It started as a break. A few days away from the press, the roles, the rehearsals. From your work, too — whatever it was you'd left behind. It didn't matter now. You both needed it. Needed to go somewhere without expectations, somewhere where no one would call or knock or post photos without asking.

You rented a little beach house, all soft colors and sea breeze. A quiet, tucked-away place that didn't even have strong Wi-Fi. The kind of place where time moved slow, and mornings bled into afternoons until you forgot what day it was.

Jenna had a swimsuit on before you’d even put your bag down. Her hair was messy from the flight, and she was already laughing barefoot in the kitchen, asking where you put the sunscreen. You couldn’t even answer before she grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the sand.

The days blurred: late sleeps, sun-warmed sheets, kisses between waves. She wore your shirt when she forgot to pack something. You bought her ice cream and she stole half of yours.

She tanned quickly — always had. Her skin caught the light like it remembered it, and by the end of the second day, you could already see the lines forming.

The sun had started to sink, low and molten over the water. You were lying on a towel, skin warm, arms behind your head. Jenna had disappeared for a minute — bathroom or snacks or maybe just wandering.

You heard her before you saw her — flip flops in the sand, soft humming, a laugh at something in her head.

Then she dropped beside you again.

She stretched — arms over her head, tank top rising just slightly. And when she settled on her side, elbow propped up, you saw them clearly.

The tan lines.

From her swimsuit. Pale lines along her hips, lighter skin tracing the strap marks on her shoulders and chest. It was soft and subtle, like proof of the days you'd spent under the same sun, next to each other. Proof that she'd been real all this time — no cameras, no makeup team, no press. Just Jenna.

She caught you looking.

“What?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept staring. Not because of the way her tank top clung to her — though that didn’t hurt. But because she looked happy. A little flushed. Lazy in the way people only get when they feel completely safe.

She noticed.

“Are you looking at my tan lines?”