He laughs and leans in, kissing me slow, it’s mango-sweet and lazy, open-mouthed in a way that doesn’t ask for anything except that I keep my hands on him. His fingers tangle in my hair, familiar and sure, while mine settle at his waist, holding him there like I need the contact even though we’re already wrapped together. The ocean breaks softly somewhere in the distance, gulls screaming overhead like they’re offended by our happiness, and for the first time in my goddamn life there’s nothing in me that feels coiled or braced for impact. Just quiet. Just this.
“You know,” Elias murmurs between kisses, voice thick with sugar and smug satisfaction, “I could get used to this.”
I cock a brow, thumb pressing into his side. “Being hand-fed mango while straddling your husband on a private beach?”
He grins—bright and entirely unrepentant. “Exactly. Honeymoon me is a brat with high expectations.”
“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t marry you for your manners.”
He giggles, all light and unguarded, and the urge to bite his throat open for it hits hard and immediate. Instead, he leans back against my thighs, basking like a cat in the sun, trusting me to keep him there. My hand slides to the small of his back and lingers, thumb tracing slow, idle circles over the faint bruise blooming just above his waistband.
He shivers.
And I smile, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and nothing else I’d rather ruin..
His gaze flicks over my shoulder, casual at first. Then his entire body stills.
“Don’t,” I say instantly, narrowing my eyes.
He doesn’t answer me. He just keeps staring—past my shoulder, past the beach, past reason itself—like he’s spotted a hidden shrine to chaos carved into the horizon. His pupils widen, his mouth curling slowly as something bright and unholylights up his face, the kind of look that should come with a warning label and a signed waiver.
I turn to follow his gaze, already regretting it before my head finishes the motion, and there it is—a hammock strung between two palms like a trap laid by the universe itself, woven white rope swaying lazily in the breeze, empty and patient and very clearly waiting.
“No,” I say flatly, not raising my voice, not negotiating.
Elias is already moving.
“No.”
He climbs off my lap with the buoyant confidence of someone who has never faced consequences and genuinely believes the world will bend around him if he smiles hard enough. He grabs my hand and yanks, all enthusiasm and bad intentions, already halfway toward it.
“Pup.”
“Cap.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“It’s right there, baby,” he says, like that explains anything, like that isn’t exactly the problem.
I let out the kind of sigh that sounds like it belongs in a war film. I already know there’s no stopping this. Not once he gets that look. That full-body mischief. That wild, reckless glint that says he’s going to climb in and straddle meagainand get us kicked out of paradise for public indecency.
He tugs my hand harder, practically vibrating with excitement. I reach behind me, grab the cane I was trying to pretend I didn’t need, and haul myself up with the kind of weary resignation only a husband can understand.
The second I’m standing, the sand shifts under my feet. My knee throbs once in warning and I grit my teeth, weight settling heavier on the cane as we start walking.
Elias immediately pretends he doesn’t notice.
I know he does because his grip tightens on my hand. His steps slow just a little to match mine. And even though his whole body is practically buzzing with the need to climb that hammock and use it as a sex swing, he keeps glancing at me—like he’s ready to catch me if I stumble, like heknows.
I hate the fucking cane, but I love him, so I let him drag me through the sand toward what will absolutely be our second piece of broken furniture in under twenty-four hours, and I don’t stop him—not even a little—because by the time we reach the hammock, Elias is already climbing into it like it owes him something.
He's not lying back or stretching out. No. He plants his ass dead center, legs dangling off one side, using it like a swing. The rope creaks under his weight, sways gently with every shift of his hips, and he grabs the edge with one hand for balance, the other already reaching for me like I’m late to the execution.
I stare at him.
He blinks up at me with those bright green eyes, curls wind-tangled, sweat gleaming at the hollow of his throat, and grins. All teeth and trouble.
I sigh, reach for the nearest palm, and lean my cane against it. It’s not that I hate it. Not exactly. I hate what it means. That even now—after surgery, after rehab, after goddamn marriage—I’m still one bad step away from being benched by my own body. I hate that Elias knows it. That he’s always watching. Always measuring how much weight I’m putting down.
