If you don't terrify people, what's the point. @inkededucatednnerdy - Tumblr Blog

Vacation

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Word Count: 16,785

Summary: Jack Abbot books an oceanfront vacation house in the Outer Banks and insists every suspiciously luxurious feature is simply “for the house.” The private pool. The hot tub. The king bed facing the ocean. The indoor shower with the bench. The outdoor shower. It’s all very practical. Obviously. Except Jack has had this whole week planned from the start, and with no shifts, no alarms, no pagers, and nowhere else to be, all that focus, patience, and husbandly devotion has exactly one place to go. You.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral sex f/m receiving, intercourse, outdoor shower sex, implied/mentioned sex in multiple places, married couple being obsessed with each other, vacation Jack is a menace, soft aftercare, body worship, prosthetic/accessibility mention, lots of consent/check-ins, excessive use of the word vacation.

Author’s Note: Vacation Jack has entered the chat, and he is everyone’s problem. This is married Jack, soft Jack, smug Jack, worships-his-wife-like-it-is-his-life’s-work Jack. I hope you enjoy him taking vacation extremely seriously.

Xoxo, Del

Jack had been weird since the airport. Not the kind of weird that meant he was standing in a security line while mentally triaging three patients who were not in front of him. Worse. Relaxed weird. He had moved through the terminal with one hand curled around the handle of his suitcase and the other settled at the small of your back, calm as anything. No pager. No phone call from the hospital. No schedule to double-check. No crease between his brows while he thought five steps ahead of everyone else. Just Jack in a soft gray T-shirt, sunglasses tucked into the collar, wedding ring catching the fluorescent airport light every time his hand shifted against you. It was unsettling.

“You keep looking at me,” Jack said from the seat beside you, his voice low enough not to carry.

You turned away from the plane window and looked at him properly. “Because you’re being weird.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Weird?”

“Calm,” you said, like the evidence was obvious.

His thumb moved once over your thigh, lazy and warm where his hand rested above your knee. “That’s weird?”

“For you?” You gave him a look. “Yes.”

Jack’s smile deepened. “I’m on vacation.”

“You keep saying that like it explains everything,” you said.

“It explains a lot,” Jack replied, his hand still warm on your leg.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “Hey, baby.”

Absolutely not. You knew that tone. You had been married to that tone. You had folded laundry with that tone. You had woken up to that tone pressed against the back of your neck and immediately lost whatever argument you had planned about needing sleep. You turned your head slowly. “Why did you say that like you’re about to be annoying?”

Jack’s mouth curved wider. “You in the mile-high club?”

You stared at him. “Jack Abbot.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

You leaned back against your seat. “Absolutely not.”

Jack sat back too, completely unbothered. “Worth a shot.”

“We have been on vacation for forty-seven minutes,” you said.

Jack glanced at his watch. “Strong start.”

“You are not serious,” you said, fighting the smile already pulling at your mouth.

“I’m very serious,” Jack said, his thumb sweeping over your thigh again. “I planned a whole week.”

“You planned a whole week, so naturally your first thought was sex in an airplane bathroom?” you asked.

“No,” Jack said, calm as anything. “That was my second thought.”

You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to smile. Jack looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You’re enjoying vacation Jack.”

“I’m concerned about vacation Jack,” you said.

“Good,” Jack replied.

“That was not the reassurance you thought it was,” you told him.

Jack lifted your hand, brought your knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them like he had all the time in the world. Which, unfortunately, he did. That was the problem. At home, there was always something. Work. Laundry. Groceries. A shift starting too early or ending too late. Jack coming home exhausted but still kissing you in the kitchen like he could not help himself. You falling asleep against his shoulder on the couch because you both had the best intentions and the worst schedules. At home, loving each other sometimes came in pieces. A hand on your hip while one of you reached for coffee. A kiss before sunrise. A shower taken together because it was the only private twenty minutes you could steal. Jack’s fingers brushing yours under a table. Your face tucked into his neck for exactly thirty seconds before one of your phones went off. This was different. This was Jack with no alarm set. Jack with his shoulders loose. Jack with nowhere else to be. Jack with an entire week and a look in his eyes that made you wonder, briefly and sincerely, if you had made a mistake getting on this plane with him.

By the time you landed in North Carolina, picked up the rental car, and started driving toward the Outer Banks, the feeling had only gotten worse. The windows were down. The air had gone warm and salty, slipping through the car and lifting the ends of your hair. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting over your thigh, his thumb moving every now and then like he was not even thinking about it. You, unfortunately, were thinking about it a lot. You were thinking about his hand. His forearm. The way his shirt stretched when he turned the wheel. The quiet contentment on his face as the road opened in front of you and the sky went wide and blue above the water.

“You’re doing it again,” Jack said, eyes still on the road.

You blinked. “Doing what?”

His thumb dragged once over your thigh. “Looking at me.”

“I’m allowed to look at my husband,” you said, turning slightly in your seat.

Jack glanced over just long enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth. “You’re allowed to do a lot of things with your husband.”

You let your head fall back against the seat. “See? That. That is what I mean.”

His hand tightened on your thigh, warm and amused. “What?”

“Vacation Jack,” you said, pointing at him like the evidence was obvious.

Jack looked back at the road. “He sounds nice.”

“He sounds like a menace,” you said.

Jack’s smile deepened. “He rented you a beach house.”

“You rented us a beach house,” you corrected.

Jack shrugged one shoulder. “Same thing.”

That should have been your first warning. Not the mile-high joke. Not the hand on your thigh. Not even the way he kept saying vacation like it was both an explanation and a threat. That sentence. He rented you a beach house. Because when Jack finally pulled into the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and the house came into view, you realized with sudden, full-body clarity that your husband had not rented a beach house. He had rented a house. A house. Oceanfront. Tall windows. Wide decks. Pale wood and white trim and a private path disappearing through dune grass toward the beach. It looked like something from an architectural magazine. The kind of house people stayed in when they owned linen pants unironically and knew how to arrange lemons in a bowl. You sat in the passenger seat and stared. Jack put the car in park. You did not move.

He glanced over. “You okay?”

“Jack,” you said, still looking at the house.

His hand paused on the gearshift. “What?”

“This is a house.”

Jack looked through the windshield. “That was the goal.”

“No.” You turned to him. “This is a house.”

“It had good reviews,” Jack said.

You stared at him. He added, “And beach access.”

“Jack.”

“And a kitchen,” he said.

“You’re not helping yourself,” you told him.

His expression stayed perfectly composed, but you knew him too well. You saw the smugness hiding at the corner of his mouth. You saw the way he looked at you instead of the house, like he had been waiting for this exact reaction. Your chest softened before you could stop it.

“Oh my god,” you said quietly. “You’re proud of yourself.”

Jack took the keys from the ignition. “I made a good choice.”

“You made an insane choice,” you said.

“I made a good insane choice,” he replied.

You got out of the car slowly, still staring up at the house as warm coastal air wrapped around you. Jack came around the back, opened the trunk, and started pulling out luggage like this was normal. Like he had not driven you up to a house with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the ocean glittering behind it. You followed him up the steps to the front door in a daze. “Before we go in,” you said, stopping behind him, “I need you to know that I am suspicious.”

Jack unlocked the door. “Of the house?”

“Of you,” you said.

He pushed the door open. “That’s fair.”

You forgot the rest of your sentence. The house opened wide in front of you, bright and airy and flooded with light. Pale floors stretched toward the back wall, which was almost entirely glass. Beyond it, the ocean moved blue and endless, sunlight breaking across the water in bright pieces. There was a living room with soft white couches, a huge kitchen to the left, and a deck beyond the glass doors that looked like it had been built specifically for long mornings, bare feet, and coffee gone cold because you were too busy watching the waves. For a second, you did not accuse Jack of anything. You just stood there. Jack set the bags down inside the door and came up behind you. His hand settled at your waist, careful and warm.

“Good?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Jack.”

His voice softened. “Yeah?”

“This is beautiful,” you said.

He did not say anything right away. When you turned your head, he was not looking at the ocean. He was looking at you. Like this had been the view he had actually been waiting for. Something tender pressed behind your ribs. Then Jack’s thumb moved against your waist, and the faintest hint of a smile returned to his face. “If we’re doing vacation,” he said, “we’re doing it right.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That sounds like something a man says before revealing he spent too much money.”

“It was a reasonable amount of money,” Jack said.

You tilted your head. “Do not lie to me in this beautiful house.”

His mouth curved. “Vacation.”

“There it is,” you said.

Jack kissed the side of your head, then stepped around you and picked up two of the bags. “Come on.”

“You’re giving me a tour?” you asked, following him.

“I am,” Jack said.

“Should I be afraid?”

He looked back at you. “Probably.”

You followed him into the kitchen first. It was ridiculous. Huge island. Stone counters. Ocean view. A stove that looked nicer than your entire apartment had when you and Jack had first moved in together. There were glass-front cabinets, a farmhouse sink, and enough counter space to host a cooking show. You stopped beside the island. “This kitchen is bigger than our living room.”

Jack set one bag down near the pantry. “Good for cooking.”

“Are we cooking?” you asked.

“Probably,” he said.

You looked over at him. “That was vague.”

Jack came back to you and leaned one hip against the island, arms folding loosely over his chest, looking entirely too comfortable in a kitchen he had absolutely not chosen for practical reasons alone. You looked at him. He looked back. Your eyes narrowed. “Here?”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Here what?”

“You know what,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “I pictured coffee.”

You stared at him. “You rented this kitchen for coffee?”

“Breakfast too,” Jack said.

“How domestic.”

His hand reached out, fingers hooking lightly around your waist to draw you a step closer. “You sitting right there while I cook.”

You followed his gaze to the wide stretch of counter beside him. “On the island?”

“Mm-hm,” Jack said.

You looked back at him. “That sounds innocent.”

