No people. No noise. Just the waves and the faint hum of streetlights somewhere in the distance. The breeze blows his hair right into his forehead and I swear to God, I wanna punch a wall.
He's so gorgeous it physically fucking hurts.
We reach the spot and I drop the bag on the sand. "Want me to help?" he asks. "No," I say, already unzipping the bag. "I got it." I pull out the big towel and lay it flat. Then some snacks, his favorites.
The swimsuit. I hold it out to him. He raises an eyebrow. "You want us to swim? At this hour?"
"There's a heatwave," I say, trying not to sound like I'm begging. "And it's my last chance to see you wet and shirtless."
He laughs.
"Come on, Ravioli. You literally just accepted my proposal, with a duck ring. You won't do this one tiny little favor for your husband?"
I hate that I'm using it as a joke. Because it's not. Not to me. Not when my heart feels like an ice cream scoop melting in a goddamn microwave.
Rava takes the swimsuit from my hand. He shakes his head, smiling. "Alright," he says softly. "Hand it over, mister husband."
I win. He slips on the swimsuit, and I'm just staring. No shirt, those sharp fucking collarbones, that tight little slutty waist. And that swimsuit? Low.
Pretty sure it was made by the gods for my eyes only. "Are you done staring?" he asks without even looking at me. "No," I say. "I'll die staring."
I pull on my own swimsuit in a daze, then walk up behind him and press my palm to his back. "Let's go, you sexy thing." I don't wait for a reply. I sprint forward and dive in.
2AM water is warmer than the 3PM water. When I come up, I shake my hair out, right at him. He flinches, gasps.
"If you do that again, I'll file for divorce," he says. I grin. I walk back toward him slowly. "Don't," he warns. "Don't what?" I ask, like I'm innocent.
I come behind him, grab his shoulders, and pull him down into the water.
We sink. And when we come up again, he's breathless, and his eyes are so angry it's hilarious. "I can't stand you," he says.
"You mean you can't stand seeing me outside of you."
He snorts, wipes water from his eyes.
"In your dreams, Fontana."
"I dream every night, Weston."
He rolls his eyes. "Get away from me."
"No."
"You're obsessed."
"With you? Obviously."
He splashes water at me. I splash back. Then we're chasing each other, soaked. He's begging me to stop but he's laughing at the same time. "Let's go lie down," I say, shaking water out of my hair. Rava squints down at the sand. "Eh. I'm gonna get sand on it from my feet."
"Tragic," I mutter, walking toward him.
I hook my arms under his thighs and lift him up onto my back. "PUT ME DOWN YOU'RE MAKING ME LOOK WEAK," he shouts.
"You're so dramatic," I grunt, adjusting my grip. "Just rinse your royal feet, Prince Sandphobic."
He actually does it. Dips his feet in the water like he's at a damn spa. "I'm literally carrying you like a bridal sacrifice," I say.
"You're not even doing it right, my ass is sliding."
