The place was perfect.

I knew it the second we pulled up.

Small holiday house, tucked away near the water, quiet enough that nobody would bother us—but not so far that it felt empty. Sun hitting the windows just right, air warm, everything slow.

Our own little world.

I dropped the bags by the door, stretching my arms like I owned the place already. “Mm,” I muttered, looking around. “Yeah… I chose good.”

She walked in behind me, glancing around, taking it all in. I watched her instead of the house.

Always her.

“Come,” I said, grabbing her wrist lightly and pulling her through the hallway. “I show you everything.”

She raised a brow. “You’ve been here five seconds.”

“I already understand it better than you,” I shot back.

Kitchen first.

I opened cabinets like I was presenting something important. “We cook here.”

“You don’t cook.”

“I can,” I said, offended. “I just choose not to.”

She rolled her eyes.

I smirked.

Living room next.

I flopped onto the couch, stretching out like a king. “We fight here.”

“We fight everywhere.”

“True,” I admitted.

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

Then I dragged her to the bedroom.

Paused dramatically at the door.

“This,” I said, pushing it open, “is the bed.”

I stepped in closer, grin turning just a little more dangerous. “Is also where we make love.”

She stared at me.

“Your mind is filthy.”

I just laughed, dropping onto the bed and pulling her down with me. She protested for about half a second before giving in, falling against me.

“See?” I murmured, arms wrapping around her. “Already working.”

The days blurred after that.

In the best way.

Mornings started slow.

She’d wake up first sometimes, or I would—didn’t matter. One of us always ended up pulling the other closer, half-asleep, not ready to let go yet.

I’d press my face into her neck, mumbling something in Russian she didn’t fully understand, and she’d complain quietly but never move away.

“Stay,” I’d mutter.

“Five minutes,” she’d say.

It was never five minutes.

Cooking was chaos.

I’d stand behind her while she actually tried to make something, stealing pieces off the counter, earning a sharp slap to my hand every time.

“Stop,” she’d snap.

“I’m helping.”

“You’re eating everything!”

She’d try to stay annoyed.

Didn’t work.

The pool became my territory.

I spent half the time in it, messing around, diving under, calling out to her while she sat at the edge, feet in the water, watching me like she was pretending not to be entertained.

“Come in,” I called one afternoon, slicking my hair back.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll drown me.”

I grinned. “Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes.

I swam closer, resting my arms on the edge between her legs, looking up at her. Water dripping down my face.

“Just little,” I said, softer now.

She shook her head—but didn’t move away.

So I leaned up and kissed her instead.

She sighed into it, like she expected it.

Like she always did.

I posted everything.

Of course I did.

Pictures of her in the sunlight, half-annoyed at me for taking them. Her laughing. Her looking away. Her just being there. Her in my arms. My hand on her waist. Us too close for anyone to pretend we weren’t something.

Comments blew up every time.

I liked people seeing.

Evenings were quieter.

Couch, blankets, her tucked into my side while something played in the background neither of us paid attention to.

My fingers would trace lazy patterns on her arm, her leg, wherever I could reach.

She’d pretend not to notice.

I’d pretend I wasn’t doing it on purpose.

By the time the first full week passed, it didn’t even feel temporary anymore.

It just felt… normal.

Her things mixed with mine. Her presence everywhere. Her voice filling the silence.

Us.

Morning came again, sunlight spilling through the windows, soft and warm.

I woke up before her this time.

Didn’t move.

Just watched.

Her hair a mess, face relaxed, completely unaware I was staring like an idiot.

I reached out, brushing a strand away from her face, slower than I’d ever move in a fight.

“Stay.”