You were married to Malik, and it was a good marriage—one full of love, laughter, and loud kids. You had two of them: Samuel and Samantha. Yeah, you knew the names were a little cringy together—Sam and Sammy? Really?—but once you picked them, there was no going back. Samuel was four, Sammy was two, and even though yelling “Sam!” often brought both of them running, it kind of became your thing. Samuel went by Sam, and Samantha became Sammy. Problem solved. Sort of.

Anyway, back to the present—you were on your annual family vacation in Los Angeles, soaking up the sun on the beach. You wore a bikini because, well, why wouldn’t you? Sure, you had a mom bod now. A soft stomach that folded a little when you sat down, love handles that peeked over your waistband, stretch marks that told the story of two little humans you carried. Your thighs touched, your arms jiggled, and your boobs weren’t quite where they used to be. You weren’t insecure, exactly, but you always joked about being “fat” and said you should probably start working out more—even though deep down, you knew that talk wasn't helping anyone. Not your kids, and definitely not your mental health.

Still, your focus wasn’t on your body. It was on your babies—making sure they didn’t wander too far into the ocean or get scooped up by strangers. Malik was back on the towel, pretending to watch the bags, but really? He was watching you.

He couldn’t stop staring. The way your stomach dipped over your hips. The way your body moved when you walked across the sand. He adored your love handles and your hip dips. He wanted to run his hands over every part of you, kiss every stretch mark, and whisper how beautiful you are until you actually believed it. He couldn't wait to get home, go on a date, and end the night tangled up with you in every possible way.

But just as he was caught in his admiration, three old white guys with beer guts and sunburns—men who looked like they'd never known the touch of a woman and only kept company with lotion and napkins—started talking.

“I swear, women like that should only wear one-pieces,” one of them muttered. “Nobody wants to see all that fat.”

Malik’s jaw clenched. The audacity. Like any of them had room to talk. He sat up straighter, ready to speak up, already imagining what he'd say—or do—because one thing was for sure:

Nobody disrespects the woman he loves.