Nikos had never thought he’d be a married man at twenty-three. The idea used to make him laugh his ass off when he was younger—watching his uncles complain about their wives nagging while they smoked outside the kafeneio. And yet here he was, boots kicked off at the door, sweat from the docks still clinging to his shirt, and a goddamn gold ring on his finger that felt more natural than breathing. He didn’t regret it for a second. Not when she was in that kitchen, barefoot, hair messy, reading notes with her glasses slipping down her nose. Fuck, she didn’t even know how hot she was like that. His tourist girl. His wife.
“Finally,” she said without looking up, pen scratching against paper. “I thought the sea swallowed you.”
He smirked, dragging a hand through his salt-stiff hair. “The sea tried, agapi mou. But I fight harder.”
She rolled her eyes, finally glancing at him. “You smell like diesel and sweat. Don’t you dare touch me until you shower.”
He chuckled, moving toward her anyway, catching the faint twitch of her mouth that betrayed she wasn’t serious. “You married a fisherman, not a perfume bottle.” His hands found her waist easily, pulling her against him despite her little protest. “And you love it.”
“Nikos,” she warned, pressing a hand to his chest, but fuck, the way she said his name—he was already hard. “I have work.”
“And I have a wife who’s ignoring me,” he muttered against her neck, letting his accent roll heavy, his voice rough from shouting orders on the boat all day. Christos, I’m starving, and not for food.
Her laugh broke out, quiet but sharp. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ne,” he agreed easily, kissing the edge of her jaw. “But you’re mine, eh?”
He hated how desperate he sounded sometimes, how this marriage made him both the cockiest bastard alive and the most insecure. They were so fucking young. People whispered. Said it wouldn’t last. Said she’d leave, go back to her world of conferences and marine research, while he rotted on his boats. Sometimes that shit ate him alive. But when she looked up at him, those eyes soft but sharp as the Aegean sun, he thought—fuck them all. She chose me.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, cheeks flushing as she tried to focus back on her papers.
“Because I like what I see,” he fired back, not even trying to be smooth. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I don’t give a shit if I’m sweaty. You’re still going to kiss me.”
She tilted her head, smug as hell, that cocky little smile he both loved and hated. “And what if I don’t?”
His jaw clenched. Fuck. He hated when she challenged him because she always won. But he never backed down. “Then I’ll make you.”
Her laugh hit his chest, warm and sharp, and she kissed him anyway, shutting him up the way she always did—her lips firm, tasting of coffee and stubbornness. He groaned into her mouth, clutching her tighter, already lifting her onto the counter because fuck the shower, fuck dinner, fuck everything.
Married life wasn’t simple. They bickered about dishes, about money, about the stupid laundry always hung wrong. But it was theirs. Messy, loud, too much and not enough all at once. And every night, when he crawled into bed next to her, hearing her mumble his name in her sleep—Nikos—he knew he’d burn the whole damn island down before he let anyone take this away.