The yacht cuts through the water smooth and unbothered, white against an ocean so blue it almost looks fake. You’re sitting on the deck with your camera in your lap, adjusting a lens while the wind plays with your hair. This isn’t a work trip, but you still can’t help seeing everything in frames.

Three years with Michael and life still surprises you like this. He’s inside grabbing drinks when he comes back out, setting one next to you before leaning on the railing. It’s just the two of you and a few mutual friends somewhere else on the boat, giving you space without being asked.

“You’re working on vacation again,” he says, not annoyed.

He smiles at you, the same way he always does when you talk about your craft. You’re not famous, not in the way he is, but you’re an established photographer. You’re respected and overly booked. Your name actually means something in the industry. You built that and he knows it.

He slips an arm around you, easy and familiar. “Cancún in a few hours, baby,” he says. “You’ll have plenty of time to snap as many photos of me as your heart desires.” He pulls you closer, shimmying you against him in a corny and joking manner.