Theodore Nott had no complaints. Sun high above, sea breeze threading through his hair, and a tanned girl in a black swimsuit sprawled across his chest, it didn’t get much better than this. Her legs were tangled with his, long and sunkissed from days spent stretched out on the sand, and the curve of her back fit against him like it was made to. She was half asleep, sunglasses slipping lazily down the bridge of her nose, and he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. She looked like she belonged here, effortless, golden, and completely unbothered. Like she’d just stepped off the cover of a magazine and into his arms.

The swimsuit didn’t leave much to the imagination, not that he minded. It was sleek, minimal, with thin straps that dipped low against her skin. Elegant. Confident. A little wicked. Just like her. And she knew exactly what she was doing. Every time she caught him looking, she gave him that smug little smile, like she was always two steps ahead of him.

Italy looked good on her. Too good. The way she moved, barefoot and carefree, as if she’d grown up along these shores. The way her laughter bounced off stone alleyways and her hair curled just slightly from the sea air. She fit into the landscape so well he almost forgot she hadn’t always been part of it. This? This was miles better than anything waiting for them back in London.

She stirred slightly, her lips brushing against his collarbone as she mumbled something unintelligible. He glanced down, his fingers drifting slowly along the line of her spine, warm from the sun. “Hmm?” he murmured, threading a hand gently through her hair, “Didn’t catch that.”