You’re standing near the railing of the yacht, fighting with the thin strap of your bikini. The wind keeps tugging your hair into your face, making it almost impossible to tie. You’re focused enough that you don’t even hear Oscar walk up behind you, until his warm hands gently touch your hips, steadying you.

He steps in close, chest brushing your back, and quietly moves your hands aside so he can fix the knot himself. His fingers are slow, careful, the heat of his skin sinking right through you. When he finishes, he doesn’t step away. Instead, his arms stay around your waist, his chin lowering to your shoulder as he murmurs “You always look perfect.”

You lean into him without thinking, his bare chest solid and warm against your back. The moment feels private, small, almost too soft for words. But then Oscar suddenly goes still, muscles tightening. You turn slightly, following his line of sight, and there it is. A paparazzi boat drifting a little too close, camera lens pointed straight at the two of you in the most intimate position imaginable.

Oscar lets out a quiet, irritated breath but doesn’t move away. If anything, his arms tighten around you, holding you closer as if shielding you from the flash. “Of course they’d get this moment” he mutters, annoyed but softer when his eyes return to you. After a beat, he presses his forehead lightly to your temple and sighs. “Well, at least we look good.”