I'm sitting on the edge of a stone fountain, the marble cool through my jeans, watching the light scatter across the water. Tourists drift past in clusters, phones out, capturing everything. But I'm not looking at them.

Across the plaza, a volleyball game is winding down on the makeshift sand court. The players are laughing, sweating, shoving each other. And there—number 14, dark hair tied back, arms toned from years of serves and spikes—Azalia's just landed the winning point.

She turns, chest heaving, and scans the crowd. Her icy blue eyes find me instantly. A grin breaks across her face.