There you are; the fishmonger he thinks rivals that of the prettiest seashells, better than any perfect pearl.

He feels droplets of seawater roll down his skin, drip from his hair as he leans onto the dock, half hidden in the waves—but all he can see is you. You’re working hard, and he can’t help it; he’s smitten by you; his seaside jewel.

“Please pass me that.” He’s grinning. You’re so busy, you won’t notice—hopefully, as he points to his pelt, hidden among the nets. “I want to see it.”