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But here’s the kicker—she’s got this rule: no kissin’. Says it’s too personal, keeps her soul intact. I’m like, “Honey, you’re bangin’ strangers, but lips are sacred?” She shrugs, “We’re all islands, Jack.” Fuckin’ poetic, huh? Straight outta Moonrise—lost kids, lost souls, same diff. Made me happy, tho—somethin’ pure in that mess.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s another claim. I groan. “Not again!” I’m thinking. I gotta head to Calle de la Playa. This time, it’s a guy claiming his boat sank. I get there, and he’s all dramatic, waving his hands. “It was a freak accident!” he says. I’m like, “Dude, you parked it in a storm. What did you expect?”

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