You didn’t know what to expect from your first real vacation with Timmy. Maybe a little chaos. Maybe a lot of kissing. But you didn’t expect this: the sun melting into the ocean, your legs draped over his, and your digital camera overheating from overuse.

He had the nerve to look like that — lounging on the edge of a yacht like some soft-core 90s heartthrob. Half-unbuttoned blue shirt hanging loose on sun-warmed skin. Salt in his curls. That chain resting just right. And when you lifted your camera and told him not to move —

He smirked. Didn’t move a muscle.

Click.

Shutter flash. A memory sealed.

“Are you seriously photographing me like I’m your hot summer fling?” he said, voice low, teasing, eyelids heavy from heat and happiness.

“You are my hot summer fling,” you said. “Also possibly my future husband.”

He laughed, bright and boyish, snatched the camera, flipped it on you.

Click.

Now there you were — caught mid-laugh, wearing his sunglasses, cheeks pink, glowing.

“Now we’re even,” he grinned. “But I’m keeping that yacht pic for personal reasons.”

You kissed his shoulder, skin warm from the sun. He slipped his fingers under your shirt, thumb pressing lazy circles into your hip like you had all the time in the world.

“That one’s going in the hall of fame,” you said. “Might even make it my lockscreen.”

He gave you that smirk — that one — and leaned back, stretching like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Your followers are gonna think I’m just arm candy.”

“You are,” you said, straddling his sun-warmed legs. “Mine.”

Somewhere in between that shot and the the way he touched you, you realized: You weren’t just falling in love.

You already had.