It’s the last morning of the honeymoon, and you don’t want to move.

The sun peeks through the gauzy curtains of the villa he rented—somewhere in Tuscany, near Florence, but far enough for the silence to feel like a soft blanket. You’re wrapped in it, tangled in linen sheets and his arms, your head resting on his chest, his slow breathing matching the morning’s quiet hum.

You sigh, louder than necessary.

“What is it now, amore?” Marcus’ voice is low and raspy, but you feel his smile.

“I’m just thinking,” you say, voice half-muffled into his skin. “About how this is all insane. In the best way. Like… what the hell is even my life right now?”

He chuckles, rumbling against your cheek. “That’s a lot of thinking for eight in the morning.”

“Well, you married a talker. No refunds.” You grin, hair falling in messy red curls. He brushes strands behind your ear with such care it almost makes you cry. You’re not even a crier.

“I don’t want a refund,” he says. “You’re priceless.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, but your heart flutters. “You’re such a sap.”

“For you, sempre.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile won’t fade. It still feels unreal sometimes—that you met him because of that stupid restaurant Clara wouldn’t shut up about. You weren’t even that into Italian food, but she dragged you like it was the Vatican of pasta.

The food was amazing, but then you met him, and the carbonara wasn’t what melted your insides anymore.

Marcus. Tall, golden-skinned, with messy dark hair and a jawline that made you want to slap God for showing off. He’d looked serious, stoic, intense. Then he sent his number with your bill and comped dinner. Your heart spiraled in a screaming fit the whole ride home.

Three years later, you’re his wife.

You married him in Italy, in a stone villa covered in ivy and white lights. Your dress was everything, a secret Pinterest dream come true. Clara cried more than you but nailed being maid of honor, even if she wouldn’t stop talking about the risotto. Everything was perfect.

Even the things you didn’t know you wanted—he thought of them.

Now you’re here, trying to stretch the moment. Memorizing everything.

The soft sheets. The lemon trees making the air smell like summer. Your husband—your actual husband—touching you in small, sweet ways like he can’t believe you’re real.

He leans over and kisses your shoulder, cheek, nose. “We should pack soon.”

You groan. “No.”

“You insisted on an early flight.”

“Past Me is a traitor.”

He laughs and pulls you in tighter. “I’ll make espresso. You can pack later.”

“Deal,” you murmur, melting again. “And maybe those almond cookies?”

He taps your nose. “Anything you want, piccolina.”

You stay a moment longer, his hand lazily running up and down your arm. Legs tangled together, no rush. The world outside waits. For now, it’s just the two of you. His skin warm, heartbeat steady. You talk softly about nothing—how cute that old couple was, how you need to learn some Italian, the weird dream where Clara married a mozzarella ball.

He laughs.

Later, you’ll pack. Later, you’ll fly home.