“It started that way,” he said.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed. He smiled like he had not done a single thing wrong. “Coffee first.”

“You are being smug,” you said.

“I’m being honest,” Jack replied.

“You are being honest smugly.”

He leaned in and kissed you once, quick and warm. “Vacation.”

You pointed at him as soon as he pulled back. “You cannot keep using that as a defense.”

“I can,” Jack said.

“You can’t.”

“I am,” he said, stepping away before you could decide whether to pull him back or yell at him. Both felt appropriate. The tour continued through the living room, where Jack said he pictured you curled into the corner of the couch with a book and your feet in his lap. That one was sweet enough that you almost let your guard down. Almost. Then he opened the glass doors to the deck, and the ocean air rushed in. Outside, the house became even more outrageous. There was a private pool tucked into the deck below, blue water flashing beneath the sun. A hot tub sat beneath a covered section, shaded and close enough to the doors to be convenient. Beyond that, a path wound through sea grass toward the beach. There were chaise lounges lined up near the pool, angled toward the water, with tall privacy hedges and fencing positioned in a way that felt less accidental the longer you looked at it. You stepped onto the deck. Jack followed behind you. You looked at the pool. Then the loungers. Then the hot tub. Then Jack.

“No,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “No?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, pointing toward the pool.

Jack stepped beside you. “You don’t even know what I pictured.”

“I know exactly what you pictured,” you said.

“You’re projecting,” he replied.

“You picked a house with privacy hedges around the chaise lounges.”

“For shade,” Jack said.

You turned your head slowly. “For crimes.”

Jack laughed then, low and surprised, and the sound moved through you warmer than the sun. He caught your hand and pulled you closer, his arm sliding around your waist from behind as you both looked out over the deck. “Out there,” Jack said, nodding toward the chaise lounges, “I pictured you with a book.”

“That sounds sweet,” you said.

“It was,” he replied.

Your eyes narrowed. “Was?”

“And sunscreen,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“What?” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Sunscreen is important.”

“You are weaponizing responsibility,” you said.

“I’m taking care of my wife,” he said.

“You always say that right before doing something suspicious.”

Jack’s mouth curved against your shoulder. “You always like it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack hummed, pleased and infuriating, and pointed toward the pool. “I pictured you in there, too.”

“Swimming?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“Jack.”

“You asked for the tour,” he reminded you.

“I did not ask for the director’s commentary.”

“You’re getting it anyway,” he said.

You looked toward the hot tub. “And that?”

Jack followed your gaze. For once, he did not immediately make a joke. The hot tub sat under the covered deck, tucked into its own little pocket of shade and privacy. From there, you would be able to hear the ocean without seeing anything but the water, the sky, and each other. “That one was quiet,” he said.

You blinked. “Quiet?”

His hand spread over your stomach, pulling your back a little more securely against his chest. “You. Me. The ocean loud enough that we don’t have to be.”

Your stomach dipped. “Jack,” you said, his name coming out softer than you meant it to.

His voice stayed calm, but his mouth was close to your ear now. “You asked what I pictured.”

You leaned back against him because your knees had gotten a little unreliable. “I’m starting to regret that.”

Jack’s hand tightened gently at your waist. “No, you’re not.”

The worst part was that he was right. Then you saw the small structure tucked off to the side of the pool, its white door propped open to reveal shelves stacked with towels and beach chairs. You pointed. “Is that a pool house?”

“Storage,” Jack said.

You turned in his arms. “Storage?”

“Towels,” he said. “Floats. Probably cleaning supplies.”

You raised your eyebrows. “And you were definitely thinking about pool chemicals when you booked it.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Mostly towels.”

“That was worse,” you said.

His hands stayed at your waist. “I pictured you pulling me in there.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You get bossy when you’re relaxed,” Jack said.

“I do not,” you argued.

“You absolutely do.”

“I would never,” you said, trying to sound offended.

Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m counting on it.”

For a second, you forgot how to answer him. He smiled, kissed the corner of your mouth, and then had the audacity to step back and continue the tour. By the time he brought the bags upstairs, you were starting to understand the full scope of your situation. This was not a house. This was a map. Jack had not just booked somewhere pretty. He had walked through the listing photos and imagined a whole week of you and him. Coffee and sunlight. Books by the pool. Salt on your skin. His hands on your body. Dinner on the deck. Sleeping late. No phones. No alarms. No one needing either of you before you had even opened your eyes. You were still processing that when you reached the primary bedroom. Then you stopped in the doorway. “Oh,” you said.

The bedroom was worse. Not worse, technically. Beautiful. Soft white bedding. Pale curtains. Glass doors that opened onto a private deck. A king bed facing the ocean, like whoever designed the room had personally declared subtlety dead. Sunlight moved over the sheets in warm, shifting bands, and beyond the windows, the water stretched wide and blue and endless. Jack set the suitcases near the dresser and came to stand behind you. He did not touch you right away. That somehow made it worse.

“And here?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. His voice changed when he answered. Softer. Lower. Less teasing. “Here, I pictured you sleeping in.”

Your throat went tight.

“No alarm,” he said. “No phone. No shift. No one needing you before you even open your eyes.”

You stared at the bed, at the ocean beyond it, at the room he had chosen because he knew you. Because he knew how tired you got. Because he knew how often you woke already making lists in your head, already bracing for the day, already giving pieces of yourself away before breakfast. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.

Jack stepped closer, his chest brushing your back. “Some of it.” There he was again.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Of course.”

His thumb traced a slow line along your hip. “I pictured this too.”

You looked over your shoulder. “What?”

He leaned down and kissed the side of your neck. Not rushed. Not hungry, not yet. Just warm and deliberate and certain. “Standing behind you,” Jack said against your skin. “Right here.”

Your eyes fluttered. He continued, “Watching you realize I planned this.”

“You are so smug,” you said.

“I am,” he replied.

“At least you admit it.”

His mouth moved higher, just beneath your ear. “I pictured you happy.”

That undid you more than anything else could have. Your hand found his over your waist. Jack’s fingers threaded through yours. “I pictured you rested,” he said. “Spoiled. A little sunburned even though I’m going to be annoying about sunscreen.”

You huffed a laugh. He smiled against your skin. “I pictured us here,” Jack said.

There it was. The whole thing. Not the pool. Not the hot tub. Not the ridiculous kitchen, the private deck, or the bed facing the water. Us. Your chest went so soft it almost hurt.

“You really thought about all of this,” you said.

“Yeah,” Jack answered.

You turned enough to look at him. “Every room?”

“Not every room,” he said.

“Liar.”

Jack’s mouth curved against your neck. “Fine. Most rooms.”

You turned fully in his arms, hands landing on his chest. “This house is insane.”

“No,” Jack said.

“No?” you asked.

His hands settled at your waist. “It’s exactly enough.”

You hated how easily he could do that. Take all your teasing and fold it into something earnest. Make you laugh one second and ache the next.

“You spent too much money,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

Jack’s expression softened. “I wanted you to have a week where nothing needed you.”

You looked up at him. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Nothing but you?” you asked.

Jack’s smile returned, slow and warm. “I’m allowed to need you a little.”

“A little?”

“Vacation,” he said.

You groaned. “You are impossible.”

“You married me.”

“I was young,” you said.

Jack laughed, and the sound loosened something in you. Then he kissed you. It was supposed to be quick. You could tell by the way he started it, soft and almost sweet, his hand lifting to your jaw while the ocean moved bright and endless beyond the windows. But then you kissed him back. And Jack, relaxed, rested, vacation Jack, did not rush. He kissed you like he had imagined this too. Like he had thought about getting you into this room, into this light, with nothing waiting for either of you except a whole week of time. His thumb brushed along your cheek. His other hand stayed low on your back, steady and warm, holding you close without trapping you there. When he pulled back, your breath had gone uneven.

Jack looked perfectly fine, which was unfair. “We should finish the tour,” he said.

You blinked at him. “There’s more?”

His smile turned dangerous. “Bathroom.”

“Oh no,” you said.

“Oh yes,” Jack replied.

The bathroom was somehow even more ridiculous than the bedroom. Double vanity. Huge mirror. Soft lighting. A tub positioned near a window overlooking the water. Smooth stone tile. A glass shower big enough for two people to move comfortably, with rainfall showerheads and a built-in bench along one wall. You stopped in the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. For a second, the joke rose automatically. A shower bench. Of course. Of course, Jack had seen that in the photos and gotten ideas. Of course, your husband, who loved showering with you on a normal Tuesday when both of you were half asleep and stealing time before work, would look at this gorgeous, oversized shower and imagine exactly—

Then you glanced at him. The teasing paused in your throat. Jack was looking at the bench. Not smugly this time. Not only that, anyway. Something quieter crossed his face. Practical. Honest. Familiar in a way that made your heart squeeze. Because it was not just another suspicious feature. It was space. Ease. A place for him to sit without balancing, without bracing himself against slick tile, without turning something as simple as a shower into a calculation.

“Oh,” you said softly. Jack looked at you. You reached for his hand. “Good.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Good?”

You nodded. “I want that for you.”

For a moment, he did not answer. Then his fingers tightened gently around yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. It was simple. Quiet. Enough. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “I also pictured you in here.”

There he was. You stared at him. “Of course you did.”

“Wet,” Jack said.

“Jack.”

“Naked,” he added.

“Jack.”

“Letting me take care of you,” he said.

That got you quiet again. He stepped behind you and nodded toward the bench. “I pictured sitting there. Hot water on. You between my knees.” Your breath caught. His hands settled gently at your hips. “Washing your hair. Getting the sunscreen off your shoulders because you always miss right here.”

His fingers brushed the back of your arm, light and specific, and you hated that he was right.

“I do not always miss there,” you said.

“You always miss there,” Jack replied.

“I have survived this long.”

“Barely,” he said.

You laughed, but it came out thin because his mouth was near your neck again and his hands were warm through your shirt. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.

