From inside the villa, I heard the door slam. Sharp. Final. I grinned to myself. Worth it. That evening, I appeared in the doorway of her room, freshly dressed, black shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, tailored trousers that fit like sin. No illusions this time. No tricks. Just me. Looking the way I wanted her to see me.
"Annie, amore mio," I said with a bow, offering my 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 eyed me like I'd just promised her the moon. "Define 'no games.'"
I held 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 1923. Close enough." She smiled, despite herself. Victory.
The little restaurant was tucked away between olive trees and weathered stone, the kind of place mortals dream of stumbling across on some accidental holiday. Garlic, basil, wood-fired bread, every scent wrapped around us like a spell. The owner greeted me like an old friend, kissing both cheeks and loudly exclaiming something in rapid Italian about goats and fireworks. Annie stared. I grinned. "Don't ask."
Inside was warm, golden, full of laughter and clinking glasses. An accordion hummed in the corner. We sat at a small table by the window, a single candle flickering between us. She looked softer in that light, the sharp edges of survival smoothing just enough to breathe. She lifted her glass. I clinked mine against it. "To peace," I said.
Her brow quirked. "And pasta."
I grinned. "And pasta."
The food was perfect, the kind of perfect that slips past your defenses. Bread crusted golden, pillowy inside, olive oil so rich it could've been bottled sunlight. She dipped a piece, took a bite, and her eyes fluttered shut. I nearly forgot to breathe. I watched her, quiet. No jokes. No antics. Just watching. Occasionally murmuring, "Do you like it?" She would nod or mumble yes with her mouth full.
The pasta came next, handmade tagliatelle with mushrooms and cream for her, something bolder for me. She wiped her lips with a napkin, nodded in approval. "This is incredible."
"I told you," I said, softer than I meant. "The food is made with love. The owners, fae, both of them, have been cooking together for nearly two centuries."
Her eyes widened. "That's a long time."
"Thank the gods," I replied, topping off her wine with a flourish. "Because I never want their food to stop."
I didn't flirt beyond a smile or two. Didn't push. Didn't crowd. For once, I let peace sit at the table with us. Dessert was espresso and tiramisu, light as air. I slid the plate toward her. "This one's my favorite."
She took a bite, hummed, and I smiled at the sound like it was the most precious thing in existence. For once, I didn't ruin it. Not even a little. The night air after was cool, carrying salt and citrus. Lanterns lit the waterfront in gold, reflections dancing on the tide. I didn't speak. I just held her hand. No monologue. No elaborate nickname. Just the warmth of her fingers in mine, my thumb brushing her skin now and then like I needed the contact but didn't want to startle her with it. She glanced at me, like she expected a smirk, a quip. But I had none. I was just… looking. At the water. At her. At this moment. My chaos was quiet. She leaned into me. Just slightly. I didn't say a word. I only tightened my grip, steady. It struck me, sudden and sharp: this didn't feel like god and mortal. Not trickster and survivor. It felt like two people. Walking. Breathing. Falling. Falling hard.
Neither of us said it. Neither of us dared. But it was there. In the quiet, it was undeniable. I felt it. In the brush of her hand against mine, in the way our steps found the same rhythm, in the fact that she didn't pull away, and gods help me, I didn't let go. We were falling. Hard. But neither of us said it. Saying it would've made it real. Saying it would've torn down the last of our walls, and neither of us was ready to be that bare. Not yet. So we just walked by the water, hearts loud, mouths quiet.
The night was nothing but whispers and soft touches, her fingers mapping my skin like promises, my voice low and hers softer still. No rush. No demands. Just the quiet undoing of two people who didn't know how badly they'd needed this until it was right here. There was healing in every kiss, every brush of my hand along her back, every time her fingers threaded into my hair like she'd been doing it her whole life. I didn't hold her to claim. I held her to keep her together. To keep me together. I had never held anyone like this before. Like they were fragile. Like if I let go, I'd lose the only thing that had ever felt like home. And maybe that was what this was. Two broken things finding something whole in each other. No declarations. No labels. Not yet. Just warmth. Just healing. Just us.
Morning came wrapped in golden light, slow and heavy, filtering through gauzy curtains that shifted with the sea breeze. The air smelled like salt, sun-warmed stone, and faint traces of her shampoo that clung to my skin. I stirred first, not because I needed sleep. I rarely did, but because she was there. Tangled against me. Breathing evenly. Her hair spilled across the pillow like ink. She looked… peaceful. Content. Gods, I didn't want to wake her. So I didn't.
I lay still, one arm tucked under my head, the other wrapped around her waist, my thumb tracing lazy circles into her back. I didn't need to touch her to feel her. Our bond still hummed with the calm she'd carried into her dreams. I liked that. I liked this. I liked us. When she stirred, it was slow, her body stretching into mine, a little hum slipping out before her eyes fluttered open. She smiled, unguarded, soft.
"You were watching me," she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"I'm allowed," I whispered back. "You're mine, remember?"
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Instead, she kissed my collarbone and dropped back against me with a sigh that damn near stopped my heart. Minutes stretched like honey, slow and golden, before she pushed up on one elbow. "I should make coffee."
I caught her hand. "Stay."
"I can stay and still make coffee, Mally."
The nickname did things to my chest I'd rather not discuss. I groaned theatrically but let her slip away, watching her bare form move unashamed in the light. Gods. She came back minutes later with two steaming mugs. Kissed my forehead as she handed me mine.
"Thank you," I said softly, too softly for me, but I didn't care, and dragged her back into bed. The coffee sat forgotten while she curled against me again, her head on my chest, my hand moving lazy circles down her spine. No chaos. No distractions. Just us.
"This is the best vacation I've ever been on," she said, half teasing. "Technically my first vacation."
"This is my best vacation ever because of you, Annie, amore." I said it so sincerely it hurt.
She smiled against my chest. "Gods, you're such a sap."
"Only for you, tesoro mio."
The morning wrapped around us, slow and golden. The sheets tangled at our legs, warm with sleep and skin. Outside, birds sang. Inside, she traced my tattoos with idle fingers, and I rubbed circles into her back, over and over. "Do mortals always look this good in the morning?" I murmured.
She narrowed her eyes. "Do gods always flirt this early?"
"Only when they wake up next to the most breathtaking woman in any realm."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile. We stayed like that. Talking, teasing, touching soft. Not planning tomorrow. Not worrying about the next step. Just being. Together.