Vacation Fling in Bali

I went to Bali to heal. To find myself, as the cliché goes. To do yoga at sunrise and eat clean and meditate away the wreckage of my last relationship.

I came back with a completely different kind of story.

I'm Alexis Moore. I was thirty-one when this happened, freshly out of a three-year relationship that had ended when my boyfriend admitted he'd "never really been in love with me"—his exact words. I'd booked the Bali trip as a last-ditch effort to remember who I was before I'd spent three years trying to be someone else.

What I found instead was Luca.

I saw him first at the hotel bar, three days into my trip. Italian, dark curly hair, the kind of tan that suggested a life lived mostly outdoors. He was reading a book—actually reading, not just holding it to look interesting—and drinking something amber in a short glass.

I wasn't planning to approach him. I was there for self-discovery, not for men. But the seat next to him was the only one free, and I needed a drink after the day's yoga session had made me cry unexpectedly in child's pose.

"Rough day?"

he asked when I ordered my second whiskey sour.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only because you look like someone who's trying very hard not to look like she's having a rough day."

His accent was musical—Italian, I was right.

"I'm Luca."

"Alexis."

"American?"

"Chicago. You?"

"Rome. But I've been traveling for two years now. Home is wherever I am."

Two years of traveling. No permanent address. The kind of freedom I'd fantasized about but never had the courage to pursue. We talked for hours—about his travels, about my recent heartbreak, about the way Bali makes everyone more honest than they'd normally be.

He walked me to my room around midnight. We stopped at my door, the humid night air heavy around us.

"I would like to kiss you,"

he said, direct in that European way that American men often lack.

"May I?"

I should have said no. I was here to heal, not to hook up. But something about his question—the courtesy of it, the lack of assumption—made me want to say yes.

"Yes."

He kissed me gently. Once. Pulled back with a smile. "Goodnight, Alexis. I will see you tomorrow?"

He didn't push. Didn't invite himself in. Just kissed me like a gentleman and walked away.

I lay awake for an hour thinking about it.

He was there at breakfast. And at the pool. And at the sunset beach bar where all the hotel guests congregated.

We spent the next four days together. Exploring temples. Taking a cooking class. Riding a scooter through rice paddies with my arms around his waist and the wind in my hair. Each night ending with a kiss at my door, each kiss lasting longer than the last.

On the fifth night, I invited him in.

"I want you to know,"

I said as I unlocked my door,

"I don't normally do this."

"Neither do I."

He followed me inside.

"But there is something about you, Alexis. Something I cannot resist."

He kissed me before I could respond. Not gently this time—with hunger, with intent. His hands slid down my back, over my hips, pulling me against him.

"Tell me what you want,"

he murmured against my mouth.

"You. All of you."

"Then you will have me."

He undressed me slowly, like unwrapping something precious. My sundress first, sliding off my shoulders and pooling at my feet. Then my bra, his fingers deft on the clasp. He looked at me in the soft light of the hotel room—really looked—and something in his expression made me feel beautiful in a way I hadn't in years.

"You are magnificent,"

he said.

"That's a word for paintings, not people."

"Then you are a painting. A masterpiece."

He kissed down my neck, my chest, took his time with my breasts until I was arching into his touch. His mouth traveled lower—my stomach, my hipbone, the inside of my thigh. When he pulled my underwear off and positioned himself between my legs, I was already trembling.

"Ti voglio tanto,"

he murmured against my thigh. I didn't know what it meant, but the way he said it made my whole body flush.

Then his mouth was on me, and I forgot everything else.

He was patient. Attentive. The kind of lover who treated pleasure like an art form. He brought me to the edge and kept me there, learning what made me gasp, what made me grip the sheets, what made me cry out his name.

When I finally came, it was like a wave crashing—overwhelming, consuming, leaving me breathless on the shore.

He kissed his way back up my body with a satisfied smile. "Bella. Beautiful."