“Some of it,” Jack said.

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep meaning it,” he replied.

You turned your head enough to look at him. “You love showering with your wife.”

Jack’s face did not change. “I do.”

“No shame?”

“None.”

“Not even a little?” you asked.

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “I love my wife wet and naked and close enough that I can put my hands on her. I also love when she lets me wash her hair because she makes that little sound when she relaxes.” Your mouth parted. Jack’s thumb slid beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch warm skin. “So, no. No shame.”

You stared at him for a second. Then you pointed toward the bedroom. “You are dangerous in this house.”

“I’m dangerous at home too,” Jack said.

“At home, you have work.”

His gaze held yours. “Not this week.”

That sentence should not have affected you the way it did. It dropped low in your stomach and stayed there. Not this week. No shift. No alarm. No phone. No pager. No stolen pieces. A whole week. Jack kissed your shoulder once and then, cruelly, released you. “Come on,” he said.

You frowned. “There is still more?”

“One more thing,” Jack said.

You followed him because, apparently, you had learned nothing. He led you back through the bedroom, down the stairs, and out through the sliding doors. The deck was warm beneath your sandals. The ocean wind moved through your hair. Jack kept your hand in his as he guided you down the steps, past the pool, past the chaise lounges, past the hot tub you were absolutely not thinking about. Then he stopped near the outdoor shower. It was tucked against the side of the house behind a slatted privacy wall, open to the sky but hidden from the neighbors. Smooth wood. Brushed metal fixtures. Hooks for towels. A little shelf for soap and shampoo. Practical, beautiful, and so clearly part of Jack’s mental vacation itinerary that you almost laughed.

You looked at it. Then at him. “Sand?” you asked.

Jack nodded. “Sand.”

“And salt?” you asked.

“Definitely salt,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “And?” His mouth curved. You lifted your eyebrows. “Jack.”

He stepped closer, not touching you yet. “Water warming up.” Your breath caught because his voice had gone low again. “Your swimsuit still wet,” Jack said. “You accusing me of planning it.”

“You did plan it,” you said.

“I did,” he replied. No hesitation. No shame. Just Jack, standing in the sun, telling you exactly what he wanted because you were his wife and he knew you liked knowing.

Your pulse moved everywhere. “And then?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s eyes warmed. Then he reached for you slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You did not. His hands found your waist. “Then,” he said, “I pictured kissing you before you could finish the accusation.”

“You think that would work?” you asked.

“I know it would,” Jack said.

“You are so full of yourself on vacation.”

“Only because I know my wife,” he said.

You opened your mouth to argue. Jack kissed you. It was not like the bedroom kiss. This one had heat under it immediately. Sunlight on your shoulders. Ocean air against your skin. His hands at your waist, steady and familiar. The outdoor shower beside you like a promise he had not cashed in yet. He kissed you once. Twice. A third time, slower, until your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and your body leaned toward his like it had already decided something your brain was still pretending to debate. When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close.

“See?” Jack murmured.

You took a breath. It did not help. “You’re being smug again,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“At least pretend to be sorry.”

“No,” Jack said.

You laughed, helpless and breathless, and tipped your forehead against his chest. Jack’s arms came around you, holding you there in the warm shade beside the house while the ocean moved beyond the dunes. For a moment, neither of you said anything. No phone rang. No one called his name. No one needed you. There was only the water, the wind, the house, his hands, your heartbeat, and the terrifying knowledge that Jack Abbot had planned an entire week with this much attention. Eventually, you lifted your head. “We should unpack,” you said.

Jack’s hands stayed on your waist. “We should.”

“Groceries,” you added.

“Eventually,” he said.

“Dinner.”

“Eventually,” Jack said again.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re going to keep doing this all week, aren’t you?”

“Showing you what I pictured?” he asked.

You nodded. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentle enough to make your breath catch all over again. “Only the parts you like,” Jack said. Your stomach flipped. “And only if you want me to,” he added.

There he was. Your Jack. Smug and impossible and gorgeous in the sun, but still your Jack. Still watching you closely. Still making sure. Still turning heat into something safe enough to melt into. You slid your hands up his chest. “Vacation Jack is a problem.”

His smile touched your mouth. “Vacation.”

“You are not allowed to say that anymore,” you said.

“I’m going to say it all week,” Jack replied.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Jack kissed you again, slower this time, and you knew with sudden, humiliating certainty that groceries were not happening any time soon. Neither was unpacking. Dinner was looking unlikely, too. But Jack’s hands were warm. The ocean was loud. The house was empty. And for once, there was nowhere else either of you had to be.

Groceries did not happen. Unpacking barely happened. Dinner, as you had predicted, did not stand a chance. You made it back upstairs with two suitcases, one tote bag, and a truly admirable amount of denial. Jack carried most of it, because of course he did, one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand as he followed you into the bedroom. The sun had started to lower by then, warm gold spilling across the white bedding and catching in soft strips over the floor. Beyond the glass doors, the ocean moved steadily, loud enough to make the whole room feel separate from the rest of the world. You set your tote on the bench at the foot of the bed and opened it with purpose. “We are unpacking,” you said.

Jack set the suitcases near the dresser. “We are.”

You pulled out a folded shirt and set it on the bed. “We are being responsible adults.”

Jack leaned back against the dresser and watched you. “We are.”

You unfolded the shirt, refolded it badly, and pointed at him without looking up. “You’re doing it again.”

Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m another amenity,” you said, finally turning to face him.

His mouth curved. You should have known better than to give him that. Jack pushed away from the dresser and crossed the room slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’re the reason I booked the amenities.”

Your fingers tightened in the shirt. “Jack.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your chin up. “What?”

“You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to unpack.”

His hands settled at your waist. “You’re not trying very hard.”

You looked down at the shirt in your hand, then back at him. “That is not the point.”

Jack’s thumbs moved once over your hips. “No?”

“No,” you said, but your voice had already softened.

His gaze dipped to your mouth. “What’s the point?”

You swallowed. “That you’re distracting me.”

“I know.”

“You’re admitting it?”

Jack leaned in, brushing his mouth along your jaw instead of kissing you properly. “I’m looking at my wife in the room I pictured her in.” Your breath caught. His lips moved to the place just beneath your ear. “I’m allowed to be distracted.” The shirt slipped from your hand onto the bed. Jack noticed. His smile touched your skin. “There you go.”

“You are so smug,” you whispered.

His hands slid a little more securely around your waist. “Devoted.”

You huffed a laugh, but it came out uneven because his mouth had moved to your neck. “That is not the same thing.”

“It is tonight,” Jack said.

He kissed you then, slow and warm, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other stayed low on your back. You leaned into him without meaning to, your hands finding his chest, fingers pressing into soft cotton and the solid warmth beneath it. For a moment, it was just kissing. Just his mouth on yours, unhurried and familiar. His thumb brushing your cheek. The sound of the ocean filling the quiet spaces between your breaths. Then you tried to pull him closer. Jack let you for half a second. Then his hand tightened gently at your waist, slowing you.

You pulled back enough to glare at him. “Seriously?”

His eyes were warm. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“You keep saying that like it’s not a threat.”

Jack’s thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “It isn’t.”

“Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “It’s a promise.” That did something to you. Something obvious, apparently, because Jack watched your face change and went still in that careful way he had. Not uncertain. Not distant. Just attentive. “Still good?” he asked.

You nodded. Jack did not move. You exhaled. “Yes.”

His mouth curved, softer this time. “Good.” Then he kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. Like he had all night. Like he had all week. Like the entire house had gone quiet just to give him time to learn you again. His hands moved with infuriating patience, tracing your waist, your ribs, the line of your back. He touched you like none of it was routine. Like every inch of you had been missed. Like he had spent too many mornings kissing you quickly before work and too many nights pulling you against him half-asleep and now he had finally been handed enough time to do it properly. You tried to make a sound that was not desperate. It failed.

Jack’s mouth paused against yours. “I know.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you said.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your skin. “I know that sound.” Your eyes fluttered. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I know what it means.”

You should have had a comeback for that. You had nothing. Jack took the silence for what it was and began to undress you slowly. Not in a practiced, showy way. Not like he was trying to prove anything. He just took his time, easing fabric over your head, letting his mouth follow where his hands had been. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The soft curve beneath it. The inside of your wrist, when he lifted your hand and kissed there too, like even that deserved attention. By the time your shirt hit the floor, your breathing had changed. Jack heard it. His eyes lifted to yours. “There she is.”

You swallowed. “Don’t start.”

His hand smoothed over your side. “I haven’t even started.”

That was the problem. He had not. He had barely done anything, really. He had kissed you and touched you and watched you like he had nothing else in the world to do, and already you felt too warm, too aware, too seen. “You’re staring,” you said.

Jack’s hand settled over your hip. “I get to.”

Your mouth parted. He leaned in and kissed the center of your chest, then lower, then paused with his forehead resting lightly against you. His hands stayed gentle, thumbs moving in slow arcs against your skin. “I get you for a whole week,” he said. Your fingers slid into his hair. “No pages,” Jack said, kissing lower. “No alarms.”

“Jack,” you whispered.

“No one knocking on the door,” he continued, his mouth moving over your stomach. “No one needing either of us.”

You tried to steady yourself with a breath. “You sound very pleased about that.”

Jack looked up at you. “I am.”

“Smug,” you said.

His mouth touched your skin again. “Devoted.”

The word went straight through you. Jack guided you back until your legs met the edge of the bed. You sat because he wanted you to, because your knees were not doing much useful work anyway, and he sank down in front of you like the motion cost him nothing. Like this was exactly where he had intended to end up from the moment he walked you into the room. The ocean shifted blue and gold beyond the windows. Jack’s hands moved over your thighs. You looked down at him. “You pictured this too?”

He kissed just above your knee. “Some of it.”

“Of course you did.”

