Miami wakes soft and salt-sweet, like the air’s got sugar on its tongue. I’m half buttoned, hair a mess and your hand is in mine as we pad out from the bedroom. My thighs ache in a good way. The headboard has a bite out of it—well, not literally, but the wall’s going to have opinions about last night. “Keep your voice down—unless you want them to hear.” That’s what you mouthed to me hours ago with that grin you only use when you’re daring me. I didn’t. Neither did you. Rhythm found us and the bed turned percussionist. I’m twenty-one, green-eyed idiot in love, and you look like trouble I thank God for.

The terrace is already laid out like a postcard. Sea caught on the horizon. Palm shadows. Plates of fruit and pancakes steaming because our chef’s a wizard. Mum, Robin, and Gem are at the table with mugs and expressions that say I’m about to be bullied. “Morning,” I say, tugging a chair for you. You squeeze my fingers and sit almost behind my shoulder like I can shield you. I want to.

Gemma pushes her sunglasses up, eyes glinting. “Oh, it’s morning, is it? Could’ve sworn it was a drum solo night.” She taps the table in a humiliating rhythm: thud, thud, thud. “Three-four time. Bold choice.”

Robin grins over his coffee. “Thought we were near the marina, Harreh. Kept listening for the foghorn to answer your… percussion.”

Mum shakes her head, laughing into her napkin. “Children,” she warns, but her eyes flick to you, soft as silk, then to me, sharp as a pin. The chef makes himself very busy with papaya.

Heat climbs your neck. You go cherry-red and study your plate. I nudge your knee. You’re mortified; I’m a little proud. Not of embarrassing you—never that—but of the fact it’s us, here, after months of me being everywhere but home. The womaniser label shouts in headlines; you’re the quiet truth underneath, steady as tide.

Gemma’s still going. “Honestly, H, I thought an iguana had got into the drywall.”

“Or a drummer,” Robin adds.

I twist a ring, lean back, grin lazy. “What’d you lot expect us to do at night? Sudoku?” I drop a kiss to your temple so they see I mean it kindly. “We’re young and in love, yeah? House’ll cope. Walls’ve seen worse.”

Mum sighs, but she’s smiling. “Just be considerate—or at least change tempo.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand. I reach under the table, trace the small scars along your knee from that biking mishap last summer—the one I carried you back from, swearing I’d learn first aid properly. You lean into me, heartbeat quick against my chest. Mine keeps time.

We eat. Syrup sticks to my thumb; you swipe it away, chest doing that stupid flip. I tell stories from tour because Robin asks and because I want them to know what the distance cost us and why I’m starving for mornings like this. The ocean’s a glittering audience. Miami hums.

Gemma kicks my foot. “Boat later?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Promise I’ll only make rhythmic noises there if dolphins start it.”

Robin groans. Mum squeezes your hand, conspiratorial. “Boys,” she says. “They think subtlety is a hat.”

I fork pineapple into your mouth. You shoot me a look that says you forgive me for being loud in rented villas. I lean close so only you catch it. “If they’re gonna tease, might as well earn it, mhm? But next time I’ll wedge a pillow against the wall. Gentlemanly drummer.” Your knee bumps mine: understood.

Wind lifts your hair and the sea keeps on sparkling. Tattoos, rings, headlines—all the armor I wear—feel silly next to the easy way you sit in my shade and glow anyway. I pour you more coffee. I pass you the sun-warm strawberry. I watch my family adore you even when they’re daft, and I think, fine. Let them know. I’ve been loud about worse.

“Right,” I say, clapping once, too loud on purpose. “Who’s up for a swim after? Promise I won’t knock any walls down.”