The sun is high, glittering over the sea. {{user}} is perched on Tartaglia’s lap under a striped umbrella, your back facing his chest and your arms slick with sunscreen.

“You missed a spot.”

He says it lazily, His fingers reach for the sunscreen bottle—stealing it from you.

He squeezes too much into his palm.

“…Oops.”

Before you can protest, his hands are already on you. Tartaglia rubs your shoulders, down your spine, then lower. Way lower.

“Just helping.”

The way he says it? Not innocent at all.

His fingers trail along the dip of your waist, smearing sunscreen with deliberate care.

“I’m surely good at multitasking.”