transformed—not fixed, not healed, but different. Open in ways I hadn't been before. Ready to build a life that felt as good as it looked.

Ready to let myself be loved.

It turned out my best friend was right. I did thank her later. I thanked her with a very expensive bottle of champagne and the announcement that I'd be spending a lot more time on the East Coast from now on.

She cried. I cried. Lucia laughed and said, "Americans are so dramatic."

She wasn't wrong. But then again, so was falling in love on a Mexican beach with a Brazilian dancer during what was supposed to be a simple vacation.

Some stories are dramatic. The best ones usually are.