His eyes found yours. “I pictured taking my time.” Your stomach dipped. He kissed higher, still slow, still patient, his hands steady on you. “I pictured you letting me.”

Your fingers tightened in the bedding. Jack stopped immediately. His thumb swept over your thigh. “Still good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved. “Good.”

He kept going. And he worshipped you. There was no other word for it. Jack kissed every place he uncovered. Every place his hands moved. Every place that made your breath change. He learned you as if he did not already know you, as if being married to you had only made him more interested, not less. Like familiarity had turned into devotion in his hands. You tried to stay clever. You really did. But Jack noticed everything. The hitch in your breath. The way your fingers twisted in the sheets. The little sound you made when his mouth found the inside of your thigh. The way you tried to swallow his name and failed. “Jack,” you breathed.

His mouth moved against your skin. “I know.”

“Please.”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

Your head tipped back. “Don’t stop.”

Jack’s hands tightened gently, holding you where he wanted you. “I’m not stopping.”

He did not. He took his time with you. That was the worst part. He did not rush, did not let you rush him, did not give in when your hips shifted restlessly beneath his hands. He only held you there, mouth warm and patient, learning every sound you tried to swallow until your body stopped pretending it could be reasonable. At some point, your hand found his hair. Jack made a low sound, pleased and rough, and your whole body reacted to it. “There,” he murmured against you. “That’s it.”

You shook your head, already too far gone to know what you were arguing against. “Jack.”

“I know, baby.”

“More,” you whispered.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “More?”

You nodded, breath catching. “Please. More.”

His hand slid over your hip, firm enough to ground you. “There you are.”

He gave you more. Not rushed. Never rushed. His mouth and tongue worked you up slowly, paying attention to every shift of your body, every uneven breath, every broken little sound you could not keep in. The room blurred around the edges. The ocean got louder. Or maybe that was your pulse. You could not tell anymore. All you knew was Jack. His hands. His mouth. His voice. “Jack,” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Yes. Yes, please. Don’t stop.”

He stayed with you, steady and relentless in the gentlest way, his voice low against your skin. “I’m right here,” he murmured. “Let go.”

Your whole body tightened beneath his hands. “Jack,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he said, holding you through the first helpless tremor. “I’ve got you.”

You came with his name in your mouth. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not pull away. He did not hurry you along. He kept one hand firm at your hip and the other spread over your stomach, grounding you while pleasure moved through you in waves and left you shaking beneath him. For a while, he only let you breathe. His mouth pressed soft, unhurried kisses to your thigh, your hip, the sensitive skin beneath your navel. His hands gentled immediately, no longer asking anything from you, only keeping you close while your heartbeat slowly found its way back to normal. “There you go,” Jack murmured, his voice rougher than before. “Breathe for me.” You made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but failed completely. His mouth curved against your skin. “Good.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “You are very pleased with yourself.”

Jack kissed your hip. “I’m pleased with you.”

That was unfair. You dropped your head back against the bed. “That was worse.”

He smiled against your skin. You should have known he was not done. You realized it in the way his hand slid back over your thigh. In the way his mouth returned to your skin. In the way he watched you now, careful and intent, waiting for the exact moment your body softened again instead of simply trembled. “Jack,” you said, already suspicious.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “What?”

“You’re not done.”

His thumb moved slowly over your hip. “No.”

Your stomach flipped. “I just—”

“I know,” Jack said, softer. “I was here.”

You stared at him. He lowered his mouth to your thigh again, his eyes still on yours. “I’m still here.”

Your hand found his hair before you could stop yourself. Jack’s gaze darkened. Then he started again. Slower at first. Careful. His fingers joined his mouth, slow and careful at first, and your breath caught so sharply that he paused. His eyes lifted immediately. “Still good?”

You nodded, already overwhelmed. Jack stilled. “Words, baby,” he said.

Your hands found the sheets. “Yes.”

His mouth curved against you. “Good.”

Then he took you apart again. The second time came slower. Deeper. Meaner, somehow, because Jack knew exactly what he was doing now. He knew which sounds meant keep going. He knew when your thighs started to tense. He knew when your hand flew back to his hair and when your voice broke around his name. He noticed everything. He always did. “Jack,” you said, but it barely sounded like his name anymore. His answer was a low hum against your skin. “Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”

Jack’s hand pressed gently against your stomach, holding you there, keeping you present. “That’s it.”

Your breath broke. “Feels so good.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping.”

You tried to say something else. Something clever. Something teasing. Something that sounded like you had not been reduced to nothing but want and his name. What came out instead was, “Jack.”

His grip tightened slightly. “I’ve got you.”

“More.” He gave you more. Your breath caught hard, then broke. “Jack,” you gasped, hand tightening in his hair. “I’m gonna come again.”

His answer was a low, rough sound against your skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me have it.”

You came apart again with his name in your mouth and his hands holding you steady, the ocean moving beyond the windows and sunlight going soft over the sheets. Jack stayed with you through that, too, slower now, careful as your body shook and then softened beneath him. When it was over, you felt boneless. Overheated. Completely ruined in a way that should have embarrassed you but did not, because Jack was already kissing his way back up your body like he had not finished loving any part of you. Your hands found his face before he could say anything smug enough to destroy you further. “Come here,” you whispered.

Jack paused above you, eyes searching yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded, drawing him down until his weight settled carefully over you. “I want you close.”

His expression changed. The smugness eased out of him, leaving only heat and tenderness and something so openly adoring that your chest ached with it. Jack kissed you once, softer than you expected. Then again. Then he settled between your thighs, careful with you, still watching. “Still good?” he asked.

You wrapped your arms around him. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed your cheek. “Words.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

That was all he needed. He entered you slowly at first. Careful. Close. One hand braced beside your head, the other tangled with yours against the sheets. His forehead dipped to yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was only the sound of the ocean, your uneven breathing, and Jack’s mouth brushing yours every time you made a sound he wanted to keep. He set a deep, slow pace. “There you are,” he murmured.

You clung to him. “I love you.”

Jack’s rhythm faltered for half a breath. Then his forehead pressed more firmly to yours. “I love you too,” he said, voice rough. “So much.”

You pulled him closer, needing the weight of him, the warmth of him, the familiar shape of his body over yours. “Feels so good.”

Jack kissed you, and the kiss caught on your next breath. “Yeah?”

You nodded, already losing the thread again. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he said.

He did not. He gave you what you asked for. Slow at first, then less so when your body answered him, when your legs tightened around his hips, when your hands slid over his back and your voice broke softly against his mouth. He stayed close through all of it, kissing you when you got too loud, then pulling back just enough to hear you when you tried to hide. At some point, your words dissolved again. Yes. More. Jack. Please. I love you.

He took each one like it meant something. Like every sound was a gift. Like every breathless, broken version of his name had gone straight through him. “You’re so beautiful,” he said against your mouth. Your eyes burned suddenly, overwhelmed by the room, by the ocean, by the way he was looking at you like this was not just sex. Like this was everything he had been trying to give you since he opened the front door.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.” His hand tightened around yours. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him. You always believed him. Your body tightened around him, pleasure building again so fast it stole the breath from your lungs. “Jack,” you gasped, clutching at his back. “I’m gonna come.”

His rhythm faltered, then deepened, his mouth pressing hard to your jaw. “I know, baby,” he said, voice rough. “Me too.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

“Not stopping.”

When you fell apart for the third time, Jack followed you over with his face tucked against your neck and your name pressed rough and quiet into your skin. He held you through it, shaking once, then going still and warm above you while the last of the sunlight faded across the bed. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You could feel his heartbeat against yours. You could hear the ocean. You could feel his mouth brushing your shoulder, once, twice, like he still had not found a place on you he did not want to kiss. Eventually, Jack shifted his weight carefully off you, but he did not go far. He stayed close, one arm still draped over your waist, his face turned into your neck. You stared at the ceiling and tried to remember your own name.

Jack pressed a kiss beneath your jaw. “You with me?”

You let out a weak sound. “Unfortunately.”

His laugh was quiet against your skin. “Unfortunately?”

You turned your head to look at him. “I had plans.”

Jack lifted his head, hair mussed, mouth soft, eyes far too pleased. “Unpacking?”

“Groceries,” you said.

His hand moved over your stomach. “Dinner.”

You pointed at him with as much authority as you could manage while naked and boneless beneath a sheet. “Do not act like you care about dinner.”

“I care deeply about dinner,” Jack said.

“You destroyed dinner.”

“I delayed dinner,” he corrected.

“You personally dismantled dinner as a concept.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “That seems dramatic.”

“I am weak,” you said. “I have earned drama.”

His expression softened immediately. “Water first.”

You groaned. “Do not say hydration.”

Jack sat up, entirely too beautiful in the fading light. “Hydration matters.”

“I hate vacation Jack.”

He leaned down and kissed your bare shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

You closed your eyes because he was right and because your body still felt like it had been poured into the mattress. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“Good,” Jack said.

You cracked one eye open. “Good?”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I like winning.”

“You are a menace.”

Jack kissed your forehead before he got out of bed. “Devoted.”

You watched him cross the room, reach for his shorts, and pull them on with the relaxed confidence of a man who had thoroughly ruined your life and intended to order takeout afterward. He grabbed a bottle of water from one of the bags, opened it, and came back to the bed. When he held it out, you took it only because he lifted his eyebrows at you. “You are very bossy for a man on vacation,” you said before drinking.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m taking care of my wife.”

You swallowed, then lowered the bottle to glare at him. “You keep saying that after ruining me.”

