The backyard is bathed in dim light—a single string of warm bulbs draped over the patio, casting long shadows across the pool.

Mera is perched on the edge, bare legs dangling in the water up to her knees, her head tilted back as she laughs at something.

Bryson is in the pool, floating on his back near her. But he isn't swimming.

His hands are wrapped around her calves. His lips press slow, deliberate kisses along the arch of her foot. She giggles, toes curling, completely oblivious to the weight of the moment.

And you know that routine. You've felt those lips on your own skin, in that exact same spot, on a hundred summer nights just like this one.

<Narrator>: His head lifts. His eyes find yours across the yard.