The first thing I noticed was the quiet.
Not the kind of silence that follows chaos — this one was alive, gentle, like the world was breathing slowly again.
Sunlight slipped through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in shades of gold and cream. I could hear the sea outside, steady and distant, as if it had decided to keep our secrets for one more day.
Marco was still asleep beside me.
For a moment, I just watched him — the rise and fall of his chest, the faint curve of his mouth, the way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. There was a peace in him I'd never seen before. Gone was the guarded man with the weight of the world behind his eyes. This Marco looked younger, softer, like the boy he might've been before life demanded so much of him.
I traced a line along his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. The small scars there told their own story — of battles fought, of nights endured. And somehow, even in sleep, he looked protective. My protector, even when he no longer needed to be.
He stirred slightly, his hand finding mine without opening his eyes. "You're staring," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Maybe I am," I said softly. "You look different."
His eyes opened then — hazel and gold in the morning light. "Different how?"
"Peaceful." I smiled faintly. "It's… strange to see."
He chuckled under his breath, pulling me a little closer. "That's because I finally have something worth being at peace for."
My breath caught. His words were simple, but they carried the kind of weight that lodges in your chest and stays there. I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him seep into me.
"I don't know how you do that," I said.
"Do what?"
"Make everything feel easy when it shouldn't be."
He tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of mine. "Maybe it's not about making it easy. Maybe it's about finally letting it be simple."
I smiled against his skin. "You really have changed."
"Or maybe I've just stopped running," he said quietly. "From them. From the past. From myself."
I looked up at him, studying the man I'd fought beside, loved against all odds, lost and found again. There was a steadiness in his eyes now — not the sharp, guarded intensity that used to keep people away, but something softer. Present. Whole.
"You used to hide behind your strength," I said. "Now it feels like you're not afraid to be… gentle."
He brushed his thumb over my cheek, slow and deliberate. "That's because you taught me it isn't weakness."
The world outside shifted — the breeze stirring the curtains, the faint scent of salt and citrus drifting through the air. He leaned in, his lips barely grazing mine, the kiss feather-light but full of meaning. It wasn't about passion or urgency anymore. It was about belonging.
When we parted, he rested his forehead against mine. "You're thinking again," he whispered.
"Always," I said with a small laugh. "Old habits."
He smiled, fingers tracing lazy circles along my wrist. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"That maybe for the first time in my life," I said, voice soft, "I don't feel like I'm waiting for something bad to happen. I don't feel like I have to be strong all the time."
He looked at me for a long moment, then said, "You don't. You never did — you just didn't believe anyone could stand beside you without trying to break your armor."
"And you?"
"I'm not here to break it," he said. "I'm here to help you lay it down."
The way he said it — quiet, certain — made something inside me tremble.
I cupped his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing along his jaw. "You really mean it, don't you?"
He smiled, eyes soft. "Every word."
We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the stillness of morning. His hand traced patterns along my back, the kind of touch that wasn't asking for anything — just reminding me he was there, that I was safe.
Outside, the gulls cried faintly over the sea. The light shifted, golden deepening into white. The world was waking, but neither of us moved.
At some point, I reached for the coffee waiting on the table by the bed. The mugs were still warm — he must've made them earlier and brought them back before I woke. It was such a simple gesture, but it hit me harder than any grand confession.
I handed him one and took a sip of mine. "Still making mine the same way," I said. "Strong enough to keep me awake for days."
He laughed quietly. "Old habits die hard."
"Not all of them should," I said, smiling into my cup.
We sat in the golden hush, the air thick with unspoken things. Every glance, every small smile, felt like rediscovery. Like we were relearning each other in a world that finally allowed softness.
He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You know," he said, "for someone who claims she doesn't know how to relax, you're doing a pretty good job of it."
"I'm learning," I murmured.
"And I'm a very patient teacher," he said, his smile deepening.
The rest of the morning slipped by in slow motion — light and laughter, quiet conversation, shared glances that said more than words ever could. We didn't need grand declarations anymore. Just the steady rhythm of two hearts finally at ease.
I looked at him, really looked, and realized something simple but undeniable: we'd both been broken in different ways, but somewhere between the fire and the stillness, we had pieced each other back together.
Not perfectly. But beautifully.
And as I leaned into him, letting the world fall away, I knew this was what love was meant to feel like — not a battlefield, not a war to be won, but a quiet, endless morning that never truly ends.