His hand came up, thumb brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Both can be true,” Jack said. You hated that your heart went soft. You hated more that he saw it happen. Jack smiled, warm and insufferable, and leaned in to kiss you again. This one was slow. Quiet. Almost sweet. When he pulled back, you reached for him without thinking, and he came easily, settling beside you on top of the sheets. You tucked yourself against him, cheek on his chest, your body still humming and loose. Jack’s hand moved up and down your back. Outside, the sky had gone dusky over the water. Inside, the room was warm and dim and wrecked in small, obvious ways. Your shirt on the floor. His shoes abandoned near the dresser. One suitcase open, untouched. The bedcovers twisted around your legs. Dinner still had not happened. Groceries definitely were not happening. You tilted your face against his chest. “We need food.”

Jack’s hand paused on your back. “I’ll order.”

“You planned that too?”

“I planned options,” he said.

You lifted your head to look at him. “Of course you did.”

His mouth curved. “Vacation.”

You dropped your face back to his chest with a groan. Jack laughed and kissed the top of your head. You felt the sound under your cheek. You felt the warmth of him around you. You felt, with sudden, dangerous clarity, that this was only the first night. And Jack still had a whole week.

You woke up to the ocean. Not an alarm. Not Jack’s phone buzzing on the nightstand. Not the quiet, practiced sound of him trying to get out of bed without waking you before your shift. The ocean. For a few seconds, you did not move. You stayed exactly where you were, cheek pressed into the pillow, body warm beneath the sheets, light spilling soft and gold through the curtains. The glass doors were cracked open just enough to let the sound in, waves rolling steady beyond the deck, the air carrying the faintest trace of salt. Then you became aware of three things at once. One, you were naked. Two, you were sore. Three, your husband was not in bed. That last one was suspicious. You opened one eye. Jack’s side of the bed was rumpled and empty, the sheet still twisted from where he had slept close to you most of the night. His shirt was still on the floor near the suitcase. Your suitcase was still open and mostly untouched. Your clothes from yesterday had been moved to the chair, which meant Jack had cleaned up just enough to be annoying about it. You lifted your head. The bedroom door was open. From somewhere downstairs came the low sound of cabinets, then the quiet clink of a mug against the counter. Of course. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. He had personally destroyed your ability to unpack, delayed dinner until takeout had been eaten in bed, made you drink an entire bottle of water while naked and boneless beneath the sheet, and now he was probably downstairs acting like a responsible adult because he had woken up first. You loved him. You hated him. You were going to marry him again. Slowly, carefully, you sat up. Your whole body protested. “Oh my god,” you whispered to the empty room.

From downstairs, Jack called, “You okay?”

You froze. Of course he heard you. Of course. You looked toward the open bedroom door. “Stop having doctor hearing.”

“I have husband hearing,” Jack called back.

You rubbed both hands over your face. “That is worse.”

“There’s coffee,” he said from somewhere near the kitchen.

You narrowed your eyes at the doorway. “Is that a peace offering?”

“No,” Jack called back. “It’s coffee.”

You tried not to smile. It took you a minute to find clothes. Not because you had unpacked, obviously, but because your husband had made an absolute ruin of any organized plan you had for this vacation. Eventually, you pulled on a soft pair of shorts and one of Jack’s T-shirts from the open suitcase, mostly because it was closest and partly because you knew exactly what it would do to him. You made your way downstairs slowly. Jack was in the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair still messy from sleep. Black sweatpants low on his hips. No shirt. Standing in front of the stove like he had not personally changed the chemical composition of your bones the night before. You stopped in the doorway. Jack looked over his shoulder, spatula in hand. “Morning.”

You stared at him. His eyes dipped once, taking in his shirt on your body, then returned to your face with a heat that did not belong anywhere near breakfast. You crossed your arms. “No.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “No?”

“You do not get to stand there like that.”

He looked down at himself. “Like what?”

“Shirtless,” you said.

Jack glanced back at the stove. “I’m making breakfast.”

“You are making threats,” you told him.

His mouth twitched. “Eggs.”

“Threatening eggs.”

Jack turned the burner lower, set the spatula down, and reached for the mug beside him. “Coffee?” You eyed him. He lifted a second mug from the counter. “Decaf for you if you want it. Regular if you want to live dangerously.”

You walked toward him, slow and careful. Jack noticed. His amusement softened immediately. “Sore?”

You stopped in front of him. “Do not sound proud.”

“I don’t,” Jack said.

“You do.”

His hand found your waist, gentle over the soft cotton of his shirt. “I sound concerned.”

“You sound like a man who caused a problem and then packed a first-aid kit.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hydration matters.”

You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to say that before nine in the morning.”

“It’s nine-thirty,” he said.

You glanced toward the clock on the stove. “That cannot be right.”

Jack handed you the mug. “You slept in.”

You took it slowly. For some reason, that was what got you. Not the house. Not the ocean. Not the ridiculous bedroom. Not even Jack standing shirtless in a sunlit kitchen making breakfast like some kind of vacation hallucination. You slept in. No alarm. No shift. No phone dragging you out of bed before your body was ready. No list already forming in your head before your eyes opened. Just sleep. Jack watched your face change. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Good?”

You looked down into the coffee. “Yeah.”

His voice softened. “Good.”

You took a sip, mostly so you would not have to respond right away. It was perfect. Of course it was. You lowered the mug and looked at him. “You’re very annoying.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”

“You made good coffee,” you added.

“I did.”

You smiled softly. “You let me sleep.”

“You needed it,” Jack replied.

“You made breakfast.”

Jack turned back toward the stove. “Still making it.”

“And you’re shirtless,” you added.

He slid eggs onto a plate. “That part was for me.”

You laughed. “For you?”

Jack carried the plate to the island and set it in front of you. “I like when you look at me.”

Your stomach flipped because, apparently it had no loyalty to you whatsoever. You picked up your fork. “I’m eating.”

“You should,” Jack said.

Your eyes narrowed, “You are not distracting me from breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.

You gave him a look. “You absolutely would.”

Jack reached for a glass and filled it with water. “I’m being responsible.”

You took the water when he slid it toward you. “You are being obscene with responsible vocabulary.”

His smile deepened. “Eat.”

You pointed your fork at him. “Bossy.”

“Concerned,” Jack said.

“Smug.”

“Devoted,” he corrected.

You hated that it still worked. Jack knew it did. He leaned across the island and kissed your temple before you could call him out for it. Breakfast was eggs, toast, fruit he had somehow remembered to pick up the night before when you had been half-asleep and wrapped in a sheet, and coffee that tasted better because you were drinking it in his shirt with the ocean visible through the windows. Jack ate standing at first, which lasted about thirty seconds before you pointed at the stool beside you. “Sit,” you said.

He looked at you over his mug. “I’m fine.”

“I did not ask if you were fine.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No?”

You pointed again. “Sit down and eat like a normal vacation person.”

“A normal vacation person?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said. “The kind who does not hover shirtless in a kitchen after committing crimes against his wife.”

Jack sat, still smiling. “Crimes?”

You took another bite of toast. “Several.”

His knee brushed yours under the island. “You seemed enthusiastic.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Jack.”

He reached over and steadied your mug with one hand. “Careful.”

“You do not get to say things like that and then ‘careful’ me.”

“I can do both,” he said.

“You keep doing both.”

Jack’s hand settled on your thigh beneath the island, warm and familiar. “That’s marriage.”

You looked at him. “That is not the official definition.”

“It’s ours,” he said.

That softened you before you were ready for it. Jack saw that too, because he saw everything. His thumb moved once over your leg. You looked out through the windows instead of at him. The pool glimmered below the deck. The chaise lounges sat in neat rows in the morning sun. The hot tub was quiet beneath the shaded overhang. Beyond the dune grass, the ocean rolled on like it had nowhere else to be either.

By the second day, you stopped pretending the kitchen was only for cooking. It happened after breakfast, when you were rinsing plates at the sink, and Jack came up behind you with his hands warm on your hips. You had meant to be useful. You had meant to clean up, change, maybe go for a beach walk before the sun got too high. Jack had kissed the side of your neck instead. You had told him the dishes were not done. He had reached past you, turned off the water, and said, very calmly, “They can wait.”

Then he had turned you around, lifted you onto the island he had claimed was for coffee, and kissed you until you forgot there were dishes in the sink at all. It was not the bed. It was not slow in the same way the first night had been slow. It was Jack standing between your knees in the bright morning kitchen, your hands in his hair, his mouth on yours, the whole house quiet around you while the ocean moved beyond the windows. It was your shorts on the floor. His hands under his shirt on your body. Your back against cool stone and Jack’s voice at your ear, low and wrecked, telling you he had pictured this too. Afterward, while you sat on the counter with his forehead against your shoulder and your breath still coming too fast, Jack reached blindly for the dish towel. You lifted your head. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning the counter,” he said, voice rough.

You stared at him. “Jack.”

He lifted his head, eyes warm and shameless. “Responsible.”

“You just had sex with me on the kitchen island.”

“And now I’m cleaning it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack smiled. “Vacation.”

By the third night, you stopped letting Jack say hot tub without narrowing your eyes. The hot tub incident happened after dinner, when the sky had gone dark, and the deck lights glowed warm against the water. Jack had said it would be relaxing. You had believed him because, apparently, marriage did not make you smarter. It had started relaxing. Warm water. His arm around your waist. Your back against his chest. The ocean loud beyond the deck. His mouth at your shoulder while his hands moved under the water, slow and unhurried, until relaxing stopped being the correct word for any of it. You had turned in his lap to kiss him. That had been your mistake. Or his. Probably both. The kiss deepened. The water moved around you. Jack’s hands settled on your hips, guiding you closer until there was no space left between you. By the time you realized neither of you had any intention of stopping, your arms were around his neck and his mouth was at your throat, both of you tucked beneath the covered deck with only the ocean loud enough to swallow the sounds you were trying not to make.

“No one’s close enough to hear you,” Jack had murmured against your skin.

You had clutched at his shoulders. “Jack.”

His hand had tightened at your waist. “That was also a selling point.”

Afterward, wrapped in a towel and glaring at him across the deck, you said, “I almost drowned.”

