Tristan kept telling himself he would leave after the next shoot, then the next bonus payment, then the next perfect sunset campaign, but the island had a way of making escape feel unnecessary. His body kept changing, growing heavier and softer by the week, until even crossing the beach left him flushed, winded, and aware of the way his thighs rubbed together beneath his increasingly strained swim trunks. He felt huge, bigger than he had ever imagined himself becoming, but there was no scale anywhere on the island, and every time he voiced concern, the chefs, stylists, maids, and butlers laughed it off with soothing insistence. He was just relaxed. He was filling out. The camera loved him like this.
Before long, standing through a full shoot became impossible. After ten or fifteen minutes under the sun, Tristan’s legs trembled, sweat rolled down his softened torso, and he had to lower himself heavily onto the sand with an embarrassed groan. The photographers adjusted without complaint, circling him as he sat there catching his breath, turning his exhaustion into another sultry pose while the owner watched approvingly from the shade.