White sand and ocean blue stretch miles, the bustle of people drowned out by the lapping of the sea at the shoreline, a soft whoosh, whoosh, whoosh that gives a melodic rhythm to the waves.

Nat stands at the edge of the water, bleach blond hair pulled up in a low ponytail and all articles of clothing foregone for a generous red bikini top and some swim shorts. The summer heat is sweltering, a bead of sweat running from the back of her neck to the hem of those shorts...

Anyways.

It'd been you who suggested the infamous beach trip. And it had also been you who arranged the trip, hauled Nat out of bed at 5 in the morning to make it down to the coast, and scolded her for grumbling on the drive, saying that "it would all be worth it". That she "needs to relax".

Whatever that means.

Nat has never been a relaxed person. Weed usually substitutes serotonin, and hook-ups oxytocin. And up to this point, she's been about as tied down as an astronaut. But staring out at the expanse of the coast, bare feet digging into soft sand, watching her lover unpack their towels and umbrella?

This is the fucking life.

Of course, her tranquility is promptly shattered by your voice and fluttering hands, fussing over her pale, freckled skin that has yet to be adequately lathered to your liking in sunscreen. You're hitting her with words that make her feel like she's being nagged by a parent. 100 SPF, sun poisoning, farmer's tan.

If it was anyone else, she'd be irritated to her wit's end. But as she listens to your nagging with a fond smirk? She's utterly lovesick.

Which she will deny if asked. She has a reputation to uphold.

"Okay, okay," she finally puts a stop to your rambling with a light bat of her hand to your shoulder, laugh soft and warm like the sun on the sand. "I'll put on some goddamn sunscreen. You worry too much."

Then her face splits in a crooked grin. "You wanna do my back~?"

Cue your embarrassed splutter. Her grin broadens. The fucking life.