Jack handed you a glass of water. “You did not almost drown.”

“Emotionally, I did.”

His mouth curved. “That’s not drowning.”

“It felt medically significant.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are not my doctor on vacation.”

Jack leaned in, water still in his hand, and kissed the corner of your mouth. “Vacation.”

You took the glass from him because he was right about hydration and because your legs felt unreliable enough that pride was no longer useful.

The chaise lounge was worse. That had started with sunscreen, which Jack insisted on with the solemn focus of a man completing a surgical checklist. He had made you lie on your stomach by the pool with your book open beside you and the sun warm across your back. “Responsible,” Jack said, warming sunscreen between his palms.

You rested your cheek against your folded arms. “You are using that word loosely.”

His hands settled on your shoulders. “I’m protecting your skin.”

“You are enjoying yourself.”

“I can do both,” he said. He could. That was the problem. His hands moved with slow, thorough care, working sunscreen over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. He was careful around the edges of your swimsuit, careful in a way that turned less careful the longer you stayed quiet beneath him. When his mouth eventually touched the back of your knee, you lifted your head.

“Jack,” you said.

His hand slid over your calf. “Missed a spot.”

“That is not where people put sunscreen.”

His mouth moved higher. “I’m being thorough.”

The book slid off the lounge and hit the deck. You did not pick it up. Jack kissed his way up the back of your thigh, turned you over with careful hands, and settled between your legs like the chaise lounge had been built for exactly this. He kept one hand spread over your stomach, holding you steady, while his mouth moved lower and the sun warmed every inch of skin he had just covered with sunscreen. You gripped the cushion. You said his name. Then you said it again, louder, because the privacy fence was apparently as private as the listing promised, and Jack loved proving a point.

Later, when you were lying boneless in the shade, and Jack was stretched out beside you looking entirely too pleased with himself, you turned your head and glared at him. “You said sunscreen first.”

“I applied sunscreen first,” Jack said.

“That does not make what happened afterward responsible.”

His sunglasses were low on his nose when he looked at you. “I disagree.”

“You would.”

He reached over and brushed his thumb along your wrist. “You liked it.”

You closed your eyes. “I loved it. That is not the point.”

“It feels like part of the point,” Jack said.

You hated how often he was right.

The indoor shower became a problem, too. That one was not fair, because it really was practical. The bench mattered. The space mattered. The ease of it mattered. You saw the difference in him the first time he used it, the way his shoulders loosened when he did not have to brace himself or calculate each movement against slick tile. So you did not make jokes at first. You sat on the bench because he asked you to, warm water running over both of you, steam softening the edges of the glass. Jack settled behind you, careful and steady, and washed the salt out of your hair with his fingers. For a while, it was sweet. It stayed sweet, even when his mouth found your shoulder. Even when his hands moved lower. Even when you reached back for him and heard his breath catch against your wet skin. Then you turned in his lap, water running over both of you, and kissed him until his hands tightened on your waist. The bench made everything easier. Safer. Close in a way that did not ask either of you to balance or brace or think past the next breath. Jack let you set the pace at first. Then he stopped being patient. By the time the water started cooling, your forehead was against his, your arms around his shoulders, his hands firm at your hips while he moved beneath you, and the shower glass had fogged so completely that the rest of the bathroom disappeared.

Afterward, wrapped in one of the absurdly soft white towels, you leaned against the vanity and watched Jack adjust his prosthetic with damp hair falling over his forehead. “That shower is a safety feature,” he said.

You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to weaponize accessibility.”

Jack looked up at you, mouth curving. “I was taking care of my wife.”

“You were doing several things to your wife.”

“Efficient,” he said.

You laughed so hard you had to sit down on the edge of the tub. Jack crossed the bathroom, still smiling, and kissed your wet forehead. “Worth the rental?” he asked.

You looked around the ridiculous bathroom, then back at him. “For the house.”

His laugh warmed the whole room.

By the fourth afternoon, you had stopped pretending Jack was the only problem. He was standing near the pool house, hair damp from the water, towel low on his hips, saying something completely innocent about grabbing another drink. You had taken one look at him and decided you were done being reasonable. “Come here,” you said.

Jack looked over, amused. “Need something?”

You hooked two fingers in the waistband of his swim trunks and pulled him toward the shade of the pool house. His amusement disappeared. “Oh,” Jack said, voice lower.

You smiled up at him. “Vacation.”

That time, Jack was the one who forgot how to argue. The pool house was cooler than the deck, shaded and private, the shelves stacked with towels behind him. You backed him against the closed door, kissed him once, and watched the last of his smugness disappear when you sank slowly in front of him. Jack’s hand found the wall. His head tipped back. For once, he was the one saying your name like it was the only word he had left.

The days started to blur after that. Not because nothing happened. Because everything did. Morning coffee on the deck with your feet in Jack’s lap. Beach walks with damp sand under your heels and his hand wrapped around yours. Long afternoons where you read three pages of your book and remembered none of them because Jack was stretched out beside the pool, sun-warmed and unfairly handsome, occasionally looking over at you like he was still picturing things. There were naps with the glass doors open. There were showers that took too long. There were groceries eventually, though Jack had kissed you against the rental car in the parking lot until you forgot half the list. There were dinners eaten outside while the sky turned pink and orange over the water. There were nights where Jack ordered food because neither of you felt like moving, and mornings where he made breakfast because he woke before you and apparently considered feeding you part of his vacation itinerary. There was water. So much water. Jack handed it to you constantly. At the pool. After the beach. After the hot tub. After sex. Before coffee. Beside the bed. On the deck. Once, insultingly, while you were brushing your teeth.

“You are obsessed,” you told him around your toothbrush.

Jack leaned against the bathroom doorway with a bottle in his hand. “You’re dehydrated.”

You spat into the sink and glared at him through the mirror. “Vacation Jack is a menace.”

His eyes met yours in the reflection. “Vacation Jack is keeping you alive.”

“Vacation Jack is the reason I need medical intervention.”

Jack held out the water. “Drink.”

You took it. Obviously.

By the fifth evening, you caught him in the kitchen again. He had one hand braced lightly on the counter while he looked into the fridge, his weight shifted in that subtle way you knew better than to comment on too directly. The day had been long in the sun. A good long. A beach-walk, pool-swim, shower-too-long kind of long. Jack was still moving like he intended to make dinner. Absolutely not. You crossed the kitchen and took the cutting board from his hand.

Jack looked down at it, then at you. “I was using that.”

“I know,” you said.

His brows lifted. “Do I get it back?”

“No.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Am I in trouble?”

“Sit down,” you said.

His expression changed, amusement softening into something more careful. “Baby, I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“I can cook,” Jack said.

“I know,” you repeated.

“Then why am I being banished?”

You set the cutting board on the counter behind you, rose onto your toes, and kissed him once. Slow enough to quiet him. Soft enough to mean it. When you pulled back, your hand stayed against his chest. “Because I want to take care of my husband.”

Jack went still. Not dramatically. Just enough that you felt the breath he did not quite take. Your thumb moved over his shirt. “You have taken very good care of me all week.”

His eyes softened. “Have I?”

You gave him a look. “Do not fish for compliments when you know exactly what you’ve done.”

Jack’s mouth curved again, but the tenderness stayed. “I know some of what I’ve done.”

“You know all of what you’ve done.”

“Most,” he said.

You pointed toward the patio doors. “Chair. Ocean view. Go.”

He glanced toward the patio. “You’re very bossy on vacation.”

You turned back to him. “You pictured that, remember?”

Jack looked back at you. For a second, his smile went quieter. “I did,” he said.

You pointed toward the patio again. “So go enjoy the accuracy of your imagination.”

He caught your hand before you could turn away and kissed your knuckles. “Thank you.”

You softened immediately. “For dinner?”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your wedding ring. “For knowing when to tell me to sit down.”

You hated how quickly your throat tightened. To cover it, you squeezed his hand and lifted your chin. “I’m very wise.”

“And bossy,” he said.

“You love that.”

Jack kissed your knuckles again. “I do.”

He went outside, finally, settling into one of the patio chairs with a view of the water. You watched him through the glass for a moment before you started dinner. He leaned back slowly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, face turned toward the ocean. The evening light moved over him, softening the lines of his shoulders and catching in his hair. For once, he looked like he was letting himself be still. Not useful. Not on call. Not anticipating the next thing. Just Jack. Your Jack. The man who had built an entire week around giving you rest and laughter and ocean views and his full attention. The man who still needed to be reminded, sometimes, that he was allowed to receive those things too. So you made dinner. Nothing fancy. Pasta, a salad from whatever you had managed to buy at the store, bread warmed in the oven because Jack had insisted vacation bread was different from regular bread, and you had not had the energy to challenge him. You carried the plates outside as the sun lowered toward the water. Jack looked up when the patio door slid open. “That smells good.”

“You sound surprised,” you said, setting his plate in front of him.

“I sound grateful,” Jack said. His hand wrapped around your wrist before you could walk away. “Come here.”

You looked down at him. “I have to get my plate.”

“In a minute,” Jack said. You let him tug you closer. He looked up at you, warm and soft in the evening light. “Thank you.”

Your chest ached. “You already said that.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your wrist. “I’m saying it again.”

“For pasta?” you asked.

“For this,” Jack said. His thumb brushed your wrist. You knew what he meant. The chair. The ocean. The pause. The way you had noticed without making him explain. The way you had taken the knife from his hand and told him to rest like it was not up for debate. You leaned down and kissed him. Jack’s hand slid to your waist, gentle and familiar. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours.

“You’re welcome,” you said softly.

His mouth curved. “Very wise.”

“And bossy,” you added.

“And bossy,” Jack agreed.

You touched his cheek once before stepping back. “Eat your dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

You paused at the door and looked back. “Careful.”

Jack’s smile widened. “With what?”

“That tone.”

