“Now,” I say softly, moving closer and cupping his face, “I get to call you my fiancé.”
Jackson’s lips part, and then he smiles like the sun, living up to his nickname.
“Fiancé,” he whispers. “Holy shit… I love it so much.”
I kiss him, slow and sure, the ocean wind wrapping around us like a blessing. When we pull back, Jackson’s grin turns mischievous.
“So,” he says, voice low, “does fiancé status come with benefits?”
I laugh, pressing my forehead to his. “It does… but they’re not as good as husband benefits.”
FIFTEEN
ANDRES
Santa Cruz on a day off feels like a secret someone forgot to keep. The air is all salt and sunscreen, mixed with the sweet smoke of someone grilling too close to the beach. The ocean is loud and steady, the kind of noise that makes your brain unclench without asking permission.
Isla picked the spot. It’s far enough from the main crowd to breathe and close enough to the bathrooms that she and Adriana don’t have to waddle a mile like it’s a pregnancy obstacle course.
We’ve got towels laid out, a cooler packed, and enough snacks to feed a small army, because between athletes and pregnant women, hunger is a full-time job. Jackson is barefoot in the sand, laughing like he’s sixteen again, hair pushed back by the wind. He’s kicking a soccer ball around with Kai, Gael, Brooks, and Sean, and it’s exactly what it looks like when a bunch of competitive men pretend they’re not competitive.
Which is to say, it gets aggressive immediately.
Kai is in a tank top that’s one size too small and acting like he’s auditioning for a sports drink commercial. He steals the ball from Jackson and yells, “Too slow, Baker!”
Jackson flips him off and sprints after him anyway.
Gael hangs back a little, calm and calculating, letting the others burn out while he watches angles like it’s a fielding drill. Brooks is doing too much, as always, yelling commentary like he’s on ESPN.
Sean is technically playing, but he keeps drifting out of the action like his body is here but his head is somewhere else. He eventually bails completely and trudges back toward our setup like he’s just survived a war. He drops down beside me with a huff, phone already in his hand, face set in a scowl that could curdle milk.
Isla, sitting on the other side of me with her big sunglasses and her hand on her belly, eyes him over the rim of her water bottle like a judge.
Adriana, curled up next to Gael’s bag with a sunhat and a smug little smile, watches Sean for all of two seconds and then looks away like she’s trying not to laugh.
Sean’s thumbs fly over the screen and the scowl on his face deepens.
He makes a sound under his breath that is definitely not family-friendly. I lean back on my hands, watching the soccer chaos out of the corner of my eye. Jackson’s laugh carries over the wind.
God, he’s radiant today.
Loose.
Happy.
Then I look back at Sean and decide I’ve had enough of whatever mood he’s bringing into my beach day.
“For fuck’s sake, Sean,” I say. “Just tell him how you feel.”
Sean’s head snaps up like I slapped him. “The fuck are you talking about?”
Isla’s mouth twitches and Adriana covers her smile with her water bottle like she’s trying to be polite. Sean glares at me, thenglances down at his phone again like it’s going to help him not be obvious.
It doesn’t.
He’s sitting there like a storm cloud with thumbs.
“You’ve been making that face for five minutes,” I continue calmly. “Either you’re about to declare war or you’re texting Emiliano.”
