You pad barefoot across the stone floors, hair still a little tangled from sleep, your body warm and pleasantly sore beneath the oversized white button-down. Xavier’s scent clings to the collar — amber, bergamot, and whatever sin he whispered against your skin last night.
His mother’s already on the terrace, a mug of coffee in hand, silk robe tied neatly around her waist. She looks over when you step out.
You pause for half a second, heat rising in your face.
But she just smiles. Genuinely.
“Good morning,” she says, motioning to the chair beside her.
“Morning,” you murmur, settling into the seat and pulling your knees up. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
She chuckles softly. “Darling, you stayed the night. Intruding was last night.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Right.”
A quiet moment passes. You sip your espresso, eyes on the vineyard. Then she speaks again.
“You make him softer,” she says. “Not weak. Just… quieter. Grounded.”
You glance at her. “That’s not something people usually want to see in a man like him.”
She shrugs. “He’s had enough hard edges in his life. He doesn’t need another weapon. He needs peace. I see that in you.”
You don’t know what to say. Her words settle somewhere deep — like approval you didn’t know you craved.
She rises, gently squeezing your shoulder as she heads inside. “I’ll leave you two alone. Tell him to stop stealing my imported espresso.”
You grin. “I’ll try. He steals mine all the time.”
Not even a minute later, you hear the slow creak of the villa door.
“Morning,” Xavier rasps, voice thick with sleep.
You turn.
He’s bare-chested, his grey sweatpants slung very low on his hips, hair a mess from your hands and his own. There’s something smug and sleepy in his eyes — the kind of man who knows you’re staring and likes it.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re indecent.”
He walks over, all slow confidence, and leans down behind your chair. His arm wraps lazily around your waist, lips brushing the slope of your neck.
“Sweetheart, you look good in my shirt,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting over your pulse point.
You elbow him lightly. “Your mom is literally right there.”
“She’s seen worse,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
“She’s also incredibly nice,” you whisper, turning to face him. “She said I ground you.”
He smiles, something real flickering behind his eyes. He steals your espresso, taking a sip like it’s his birthright.
“You do,” he says simply.
You tilt your head. “Is that your way of saying you love me?”
He grins around the mug. “I flew you to France and introduced you to my mother. If you need me to spell it out…”