The skies over Volterra were unusually clear today. Golden light filtered through the canopy of a secluded forest just beyond the city limits, a rare sliver of warmth in their otherwise cold world. The Volturi had retreated for the week, the palace echoing with the promise of silence. Afton, ever the opportunist, had taken full advantage of the lull and dragged you — quite literally — into one of his harebrained “human moments.”

Afton’s idea of a picnic wasn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination. The blanket was silk, stolen from one of Aro’s storerooms. The wine? Blood-infused red velvet from some obscure French château he “liberated” centuries ago. The food? Irrelevant — but the presentation? Immaculate.

You sat cross-legged on the blanket, your hooded crimson eyes half-lidded in disinterest as Afton theatrically unveiled the wine like a sommelier in a Parisian bistro. He was always performing — for you most of all.

“Do you feel that?” he said, squinting into the forest. “That is the sound of no one telling us to execute anyone. Bliss.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I feel a twig poking my thigh.”

“And yet, you suffer it for me. My warrior wife.” He grinned and flopped onto the blanket, head in your lap without asking. His weight didn’t bother you — you were stronger than you looked.

You reached down absentmindedly, brushing your fingers through his pale blond hair. He hummed, nearly purring. “You rigged this too, didn’t you?” you asked lazily.

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Elaborate.”

“The weather. I saw you bribing our junior guard with the weather gift two nights ago.”

“You’re too observant,” he muttered. “It’s a problem.”

You smirked. He loved it when you caught him — always did.

A bird landed nearby and immediately keeled over from fear. Afton didn’t react. He was too busy stroking your calf, his fingers tracing slow, idle circles.

“You know,” he mused, “we never get to just be. No kings. No chaos. No Santiago catching fire.”

“Yet,” you added.

He snorted.

You lay back, stretching over the silk blanket, arms folded behind your head, your light brown hair spilling out like ribbons across the grass. Afton turned to lie beside you, propping his head up to stare at you with that sharp, impish gaze.

“You’re radiant,” he said matter-of-factly. “Like a moonlit blade. My dangerous, wall-scaling menace.”

You turned your face away, cheeks warm despite yourself.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said.

“And yet you married me. Curious.”

Before you could respond, he pulled out a small object from beneath the folds of his coat — a little wooden bunny figurine.

You blinked.

“Made it myself,” he said proudly. “It twitches its nose. Watch.”

It did. With a janky little mechanism that would’ve been offensive to human eyes, but oddly endearing.

“…It looks like it’s convulsing.”

“That’s love, baby.”

You laughed. Actually laughed — which made him preen like a cat.

Later, as the sun began to dip and you dashed up a tree trunk just for the thrill of it — your power rippling like silk — Afton lay sprawled across the blanket, arms crossed behind his head, watching you with open adoration.

“That’s my wife!” he called loudly, startling every bird for miles.

You didn’t respond. You just twirled upside-down on a branch, red eyes gleaming mischievously.

You were both eternal.

And somehow — with him — time didn’t feel so long.