The summer sun beats mercilessly on her back; she shields her eyes from the sun as she looks off at her destination.
Somehow, it looks smaller in person than she imagined it to be; from her correspondence with the travel agent, she was imagining something larger, more ornate.
The cool air of a wayward breeze pricks at her skin as she walks in, sets down her purse and takes off her sunglasses to survey the scene. Lightly painted walls, dainty wicker chairs set around a wicker table - different from what she's used to, to be sure. Lighter, airier, less inclined to stuffiness: in other words, perfect.
A smile tugs at her lips as she hears him come up behind her, panting ever-so-slightly, and his hands clasp onto her shoulders, "you left me behind," he says, burying his face into her neck, and kissing it repeatedly, "our luggage is still in the rental car -"
"Danny," she says, without turning to face him, "this is our honeymoon."
"I know," he replies.
"Anything else can wait." Her tone - the tone she used with him when they were back in Washington, back when the thought of anything between the two of them beyond the occasional visit to her office was a mere fantasy, back when she was the press secretary and he was the reporter and never shall the two streams meet - carries a certain conviction with it that anyone, but especially him, would be hard-pressed not to listen to.
He nods, she can feel the motion of his head moving against her shoulder, and he says, "Guess I need to carry my bride across the threshold."
"We already had our wedding night," she says, a faint pink tinging her cheeks as she remembers the details of exactly what had transpired in their airline seats and her silent prayer that American Airlines didn't question any unusual stains on their seat covers too intently, "I don't think you need to -" When he resumes kissing her neck, adding in the occasional nip and sigh, she feels her knees - and her resolve - weakening. He knew all of her weakest areas; it wasn't fair that her neck was one of them.
He gently scoops her up; she wraps her arms around his neck and tucks her legs back. As they walk over the threshold of the bedroom, her foot slams into the doorframe: this is an activity clearly designed for shorter brides, blonde and beautiful, none of which she is.
He sets her down on the bed and sits next to her. "You're so beautiful," he says, running a hand over her cheek, and she wonders - to herself, she doesn't say it out loud - if he can read minds.
"And you," she murmurs, feeling the travel fatigue set in, feeling all the stress of planning a wedding and going through with it and traveling to a small island where they'll be left alone for the most part melting away, "you are -"
"You're tired," he says, "sleep. We have all the time in the world." He lays a blanket over her, and she feels him wrap his arms around her waist and scoot up behind her. His breath evens out before hers, but her own sleep comes before she realizes.