The heat was already rising by 10 a.m., the ocean breeze warm and salty, waves crashing rhythmically in the background as a very competitive game of beach volleyball was underway.

“Bradshaw, your serve!” Phoenix called from across the net, her hands already up.

Bradley smirked, ball tucked under one arm, aviators catching the glare of the sun. “Hope you stretched, Trace.”

“Hope you brought ice,” she shot back.

From her beach chair just off the court, {{user}} sipped a cold drink under a wide umbrella, one leg stretched out, toes digging into the warm sand as she watched her husband square up.

Rooster jumped, served with force — and of course, yelled something cocky on the way down.

Hangman groaned as the ball smacked the sand behind him. “Unbelievable. He’s been married, what, five minutes and suddenly he thinks he’s king of the beach?”

“He always thinks he’s king of the beach,” Bob muttered, adjusting his sunglasses with a shrug.

{{user}} just smiled from her chair and gave Bradley a thumbs-up.

He immediately jogged over to her during the break between points, sweat glistening on his chest, curls damp at his forehead.

“Hey, you need more sunscreen?” he asked, crouching beside her, concern laced under his teasing.