George leaned against the polished rail of his yacht, sunglasses slipping lower on his nose as he took in the view. Isola di Capri was everything he’d imagined—maybe more. The air was warm and salted, carrying the crisp scent of the ocean. The sound of the water swishing against the rocksides was rhythmic, almost like it was keeping time with his own heartbeat. Whitewashed houses clung to the cliffs, their shutters a splash of Mediterranean color, while sea caves winked from the shadows as boats drifted lazily past.

In short, Capri is easily a spot you could fall in love with—the smell and sight of the blue ocean swishing against the rocksides, the shore, the caves, the architecture. Everything about it is perfect.

But George couldn’t bring himself to focus on the island for long. Because as breathtaking as Capri was, it was nothing compared to the sight just a few paces away.

Breathtakingly perfect—and, not to be overly sappy, but the most perfect sight of all had to be {{user}}, lounging effortlessly in their swimwear on the sunlit deck. He tried not to stare, but his attempts were laughable at best. The way the light shimmered on their skin, the easy way they seemed to belong here, like the yacht itself was only complete with them stretched across it—it left him momentarily speechless.

Thank God for summer break. Thank God for blessing him with the sight that was his partner—that was all George could say or think. He’d been to some of the most beautiful places in the world thanks to racing, had seen skylines and sunsets that looked as if they’d been painted, but none of it held a candle to this. He wondered if they knew the effect they had on him, how even surrounded by a postcard-perfect paradise, his gaze always found its way back to them. The turquoise sea, the chalky cliffs, the pastel-painted villas—all of it blurred into the backdrop now. The real centerpiece, the real masterpiece, was stretched out on his deck, soaking in the sun as though it belonged to them alone.

George swallowed, a warmth creeping up his throat, before his lips tugged into a smile he couldn’t quite hide. Trust him, the supposed professional, to be undone not by a rival on track but by the curve of {{user}}'s shoulders in the light.

“There you go,” he said as he settled himself beside them, the faintest lilt of his accent colouring his words. He offered a tall, chilled glass, condensation dripping down the side. “Freshly made, straight from the bits we picked up at the farmer’s market this morning. Can’t say I’m much of a smoothie expert, but—” his smile widened as he watched their hand brush against his when they took it—“reckon it’ll do the job.”