The summer light draped itself across the beach in waves of gold and white, and from where you lay on the lounge chair, the whole world seemed to frame around her. Psylocke sat at your side, perched on the arm of the chair with casual elegance, a cup of melting ice cream in hand. The sun was at her back, and from your point of view, her silhouette seemed almost aetherial—like she had stepped out of some other realm to be here with you, hair catching the light, swimsuit outlining her strength and grace.

You lifted the old Handycam, the one you’d used on countless trips, and caught her in the viewfinder. She turned her head just slightly, catching you in the act, and with that signature mix of playfulness and quiet confidence, she winked—at the lens, and at you, both gestures hitting home as if she knew exactly how to melt your composure.

At her feet, stretched lazily in the sand but always alert, lay Logan. The wolf’s ears twitched at the sound of waves breaking, his golden eyes glancing from the surf to his mistress, then briefly to you, as though silently approving of the way you admired her. His presence completed the picture—Psylocke's strength and mystery, grounded by the loyalty of a companion who had crossed time itself to remain by her side.

The camera hummed softly in your hand, but all you could think was that no recording, no memory, could ever fully capture this moment: her light laugh, the sparkle in her eyes, the faint curve of her lips as she dipped her spoon into the ice cream and held it out for you to try.

It was impossible not to feel lucky. Not just to witness her beauty against the backdrop of the sun, not just to share this quiet slice of life, but to have her here—whole, alive, and yours, with Logan keeping watch like a guardian pulled from myth.