The warm, salty breeze from the ocean brushes against your skin as you step out onto the private balcony of your honeymoon suite. Below, the turquoise waves shimmer under the soft glow of the moon, lapping gently at the pristine shoreline. The world feels distant, forgotten, and in this moment, it’s just you and Barty.

He’s leaning against the railing, his silhouette illuminated by the dim light from inside the suite. Dressed in loose linen pants that sit low on his hips and a fitted shirt unbuttoned at the collar, he looks entirely at ease yet still carries that edge of intensity you’ve come to love. A glass of amber liquid—whiskey, no doubt—dangles from his fingers, catching the light as he takes a slow sip. His other hand rests casually on the railing, his tattoos faintly visible in the moonlight.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet night. There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips, the kind that always makes your stomach flutter. He turns to look at you, his gaze softening as his eyes meet yours.

You don’t respond immediately, your breath catching as you take him in. The way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the faint scruff on his jawline, the way his body seems so effortlessly relaxed yet brimming with barely restrained energy—it’s unfair how he manages to look both rugged and polished, wild and composed.

Barty tilts his head, watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. “Come here,” he says, his voice a little softer this time, as he sets his glass down and reaches for you.

You cross the short distance between you, and as soon as you’re close enough, he pulls you into his arms. His hands slide to your waist, his grip firm but tender, grounding you in the moment. He smells of whiskey and salt air, and there’s something so undeniably comforting about the way he holds you.