DYLAN
My Wife. Mine. Finally.
There's something about watching Hermione sleep that silences the world.
She's curled up in our bed — my shirt drowning her frame, lashes fanned across cheeks that still hold the faintest blush from last night.
From our wedding night.
My wife.
God, I love saying that.
My wife.
She sighed my name in her sleep about twenty minutes ago, and I swear my heart cracked open all over again.
I should let her rest. I should go downstairs, call the yacht captain, check in with Adrian.
But instead…
I bring her coffee in bed.
And not just any coffee. I grinded those damn beans myself, imported from some tiny Greek village the villa host swore by.
She stirs when the scent hits her. Her lashes flutter, and those golden-brown eyes blink open with the softest smile.
"Morning," she whispers.
"Good morning, Mrs. Voss," I murmur, setting the tray beside her.
She sits up slowly, clutching the mug with both hands like it's magic. Her hair is wild, and her voice is still rasped with sleep.
I'm obsessed.
Hopelessly, irreversibly obsessed.
"You're watching me," she teases, sipping.
"Always."
She gives me that look — the one that says 'You're too much' and 'Don't stop' at the same time.
I sit at the edge of the bed, my hand sliding over her bare thigh.
"I don't think I've ever been this happy," she says after a moment.
I press a kiss to her knee. "Then get used to it. I plan to make you happier every damn day."
By afternoon, we're out on the yacht — just me, her, and the horizon. I insisted we do something private. Intimate. No security breathing down our necks. No press. No shadows.
Just us.
She lays beside me in a red bikini that should be illegal.
I spend more time watching her read than enjoying the ocean.
"You're staring again," she says without looking up.
"I paid for the view."
She laughs, low and warm. "You own the whole damn sea now?"
"No. Just the most beautiful part of it." I pull off my sunglasses. "You."
We dock just before sunset and walk barefoot along the cliffs.
She wraps her arms around me from behind while I point out a house I bought the night before the wedding.
"What is that?" she asks.
"Our second honeymoon spot."
She swats my arm. "You're insane."
"No," I say, turning to face her. "I'm yours."
Later, we make love under the stars. There's no rush. No noise. Just the sound of her moans, the whisper of her name from my mouth, and the feel of her heart beating against mine.
She falls asleep wrapped around me like a vine.
And I stay awake, watching her breathe.
For the first time in my life, forever doesn't scare me.
It feels like home.
HERMIONE
If there's a place more beautiful than Santorini in the morning, I haven't found it yet.
Sunlight spills over whitewashed cliffs and endless blue waves. The sea breeze kisses my skin, warm and soft, like everything in this new chapter of my life. The sky is painted with pastels, like a painting someone dreamed too perfectly to be real.
And somewhere beneath the open terrace, I hear him.
Dylan.
Humming.
Making coffee.
Shirtless.
My husband.
A smile slips across my lips before I even open my eyes.
Husband.
God, I'll never get tired of that.
I find him in the kitchen of the villa, standing by the French press, wearing only linen pants and a gold chain that glints against his sun-kissed chest. His back is to me, but somehow, he still knows I've entered.
"Good morning, Mrs. Voss," he murmurs without turning. "Sleep well?"
I walk up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Like a baby who married a billionaire in Paris."
He chuckles, turning to hand me a cup. "Decided to skip the usual headlines and go straight to fairytale, huh?"
"Just skipping the trauma part," I say, taking a sip. "We've had enough of that."
He watches me, quiet for a moment, then brushes a thumb across my cheek. "You really are glowing."
"Well, you did marry me under a glass roof and ten thousand roses. I think that entitles me to a permanent glow."
We both laugh.
And for a little while, we just… exist.
The rest of the day feels like a dream.
We sail on a private yacht around the Aegean Sea, just the two of us and a discreet crew that knows to vanish when we want privacy — which is often. We eat oysters, sip chilled champagne, and toast to a future that no longer feels scary.
At sunset, we swim.
And by nightfall…
He makes love to me under the stars.
Not rushed. Not desperate. But slow, reverent, sacred.
"God, I love you," he murmurs, breath warm against my collarbone.
"I know," I whisper, tangling my fingers in his hair. "I love you too."
Later, curled up in the oversized bed with white linen sheets and nothing but the sound of waves outside, he pulls me onto his chest.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" he asks, fingers stroking slow circles along my spine.
"Tell me."
"Our next chapter."
"Already?"
He lifts a brow. "I'm a Voss. Planning is how I breathe."
I giggle. "Okay. What's the plan?"
He kisses the top of my head. "We wake up every morning and choose each other. We run our empire. We protect our peace. We raise hell in boardrooms and hold each other in bed."
"That's your five-year plan?"
"No," he says, voice softening. "That's my forever plan."
I blink back tears.
Because it really does feel like forever has finally begun.