The villa is carved into the cliffs of a Greek island neither of you can pronounce.

Private. Secluded. The kind of place where the only sound is waves against the rock and your laughter echoing off white marble.

There are no assistants here. No emails. No press. Just you. And Xavier. Married.

Married.

You still aren’t used to the word.

But he is.

He says it casually. Constantly.

“My wife needs sunscreen.” “My wife deserves a bottle of wine better than this.” “My wife looks too good to leave this room.”

And every time, you feel that little flutter in your chest — like it’s the first time all over again.

The bedroom has floor-to-ceiling windows, sun-bleached sheets, and a view that could bring you to tears. But he barely looks outside.

Because his view is you — barefoot in his shirt, fresh out of the shower, laughing as you scroll through photos from the wedding day you thought you’d forget to enjoy.

Xavier walks up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, chin dropping to your shoulder.

“You’re glowing,” he says, voice low.

“You’re biased.”

“I married you. Of course I’m biased.”

You glance up at him. “You’re soft here.”

He smiles. “You bring it out in me.”

That night, you eat dinner under a string of lights on your private balcony. There’s a breeze, wine, candlelight — but your foot brushes his beneath the table and suddenly, the food doesn’t matter.

He watches you. Not with hunger. With reverence.

Like he still can’t believe you chose him.

Later, back in the bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and unclip your earrings slowly. Deliberately.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m memorizing,” he replies.

You turn to face him. “You already have me.”

He crosses the room in two strides, pulls you in by the hips.

“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I don’t plan to waste a second of it.”

He kisses you like it’s still your wedding night — like he’s never tasted you before and is terrified to forget how. There’s nothing rushed. Nothing frenzied. Just certainty.

You’re his.

And he’s never letting go.

The next morning, sunlight creeps through the curtains and onto your skin. You’re still half-asleep when you feel his arm tighten around your waist, his voice rasped from sleep.

“Can we stay another week?”

You smile against the pillow. “Don’t you have a company to run?”

He kisses your shoulder.

“I’d burn it down if you asked.”