He leaned back in the chair, relaxed and too handsome for his own good. “Vacation.”

You pointed at him. “I am feeding you out of love.”

“I know,” he said.

You glared at him. “I can take it away.”

“You won’t,” Jack replied with a smirk.

You narrowed your eyes further. “You’re too confident.”

Jack picked up his fork, still smiling. “You love me.”

That was the problem. You did. So you got your own plate, came back outside, and sat beside him while the sky softened into pink and gold and the ocean kept moving below you. For a while, you ate in comfortable quiet. Jack’s foot brushed yours under the table.

You looked over at him. “Don’t start.”

He lifted his glass, eyes innocent. “I’m eating dinner.”

You watched his face. “You’re thinking.”

“I do that,” Jack said.

You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m thinking this is nice.” That shut you up. He looked out toward the water. “You. Me. No plans.”

“We have plans,” you said after a second.

Jack turned back to you. “Do we?”

“Yes,” you said, gesturing with your fork. “Finish dinner. Clean up. Sit out here. Maybe actually watch the sunset like normal people.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Ambitious.”

“No detours,” you added.

His eyes warmed. “You sure?”

You pointed your fork at him. “I am taking care of you tonight.”

Something tender moved over his face. He set his glass down. “Okay.”

The ease of his answer made your heart hurt. “Okay?” you asked.

Jack reached across the small table and held out his hand. You slid yours into it. His thumb moved over your ring again. “Okay.”

So you watched the sunset. Actually watched it. The sky turned orange, then rose, then dusky purple at the edges. The ocean caught every color and broke it apart over the waves. Jack’s hand stayed around yours on the tabletop, warm and steady. Your plates emptied slowly. The air cooled enough that he went inside halfway through and came back with a sweatshirt for you without being asked. You took it from him, trying not to smile. “You are physically incapable of not taking care of me.”

Jack sat down again. “You looked cold.”

“I was cold,” you agreed.

Jack nodded once. “Then I was right.”

“You are very pleased when you’re right,” you said.

“I’m right a lot,” Jack replied.

You pulled the sweatshirt over your head. “That is deeply annoying.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in his sweatshirt, and the look on his face made your stomach warm all over again. Then he seemed to catch himself. He picked up his water instead. You noticed. Your heart went soft. “Good choice,” you said.

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the glass. “I can behave.”

You laughed. “Since when?”

Jack lowered the glass. “Since you said you were taking care of me.”

That landed quietly between you. You reached across the table and touched his wrist. Jack turned his hand beneath yours, palm up. You threaded your fingers together. “Good,” you said.

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “Good?”

You looked at him, the man you loved, relaxed and sun-warmed and softened by the week, sitting still because you had asked him to. “Yeah,” you said. “Good.”

Jack brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. For once, he did not make a joke. For once, you did not either. The sun disappeared behind the water. The deck lights clicked on around you. And for one whole evening, vacation meant dinner, quiet, ocean air, and Jack letting himself be loved back.

The beach did it. That was what you decided later. Not Jack. Not the house. Not the fact that he had been walking around all week looking sun-warmed and relaxed and married in a way that felt personally designed to weaken you. The beach. The beach was responsible. You had spent the afternoon in the water, letting the waves push against your legs while Jack stood close enough behind you to steady you every time the current pulled a little too hard. You had laughed when he caught your waist. He had laughed when you accused him of using the ocean as an excuse to put his hands on you. Then the sun had started to lower. The water had gone gold. Jack had kissed you in the surf with one hand at your back and the other at your jaw, salt on his mouth and ocean around your knees, and something about it had tipped the whole day sideways.

By the time you made it back up the private beach path, you were sandy, damp, warm, and too aware of him. Jack walked behind you, carrying the beach bag over one shoulder, his hair wet from the ocean, his chest bare, his swim trunks hanging low on his hips. His sunglasses were pushed into his hair. His skin was sun-warmed and salt-damp and unfairly golden in the late afternoon light. At the top of the path, you stopped beside the deck stairs and shook sand from one foot.

Jack came up behind you. “You good?”

You looked over your shoulder. “I have sand everywhere.”

His mouth curved. “That happens at the beach.”

“You know exactly what comes after beach,” you said.

Jack’s gaze flicked, very briefly, toward the side of the house. The outdoor shower. You pointed at him. “There.”

His face stayed innocent. “You need to rinse off.”

“You have been waiting all week to say that.”

Jack moved past you toward the side of the house. “Come on.”

You did not follow immediately. He stopped after three steps and looked back. The sun was behind him, low enough to catch along the edges of his shoulders and turn the wet ends of his hair gold. Beyond him, the outdoor shower waited behind the slatted privacy wall, practical and beautiful and ridiculous. Jack lifted his brows. “You coming?”

You stared at him. That was the problem. You had been, repeatedly, all week, and he knew it. His mouth twitched like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. You walked toward him mostly to prove you still had dignity. You did not. Jack set the beach bag on the low teak bench tucked beneath the towel hooks. He pulled out two towels and hung them neatly out of the spray. The normalcy of it made everything worse. He was just preparing. Just moving around the small space with the same quiet competence he brought to everything. Towels. Soap. Shampoo. His wedding ring flashing in the sun. Your swimsuit still damp against your skin. The privacy wall blocking the rest of the deck from view. The ocean loud beyond the dunes.

“You are very organized for a man about to be inappropriate,” you said.

Jack turned the shower knob. Water sputtered once, then streamed down against the wood slats and stone floor. He held one hand beneath it, testing the temperature. “I’m being responsible.”

“You keep saying that.”

He shrugged. “It keeps being true.”

You stepped into the shower space, arms crossed over your chest. “This is for sand.”

Jack looked at you over his shoulder. “And salt.”

“And?” you asked.

His hand stayed under the water. His eyes moved over you slowly. Not like the bedroom. Not patient. Not careful in the same soft, devotional way. This was sharper. Hungrier. Like the whole week had been building toward this exact moment and he was tired of pretending it had not.

“And this,” Jack said.

Then he reached for you. You had time to take one breath before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours. The kiss was immediate. No slow beginning. No teasing pass. No careful little preview. Jack kissed you like he had spent the entire walk up from the beach thinking about it. Like the salt on your skin and the wet curve of your swimsuit and the warmth of the sun had all stacked up against him until even vacation Jack’s patience had limits. Your back hit the privacy wall with a soft thud. Jack’s hand came up behind your head before you could feel the wood, cushioning you automatically even while his mouth stayed urgent on yours.

That made it worse. The desperation. The care. The fact that even when he was losing control, he was still Jack. You grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him closer. He made a low sound into your mouth. The water ran beside you, splashing warm against the stone. Steam rose faintly where it hit sun-heated wood. Jack’s hand slid from your waist to your hip, then back again, like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you first and hated that he had to choose.

You broke the kiss only because you needed air. Jack did not go far. His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, salt and heat and pressure all at once. “You planned this,” you said, breathless.

His mouth dragged over the side of your throat. “I told you I did.”

You exhaled, “You admitted it too easily.”

Jack’s mouth moved lower.

Your stomach flipped. Jack’s hand found the tie of your swimsuit. He paused. His forehead pressed briefly to your temple. “Yes?”

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

His fingers moved. The wet fabric loosened. Jack kissed the spot beneath your ear. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”

You almost laughed. It came out as a shaky breath instead. “You’ve been slow all week.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “Not right now.”

“No,” you whispered. “Not right now.”

That was all he needed. He pulled you under the water with him. Warmth poured over your shoulders, down your back, over skin already hot from the sun and his hands. You gasped into his mouth when he kissed you again, and Jack caught the sound like he had been waiting for it. Your hands found his chest immediately. Saltwater. Warm skin. The steady beat of him under your palms. Jack looked down at you, breathing harder now, eyes darker than they had been all day.

“You,” he said.

It was not a sentence. It did not need to be. It was new enough to steal your breath. Jack, who always had a line. Jack, who could ruin you with three calm words and a raised eyebrow. Jack, who had spent the whole week walking you through exactly what he pictured. This Jack was looking at you like language had become inconvenient.

You pushed wet hair off his forehead. “Vacation Jack finally speechless?”

His hands tightened on your hips. “Not speechless.”

“No?”

His mouth came down hard against yours. “Busy.”

You laughed into the kiss, and then you stopped laughing because his hands moved with purpose. The water kept running. His mouth kept finding yours. Your swimsuit disappeared, guided away with hands that were both impatient and careful. Jack kissed each new place the water touched, but not with the unhurried reverence of the bedroom. This was needier. Messier. His mouth at your shoulder. Your collarbone. The top of your chest. His hands at your waist, your back, your hips, like he could not stand the thought of any part of you being out of reach.

“Jack,” you breathed. He hummed against your skin. You tipped your head back against the wall. “Oh my god.”

His mouth moved lower. Your hand flew to his hair. Jack looked up immediately. “Still good?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. His eyes held yours. You remembered what he needed. “Yes,” you said again. “Please.”

The heat in his face shifted. Not smug now. Not playful. Focused. Jack’s gaze dropped to the low teak bench beneath the towel hooks. Your breath caught before he said anything. His hand slid to your hip. “Sit.”

You looked from him to the bench. “Here?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Here.”

The wood was warm from the sun when you sank onto it, water spilling over your shoulders and down your chest. Jack stepped between your knees, one hand braced against the slatted wall beside your head, the other sliding over your thigh.

For a second, he only looked at you. Wet. Bare. Breathless. His wife, exactly where he had pictured you. Then his mouth found your skin. Jack stayed standing between your thighs, bending to kiss the water from your stomach, your hip, the sensitive skin just beneath it. His hand hooked behind your knee, drawing you closer to the edge of the bench, and your fingers flew to his hair when his mouth and tongue moved lower. The sound you made was immediate and helpless and much too loud.

