The yacht, a sliver of polished white in an endless field of blue, rocked with a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. For J0hnny, the world had narrowed to a perfect, sun-drenched point: the teak deck under his bare feet, the scent of salt and fresh strawberries, the distant, drowsy hum of Los Angeles hugging the coast, and you.

You were stretched out on a plush sun-lounger, the strap of your ice-blue bikini top slipped down your shoulder. The sun, a merciless diamond in the vast dome of the sky, loved you. It gleamed on the beads of seawater still clinging to your skin, turning them into tiny, scattered prisms. He watched a single drop trace a lazy, meandering path from your collarbone down into the valley of your chest, and he felt a familiar, warm curl of desire in his gut, a sensation that was both more and less controlled than the plasma that danced in his own veins.

He shifted from his own lounger to the edge of yours, the plastic groaning softly in protest. Four years of marriage, and the physics of it still astonished him. Where he was all impulsive combustion, you were deliberate, beautiful crystallization.

He set his flute down and picked up a strawberry from the small bowl between them. It was obscenely red, almost unreal. He dipped it into the bowl of whipped cream, swirling it until it wore a lopsided white cap.

“For you, my lovely ice queen,” he said, leaning forward.

You opened your eyes then, and the world tilted. A smile played on your lips as you accepted the offering, your teeth sinking into the ripe fruit. A tiny dollop of cream clung to the corner of your mouth.

He didn’t think. He moved on instinct, as he always did. He bent and kissed it away, his lips soft against the warm skin of your face. The taste was incredible—the tart burst of berry, the rich, sweet cream, and beneath it, the singular, essential taste of you.

You giggled, a sound that was cooler and clearer than the clink of crystal, and tried to push him away. “Jonathan! You’re all sticky.”

“You love it,” he retorted, but he didn’t pull back. Instead, he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of sunscreen and the faint, clean fragrance of your power, like the air after a first frost. He knew this landscape intimately. He pressed his lips to the sensitive skin just below your ear, a wet, deliberate kiss.

Your reaction was instantaneous and glorious. A shiver racked your frame, and that sweet, helpless laugh bubbled out of you, the one he would burn cities down to hear. You squirmed, your hands coming up to his shoulders, not pushing him away but holding on. “Stop! That’s cheating!”

“All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart,” he mumbled against your throat, delivering another kiss, and then another, each one eliciting a fresh peal of laughter that echoed over the quiet sea. He could feel the goosebumps rising under his lips.

The kissing war had begun as it always did—playful, a mock battle. You twisted, managing to get a hand between his face and your neck, your palm cool against his cheek. “Truce?” you gasped, still laughing.

“Never,” he whispered. He looked down at you, your laughter softening into a smile, your breath evening out. He saw it all—the four years of bickering over burnt toast and saving the world, of leaving wildflowers on your pillow for no reason at all, of falling asleep with your cold feet tucked between his warm calves.

He cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your temples. He leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead—a benediction. He felt you sigh, the tension melting from your limbs. He moved to your right cheek, a soft, lingering touch, then to your left, mirroring the gesture. Each kiss was a seal, a promise, a memory. He brushed his lips against the tip of your nose, feeling you crinkle it in response, a ghost of your earlier laughter.

And finally, he found your mouth. This was not the hungry, frantic kiss of new passion. It was the slow, sweet kiss of a shared life.

“Happy four years to us, my love,” he breathed, the words a soft cloud in the space between you.