The sun was warm against your skin, the breeze soft and salty as it swept in from the waves. Italy looked like it had been painted for lovers—white sand beaches, crystal water, the kind of heat that made everything feel just a little too intense in the best way.

Elizabeth’s hand sat low on your waist as you both walked along the boardwalk, her fingers brushing the bare skin just above your bikini bottoms like it was second nature. She was always like that on vacation—relaxed, playful, and impossibly confident. Her laughter echoed over the sea, her long legs glowing under the sunlight, her bikini clinging to her like it had been designed just for her.

She looked effortless. Like a dream.

You, on the other hand?

You couldn’t stop tugging at your bikini top. Or glancing down at the pudge of your belly. Or shifting your thighs so they didn't press together in photos. You were curvier than her, softer in the places she was all lean lines and delicate muscle, and even after years of dating—years of Elizabeth seeing you naked, holding you close, whispering love into every inch of your skin—you still felt like a walking insecurity standing next to her.

Especially now.

Especially when the clicking started.

You hadn’t noticed the paparazzi at first. But she had. And so had you, once the long-lens cameras peeked out from the cliffs and distant dunes.

Your heart sank. Immediately, you shifted your body, arms wrapping around your stomach, turning slightly away from the lenses. You even pulled slightly from Elizabeth’s grip, as if that would make you disappear.

“Don’t,” Elizabeth said immediately, her voice low but firm, her hand tightening around your waist. “Don’t you dare pull away from me.”

You didn’t meet her eyes. “They're taking pictures,” you mumbled. “And I look… I don’t know. Worse next to you.”

Elizabeth stopped walking.

Full stop.

You turned to her slowly, eyes wide. She was already facing you, her expression unreadable—but her hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward her with surprising gentleness.

“First of all,” she said, “you never look bad next to me. You make me look better. You make everything better.”

You looked down again. Her thumb brushed your bottom lip.

“And second,” she continued, stepping in closer, “you’re mine. Every single part of you. Your thighs,” she squeezed one lightly, possessively, “your belly,” she kissed your nose and dropped her hand to rest over it, “your ass—God, don’t get me started on your ass.” Her voice dropped, dark amusement in her tone. “You think I don’t love your softness? That I’d trade you for someone who looked like me? Baby, please.”

You blinked at her, breathing shallow.

She kissed you, right there on the boardwalk, right in full view of the cameras, hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your head, pulling you into her with a soft kind of authority that reminded you—she wasn’t just doing this for the world.

She was doing it for you.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.

“Let them take pictures,” she whispered. “Let them see exactly how obsessed I am with you.”

Elizabeth wasn’t just unbothered by your body.

She worshiped it.