Morning came soft and unhurried, gray light easing into gold before either of them stirred. Mel woke first this time, her cheek pressed against Lucas's chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her ear. She didn't move right away, savoring the rare stillness of him — no phone in his hand, no tension coiled in his shoulders, just sleep loosening every hard line she'd grown used to.
When he finally woke, it was to find her watching him.
"That's twice now," he murmured, voice rough with sleep. "You watching me sleep."
"Someone has to make sure you're still human under all that composure."
He huffed something close to a laugh and pulled her closer instead of answering, as if the words themselves might break the fragile quiet of the morning.
They didn't rush getting up. He made toast badly and coffee well, and she teased him mercilessly about the former while he pretended to be wounded by it.
They ate standing at the kitchen counter, shoulders bumping, and somewhere between the jam and the second cup of coffee, she caught him just looking at her — not guarded, not calculating, just quietly happy — and something in her chest turned over.
By midday they'd wandered out to the small garden behind the house, Mel wrapped in one of his sweaters against the cool air, insisting she was fine while he hovered anyway.
They ended up sitting on the stone steps, her knees pulled to her chest, his arm slung loosely around her, the two of them doing nothing at all except existing next to each other, which felt like its own kind of luxury.
"I keep waiting for this to feel like too much," she admitted quietly, watching a bird pick through the grass. "The quiet. The softness of it. I'm not used to being taken care of like this."
Lucas was silent for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against her shoulder. "Get used to it," he said finally. "I intend to be insufferable about it for a very long time."
She laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of her — and leaned her head against him, and he pressed a kiss to her hair like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The afternoon slipped away in small, unremarkable pieces: him reading while she dozed against his side; her stealing bites off his plate at lunch and pretending she hadn't; a long, lazy walk to the edge of the property and back, her hand tucked into his the entire way, neither of them saying much because nothing needed saying.
By evening, standing at the window as the sky bruised into violet, Mel realized she couldn't remember the last time a day had felt this whole.
"Alessandro," she said softly, testing the shape of the moment.
He turned, and whatever he saw in her face made his own soften completely. "I know," he said, before she could find the words. "I feel it too."
And for once, neither of them needed to say more than that.