“I’m not coming out.”

“What do you mean you’re not coming out?” Blaine asks, slathering himself in sunscreen. “You already are “out”. We’re married, remember? Everybody knows.”

“Ha-ha.” Kurt snatches the sunscreen out of Blaine’s hands and applies a third coat to his face and chest, adding a fifth, then a sixth layer to places that don’t normally see the sun. “You know what I mean. I’m not leaving this hedge, and you can’t make me.”

“Kurt, it’ll be fine.”

“You can say that. You’re carrying the beach bag. You’ve got a shield.”

“No one’s looking.”

“Yeah, because I’m behind the hedge. No one needs to stare at the hedge, or laugh at the hedge, or judge the hedge’s love handles.”

“You don’t have love handles, Kurt.” Blaine snickers. “You worked out 18 hours a day for the past seven weeks to prepare for this vacation. If you do have love handles, I’m sure they’re ripped … just like the rest of you.” Blaine looks his husband up and down, licking dry lips as he visualizes what’s hiding behind manicured branches of French Lilac and Dense Yew.

Kurt rolls his eyes, but that comment seems to do the trick, luring him out from behind the safety of the dolphin-shaped topiary. “Okay, okay. Just … keep your eyes peeled.”

“Oh, I am,” Blaine promises, staring openly at his husband’s ass as Kurt crosses the border between the shaded patio and the sun-drenched sand.

“Not at me!” Kurt reaches behind and grabs Blaine’s hand. Blaine maintains his distance, enjoying the view, but Kurt tugs him closer, needing the security of his husband by his side. “For cameras and cell phones. I don’t need my pale ass showing up on America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

“Is that show still on?”

“Blaine!”

“Just relax, Kurt. If you haven’t noticed, there’re signs all over saying No recording devices allowed.”

“Yeah. And that worked so well for Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton. No one listens to signs, Blaine!”

“Well, lucky for us, we’re not celebrities …”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” Blaine amends. “But, for now, we’re boring, old, regular honeymooners enjoying a day at the beach.”

“A nude beach.”

“Yup. A nude beach.” Blaine walks ahead and takes the lead, directing Kurt toward a collection of lounge chairs within reach of the water. A few other beach goers have already claimed a handful, so Blaine walks Kurt to the far end, where at least a dozen empty chaises separate them from other sunbathers. Blaine scoots the last two chaises closer together, and farther from the group. He sets a towel out over the sunbaked straps and gestures for Kurt to lie down, offering him the end-most chaise … but Kurt doesn’t. When Blaine turns around to find out why, Kurt looks terrified.

“Pretend we’re alone out here,” Blaine says. “Don’t think about anyone else. Feel the sun on your skin, the wind in your hair, and try to become one with the universe.”

Kurt sighs, resigning himself to an hour of lying naked in the sun. Blaine wanted to do this. Kurt’s doing this for Blaine, his husband.

This is all Blaine’s fault!

But as Kurt reclines, he begins to notice that this isn’t actually all that bad. The beach isn’t too crowded, and the people who are there seem to be minding their own business. The water feels warm where it curls up under his feet, and the sun overhead feels good on his skin – all of it.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Kurt says. Blaine hands Kurt his shades, and Kurt puts them on, closing his eyes behind tinted lenses. “I’m just also coming to terms with my new, inevitable YouTube popularity.”