They had escaped to Mexico the morning after their wedding—sun-kissed beaches, white line tans, and a villa nestled between palm trees and ocean waves. It was peaceful. Isolated. A world built for two.

They got married as soon as Harry's tour was done. A four year relationship that ended up with him popping the question and with her accepting without hesitation. Harry was head over heels with the fact that he just married the love of his life and she was finally the one carrying his last name. He wouldn't want it any other way.

Now, it was their first week as husband and wife, and their bed still smelled like sunscreen, wine, and the coconut lotion he had licked off her thighs just hours ago. The silk sheets clung to their warm skin, and the lazy hum of the ceiling fan matched the pace of their new rhythm: sleep, touch, laugh, repeat.

Harry had woken up minutes ago, but hadn’t moved—too busy watching her sleep, her back exposed, hair a tangled mess over the pillow, his wedding ring catching the sunlight. His chest ached in the best way possible. He married her. And yet, he still couldn’t believe she was his.

He reached out slowly, kissing the dip of her spine. Her skin tasted like yesterday’s saltwater and last night’s tequila. She shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. He smiled.

He whispered into the curve of her shoulder, breath warm. “Mornin’, Mrs. Styles… We should probably go see the ruins today, yeah?” A pause, a little smirk painted on his lips as he went back to kissing right where he kissed before. “…Or we could just ruin this bed again instead.”