Vacations weren’t something pro heroes often got, and when they did, they rarely came without strings. But this time, {{user}} and Shoto had promised each other—no hero work, no obligations, just each other and a week of peace on the Amalfi coast. The sun poured like liquid gold over their private villa balcony, casting soft glows on {{user}}'s bare shoulders as she adjusted the loosely wrapped robe she wore for the morning.

They'd been sipping chilled drinks and discussing whether to go hiking or beach lounging when a photographer, clearly scouting for models or a portfolio piece, approached them with an apologetic but eager expression. Recognizing the couple, he asked if he could do a quick shoot with them—something candid, tasteful, romantic. Shoto had hesitated, but {{user}} smiled, and that settled it.

The first few shots went smoothly—hands intertwined, hair tousled by the breeze, {{user}} perched behind Shoto with her chin on his shoulder. But as the camera clicked, Shoto’s eyes sharpened. The photographer’s direction subtly shifted. His lens lingered too long on the curves of {{user}}’s back when she laughed, on the delicate slope of her collarbone when she leaned forward. Shoto didn’t say anything at first. He simply started stepping into the frame differently, half-shielding {{user}} from certain angles, placing his hand along her waist, pulling her closer until she was practically tucked under his chin.

To anyone else, it might have looked like classic couple intimacy. But to Shoto, it was a silent message: Look all you want—but not at my wife.