"Your turn."

I pushed him onto his back and stripped off his remaining clothes. His body was lean and golden, the body of someone who surfed and hiked and lived in the sun. I kissed my way down his chest, following the same path he'd taken on me.

When I took him in my mouth, he groaned something in Italian that sounded like a prayer. I worked him with my mouth and hands, watching his face, loving the way his control slipped little by little.

"Alexis—aspetta—I want to be inside you."

He found a condom in his wallet—prepared but not presumptuous, he'd clearly been hoping but not expecting. I watched him roll it on, then straddled him, sinking down slowly until we were fully connected.

We both moaned at the sensation. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just felt.

"You feel perfect,"

he whispered.

"So do you."

Then I started to move.

We made love for hours. Slowly at first, savoring each other. Then more urgently, chasing the pleasure that built between us. He flipped me onto my back and drove into me until I came again, crying out his name. I pushed him down and rode him until his composure shattered completely.

When he finally came, it was with my name on his lips and his eyes on mine—intimate in a way that felt almost too much for what this was supposed to be.

Afterwards, we lay tangled together, the ceiling fan stirring the warm air above us. His fingers traced patterns on my arm while I listened to his heartbeat slow back to normal.

"What happens now?"

he asked softly.

"I don't know."

And for once, the not-knowing didn't terrify me.

"What do you want to happen?"

"I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up with you and have breakfast looking at the ocean. Beyond that..."

He shrugged.

"I have learned not to plan too far ahead."

It was the most honest thing anyone had said to me in years.

We spent my remaining five days together. Sharing a room. Sharing meals. Sharing our bodies every night, and sometimes in the mornings, and once memorably in a secluded cove during a day trip to the beach.

On my last night, we sat on the balcony watching the stars.

"I go back to Chicago tomorrow."

"I know."

"And you go to Vietnam next week."

"I know that too."

He took my hand, laced his fingers through mine. "This has been perfect, Alexis. Whatever it was, whatever it becomes—it was perfect."

"It doesn't have to end."

"Everything ends eventually. The question is whether we let that ruin what we had, or whether we're grateful for having had it."

He was right, of course. We lived on different continents. He was a nomad; I had a job, an apartment, a life that required staying in one place. This was always going to be temporary.

But temporary didn't mean worthless. Sometimes the most meaningful things are the ones that don't last forever.

"I'm grateful,"

I told him.

"For you. For this. For helping me remember that I'm someone worth wanting."

"You are worth wanting, Alexis."

He kissed me softly.

"Any man who couldn't see that was blind."

We made love one more time that night. Slowly, memorably, saying goodbye with our bodies because words weren't enough.

⏳ Eighteen months later

I got a postcard from Patagonia six months after Bali. A mountain range I didn't recognize, with a short note: Still thinking about those stars. Still grateful. -L

Six months after that, another postcard. Morocco this time. Watched the sunset from a rooftop tonight. Wished you were here. -L

We've been exchanging messages ever since. Not daily—sometimes months go by—but always eventually. Photos of his travels. Updates on my life. The kind of connection that doesn't require constant maintenance but never quite fades.

I'm not waiting for him. I've dated other people, found my footing, rebuilt the confidence that my ex had shattered. I'm not the broken woman who went to Bali to heal.

But sometimes, when a postcard arrives from somewhere new, I let myself remember. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he taught me, without meaning to, that I could be wanted fiercely and completely and temporarily all at once.

Vacation flings aren't supposed to mean anything. They're supposed to be stories you tell at brunch, adventures with no lasting impact.

This one was different. This one changed how I see myself.

Maybe that's the real magic of travel. Not the places you go, but the people you meet along the way. The versions of yourself they help you discover.

Luca helped me find a version of myself I'd forgotten existed. Passionate. Brave. Worthy of desire.

I'll always be grateful for that. For him. For Bali.

For the vacation that healed me in ways I never expected.