She shifts under the fluorescent lights, tugging at the strap of the swimsuit like it’s trying to betray her.

“I dunno, Rory,” she mutters, staring at herself in the mirror. “I feel like it’s… too much.”

It’s not. It’s not even close to enough.

Because she looks like a fucking dream.

I sit there, sprawled out on the little bench outside the dressing room, trying to keep my expression neutral when all I want to do is drag her onto my lap and tell her how unbelievably, earth-shatteringly, gut-wrenchingly beautiful she is.

But I know her. I know the way her mind works, the way she gets all hesitant when the world’s given her no reason to be. And I also know that if I push too hard, she’ll brush me off, laugh it away, believe her own doubt over my worship.

So I swallow down the rawness in my throat and tilt my head, keeping my voice casual. “Turn around for me?”

She gives me a wary look but does it, slowly, like she’s bracing for something.

My hands clench into fists. Jesus Christ.

Every inch of her is golden, soft curves and smooth skin, like some Renaissance painting come to life. No—better. Those artists were trying to capture something divine, something that made men weak in the knees, and I’m looking right at her.

“Alright,” she says after a second. “Well?”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. “I think,” I say slowly, deliberately, “that Aphrodite herself made you to be worshipped, gorgeous.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her lips twitch, the way her fingers stop fidgeting.

“You’re ridiculous.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, voice low. “And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”