She sighs, loudly, dramatically, and swims to the edge of the pool.
With a huff, she hoists herself out, water cascading down her body like a goddess rising from the sea. Malvor watches, clearly enjoying the view far too much.
She turns sharply, still dripping, and flips him off. "You're the worst," she says flatly.
He just wiggles his fingers at her in a mock wave. "And yet, so adored."
"Not right now, you aren't." She snatches a towel from the nearby chair, wraps it tightly around herself, and marches toward the villa. "You are not allowed to look at me," she tosses over her shoulder.
Malvor, smug as ever, reclines back and takes a sip of his wine. "Too late."
From inside the villa, the sound of a door slamming shut echoes through the courtyard.
He grins to himself. Worth it.
That evening, Malvor appears in the doorway of her room, freshly dressed in a crisp black shirt rolled to the elbows and tailored pants that fit just right. No magic enhancements this time, just a man looking damn good.
"Annie, amore mio," he says with a playful bow, offering his hand. "Put on something that makes you feel like a goddess. I'm taking you to my favorite spot. No chaos, no games. Just the best Italian food this realm, or any realm, has to offer."
She eyes him suspiciously. "Define 'no games.'"
He holds up three fingers. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"I was once banned from a mortal summer camp for causing a pasta-based food fight in 1523. Close enough."
Despite herself, she smiles.
They arrive at a cozy, tucked-away Italian restaurant, nothing grand, just a little mom-and-pop place nestled between olive trees and aged stone. The scent of garlic, fresh basil, and wood-fired bread fills the air. A weathered old man greets Malvor like an old friend, kissing both his cheeks and loudly exclaiming something in rapid Italian about "that time with the goat and the firework."
Malvor grins, then turns to Annie. "Don't ask."
The place is warm, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of an accordion drifting from a corner. They are seated at a small table near a window overlooking the vineyards, a single candle flickering between them.
He watches her, more relaxed than usual, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes. She lifts her glass of wine, and he clinks his to hers.
"To peace," he says softly.
She quirks a brow. "And pasta."
He grins. "And pasta."
The food is fresh, rich with flavor, and undeniably perfect. The kind of meal that wraps around the soul and makes the world feel softer.
The first course is warm bread, crusty on the outside and pillowy inside, served with olive oil so rich it glows golden in the candlelight. Annie dips a piece and takes a bite, eyes fluttering shut at the taste.
Malvor watches her like she's the most fascinating thing in the room, quiet, amused, and entirely gentlemanly. No teasing, no obnoxious jokes, just soft smiles and the occasional murmured, "Do you like it?"
The pasta arrives next, handmade tagliatelle with wild mushrooms and a white wine cream sauce for her, and something bold and spicy for him. Every bite is better than the last.
"This is incredible," she admits between bites, wiping her lips with a cloth napkin.
"I told you," Malvor says, eyes warm, not smug for once. "The food is made with love. The owner's been cooking with his wife for nearly 200 years."
Annie blinks. "That's a long time."
"They're both fae. Aging doesn't touch them like it does to mortals. Thank the gods, because I never want this food to stop."
He tops off her wine with a flourish but does not crowd her. He does not push, does not reach under the table, does not even flirt beyond the occasional half smile that says I could, but I will not.
It is… peaceful. And kind. And good.
When dessert arrives, tiny cups of espresso and a slice of tiramisu light as air, he says nothing, just slides it toward her with a soft, "Here, this one's my favorite."
She takes a bite and hums. He smiles at the sound, like it's the best thing he's heard all day.
For once, there's no chaos.
Just comfort. Connection. A quiet, simple moment.
And Malvor, the trickster god of mischief, doesn't ruin it.
Not even a little.
The night air is cool and carries the scent of salt and citrus, the kind of quiet that settles softly over the skin instead of biting through it. The waterfront is lit by low, golden lanterns that cast dancing reflections on the rippling tide.
Malvor does not speak.
He just holds her hand.
No dramatic monologue, no over-the-top pet names, no antics. His fingers are warm and steady in hers, his thumb gently brushing the back of her hand now and then, like he needs the contact but doesn't want to draw attention to it.
It's startlingly intimate, more so than any teasing or stolen kiss. It's… real.
Annie glances at him, half expecting a smirk or some snide remark, but Malvor is just looking out over the water. The wind tugs at his hair. The moonlight catches the edges of his profile, and there's a softness there she's rarely seen. His chaos is quiet tonight.
He looks at peace.
And when she leans into him, just slightly, he does not say a word, he only tightens his grip on her hand and lets her rest against him.
For a moment, it does not feel like god and mortal, or mischief and madness.
It feels like two people, walking by the water, in no rush to be anywhere else.
Two people falling hard for each other but neither able to acknowledge it.
Yes. That's exactly what it is.
Two people, one ancient, powerful, chaotic; the other scarred, strong, and impossibly human, falling hard and fast into something neither of them is ready to name.
They feel it in the quiet.