Jack’s grip flexed on your thigh. You looked down at him, water running over his shoulders, his eyes closed like he was the one being ruined by it. “Jack,” you gasped.

His answer was a low sound against your skin. You pressed one hand to the bench and the other into his wet hair, trying to breathe, trying to hold still, trying to survive him when he clearly had no interest in making that easy. This was not like the bedroom. The bedroom had been slow enough to make you ache with it. This was Jack taking what he had been imagining since the listing photos. This was salt on your skin and water over both of you and his patience finally fraying at the edges. He still noticed everything, but now he reacted faster. Greedier. The second your breath caught, he chased it. The second your hips shifted, he held you closer. The second his name broke in your mouth, he answered like he had been waiting for it.

“Jack,” you said again. “Yes. Yes, right there.”

His hand tightened at your thigh. You made a sound that did not even try to be quiet. The ocean was loud. The shower was louder. Jack loved that. You could tell by the way he looked up at you, eyes dark and wrecked, mouth still against you like he had no intention of stopping.

“You’re louder out here,” he murmured.

You tried to glare at him. It did not work. “You said no one could hear.”

His mouth curved. “I said no one was close enough.”

“Jack.”

“I like hearing you,” he said.

Then he lowered his mouth again before you could answer. Your thoughts scattered. Both hands went to his hair now, fingers slipping through wet strands, holding on because there was nowhere else for all of it to go. Jack kept you seated at the edge of the bench, one hand steady at your hip, the other sliding up your thigh with a kind of impatience that made your entire body go tight.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. He did not. “Please.” He did not. “Jack, I’m—”

He groaned like he knew. Like he wanted it. Like the sound of you coming apart against his mouth was exactly what he had pictured when he stood in front of this shower for the first time and told you sand, salt, and. Your whole body tightened. “Jack,” you cried, hand fisting in his hair. “I’m gonna come.”

He held you harder. “Good,” he said, rough and low. “Let me have it.”

You came with the water running over you and his name breaking out of you, your thighs shaking around him, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the bench like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not rush you. He did not pull away until your body softened beneath his hands and your breathing started to find a rhythm again. Then he straightened, one arm sliding around your waist before your balance could even think about failing. His mouth found yours, and you tasted salt and heat and him. You clung to him.

Jack kissed you like he was not done. You knew he was not done. You were not either. Your hands moved to his trunks. He made a sound against your mouth. You paused, breathless, fingers hooked at his waistband. “Yes?”

Jack’s eyes flashed to yours. For all his earlier desperation, he went still for that. Then he nodded once. “Yes.” Your fingers moved. His forehead dropped briefly to yours. “Baby,” he said, voice strained.

You kissed him. That seemed to be the end of his patience. Jack’s hands were on you again, guiding, lifting, turning just enough to get you both where he wanted without either of you slipping. Your back met the wall again, warm water streaming over your shoulders while the late sun burned gold through the slats. He checked you once more. Even then.

His mouth brushed your cheek. “Still with me?”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Yes.”

His hand slid beneath your thigh, urging it higher against his hip. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”

Jack’s breath broke. Then he was there. Close. Everywhere.

Your head tipped back against the wall, and Jack’s mouth found your throat at the exact moment your body took him in. The sound you made was not quiet. Jack’s hand slammed against the wall beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed.

The word went straight through you. You clutched at him. “Jack.”

“I know.” His voice was rough now, almost unrecognizable. “I know.”

He moved carefully at first. Carefully because the floor was wet. Carefully because it was still Jack. But there was nothing patient about it. Not really. Not in the way his mouth kept dragging over your skin. Not in the way his hand gripped your thigh. Not in the way his breath kept catching against your neck every time you said his name. The shower poured over both of you. The ocean roared beyond the wall. His body was solid and hot against yours, pinning you there, holding you up, taking the weight you could not manage anymore.

You loved him. You loved him so much you could barely stand it. “I love you,” you gasped.

Jack’s rhythm faltered. His forehead pressed to your temple. “Say it again.”

You tightened your arms around him. “I love you.”

His mouth found yours, hard and desperate. “Again.”

“Jack.”

“Again,” he said, voice breaking around the word.

Your chest split open. “I love you,” you said into his mouth. “I love you, I love you.”

He groaned, rough and helpless, and buried his face in your neck. His hand shifted at your thigh, holding you closer, changing the angle just enough that your whole body jerked against him.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

Jack’s mouth moved against your throat. “There?”

“Yes.” Your nails pressed into his shoulders. “Yes. More.”

He gave you more. The wall was solid behind you. Jack was solid in front of you. The water kept running over your skin, over his shoulders, between you, making everything slippery and hot and impossible to hold onto except him. You said his name again. Then yes. Then more. Then don’t stop.

Jack took every word like it hit him somewhere deep. He was not quiet either now. Not completely. His breath was rough at your ear. Your name slipped out of him once, then again, low and wrecked, like he was trying to keep himself together and failing because you were wrapped around him, wet and shaking and saying you loved him.

“Feels so good,” you whispered.

His hand tightened at your thigh. “Yeah?”

You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “So good.”

Jack kissed you hard enough to steal the rest of it. You felt yourself getting close again, too fast and not fast enough, pleasure building sharp and hot beneath your skin. Your fingers slipped on his wet shoulders. Your leg tightened around his hip. Your breath caught once, twice, and Jack knew. “I’ve got you,” he said.

You shook your head. “Jack.”

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, rougher this time.

“I’m gonna—”

“I know.” His mouth brushed yours. “Come for me.”

You did. You came hard, clinging to him, his name breaking out of you as the water ran over both of you and the ocean swallowed the sound. Jack followed almost immediately, one hand braced against the wall, the other holding you so close there was nowhere for either of you to go. For a moment, everything narrowed to heat and water and his mouth at your shoulder. Then slowly, Jack stilled. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Yours was not much better. You were both wet, shaking, and pressed against the wall of an outdoor shower in broad late-afternoon light like two people who had completely forgotten how vacations were supposed to work. Jack’s hand slid from the wall to the back of your head, cushioning you more gently now.

“Okay?” he asked. You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack lifted his head immediately. “Baby?”

You nodded quickly, then found your voice. “Yes.”

His face softened with relief, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah?”

You let your head fall back against the wall. “I think I saw god.”

Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed, breathless and startled, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You smiled up at the open sky. The shower kept running. His arms stayed around you. After a moment, Jack kissed your shoulder. “Can you stand?”

You frowned. “That is an offensive question.”

“It’s a practical question,” Jack replied.

You sighed. “It is offensively practical.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “I need to know if I should keep holding you.”

You tightened your arms around his neck. “You should keep holding me.”

Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Okay.”

For a while, he just held you under the water. No more urgency. No more desperate hands or frantic kisses. Just warm water, his body around yours, his breath slowly evening out against your temple. Eventually, Jack reached for the soap. You cracked one eye open. “Are you actually rinsing off now?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That was the original plan.”

You returned his smile. “You told me this was for sand.”

“It was,” he said.

“And salt,” you added.

He nodded. “Also true.”

“And?” you murmured.

He started washing your shoulder, gentle now, careful around skin he had just kissed like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes met yours. “And this,” he said.

Your heart flipped over itself. You let him wash the salt from your skin. Let him turn you carefully beneath the water. Let him smooth soap over your shoulders, your arms, your back. Let him be soft again because that was Jack too. Desperate one minute, devastatingly gentle the next. When he reached your hip, his thumb moved once, almost absent.

You looked up at him. “Do not start again.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours, innocent in a way that fooled exactly no one. “I’m rinsing you off.”

“You are thinking,” you replied.

Jack smirked. “I do that.”

You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”

His mouth curved. “I’m thinking we need dinner.”

You stared at him. “That is not what you were thinking.”

“No,” Jack admitted. “But we do need dinner.”

You laughed, tired and happy, and leaned forward until your forehead rested against his chest. Jack kissed your wet hair. “You okay?” he asked again, quieter.

You nodded against him. “Yeah.”

His hand moved over your back. “Good.”

You tipped your face up. “You?”

His eyes softened. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” you asked.

Jack’s smile turned smaller, warmer. “Very.”

You reached up and pushed wet hair off his forehead. For a second, he let you. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack, standing with you beneath the outdoor shower, sun going soft around the privacy wall, water running over both of you while the ocean moved beyond the dunes.

Jack kissed you once more, slow and satisfied and warm under the water. This time, neither of you rushed. This time, the shower was actually for rinsing off. Mostly.

On the last morning, you woke to Jack still in bed. No coffee brewing downstairs. No suitcase zipped by the door. No quiet, careful attempt to start the day before you were ready. Just Jack behind you, warm and bare under the sheets, his hand spread over your stomach while the ocean moved beyond the cracked-open doors.

“You’re awake,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.

Jack kissed your shoulder. “So are you.”

You shifted slightly against him. “You’re usually doing something by now.”

His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I am doing something.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Holding me hostage?”

“Memorizing,” Jack said.

Your chest went soft. You turned in his arms enough to look at him. “Was it what you pictured?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and tired and entirely too pleased with himself. “No.”

Your brows lifted. “No?”

His mouth curved. “Better.”

You groaned and tucked your face into his chest. “I need a vacation from vacation Jack.”

Jack’s hand slid over your back. “We can book another one.”

“Absolutely not,” you said against his skin.

“Different house,” he offered.

You lifted your head. “No.”

“Better shower,” Jack said.

“Jack.”

His smile widened. “Vacation.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Jack’s arms tightened around you. “You are not allowed to say vacation anymore,” you said.

His mouth brushed your temple. “Vacation.”

You pinched his side lightly. “I hate you.”

Jack laughed softly. “No, you don’t.”

No, you didn’t. Outside, the ocean kept moving. Inside, the suitcases stayed empty for a few more minutes, and Jack’s hand stayed warm at your waist.

Real life could have you later.

For now, he did.

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If you don't terrify people, what's the point.