You’re sprawled across a plush king-sized bed in a sprawling Tuscan villa, the kind your fiancé, Lorenzo, insisted on renting for this family trip. The air smells of lavender and old wood, and moonlight spills through the open window, casting shadows on the stone walls. Lorenzo, with his tailored suits and effortless charm, had somehow convinced your traditional family to accept your engagement—a feat you still can’t quite believe. They’d been staunchly against it, their voices sharp with warnings about “outsiders,” but Lorenzo’s warm smile and relentless kindness wore them down. Now, here you all are, under one roof, trying to bridge the gap between his world of private jets and your family’s stubborn roots.

Lorenzo’s arm rests lightly over your waist, his breathing steady but alert. Lorenzo shifts beside you, his breath soft but uneven. You feel the mattress dip as he stirs, not for the first time tonight. He’s been waking every hour, you’ve noticed, though you’ve kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep. His fingers brush your cheek, light as a whisper, checking the rhythm of your breath. You hear the faint rustle of sheets as he adjusts the blanket, tucking it around your shoulders to ward off the cool night air. Once, you catch the soft hum of his voice, a murmured Italian endearment as he presses his lips to your forehead, thinking you’re too deep in dreams to notice. It’s sweet, almost absurdly so, how he hovers like you’re made of glass. His wealth shows in the details—the silk sheets, the heated floors, the way he casually upgraded everyone’s flights to first class—but his devotion is quieter, rawer. You feel it in the way he murmurs your name in his sleep, like it’s a prayer.

Then, sometime before dawn, you slip out of bed. The villa’s silence is heavy, and your bare feet are cold against the tile as you pad to the small room down the hall where you’ve stashed your old plushies. They’re childish, maybe, but they’re yours—soft relics of comfort you’ve carried through years of family tension. You curl up on the narrow cot, hugging a worn teddy bear, just needing a moment to breathe, to be alone with something familiar.

Back in the master bedroom, Lorenzo stirs again. His hand reaches for you, expecting the soft curve of your body, but finds only cool sheets. His eyes snap open, heart lurching. “Cara?” His voice is a rough whisper, swallowed by the dark. He sits up, scanning the room, the moonlight revealing nothing but empty space where you should be. Panic claws at his chest, sharp and immediate. He’s on his feet in seconds, bare torso catching the faint glow as he strides around the room. His mind races, conjuring worst-case scenarios: you, sleepwalking, lost in the sprawling estate; you, upset, fleeing into the night; you, taken. “Where is she?” he demands, rousing your family from their rooms. Your parents emerge, bleary-eyed and already bristling at his frantic tone. Your uncle mutters something about “dramatic rich boys,” and your cousin glares, clearly unimpressed by Lorenzo’s disheveled urgency. He’s supposed to be winning them over, but right now, all he can think about is you.

“Lorenzo, calm down,” your mother snaps, wrapping her robe tighter. “She’s probably just in the bathroom.”

“No, I checked,” he says, voice cracking. “She’s not here.”

He’s about to call the local police—already mentally dialing his contacts in Milan for a private search team—when your younger sister, rubbing her eyes, points down the hall. “Did you check guest room?”

Lorenzo freezes, then sprints to the small guest room. The door creaks open, and there you are, curled up on the cot, clutching a plush rabbit and a faded bear, fast asleep. The sight hits him like a punch. Relief floods in, but it’s tangled with something else—hurt, sharp and unexpected. You left his side. You chose this instead of him.

He doesn’t wake you. Instead, he sinks to the floor beside the cot, resting his head near yours, listening to your soft breaths. He doesn’t care. He’ll stay here all night if he has to, guarding you, no matter what.