Morning crept in slowly, pale light spilling through the curtains and brushing against the edges of the room. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and olive trees.
Damian hadn't moved from the chair by the window. The fire had long gone out, but Alessia had fallen asleep in the armchair across from him, her shawl slipping to the floor.
He watched her for a moment — the rise and fall of her breathing, the faint crease between her brows even in sleep. She looked peaceful, but not fragile. Alessia never looked fragile.
When she stirred, he turned his gaze back to the window. "You should go back to bed," he said quietly.
She blinked, still half-asleep. "You didn't sleep either."
"I wasn't tired."
"That's a lie," she murmured, stretching. "You just don't know how to stop thinking."
He didn't answer.
She stood, crossing the room to pick up her shawl. "You know," she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, "for someone who claims to hate company, you didn't throw me out."
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You would've ignored me if I did."
"True," she said, smiling. "So technically, I win."
He shook his head, but there was a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. "You always have to win, don't you?"
"Only when it annoys you."
By breakfast, the estate had come alive again. The staff moved quietly through the halls, the smell of bread and coffee filling the air.
Alessia sat at the table, reading the morning paper, while Damian reviewed a stack of reports.
"You're frowning," she said without looking up.
"I'm reading."
"You frown when you read."
He looked up, one brow raised. "You're observant."
"I'm married to you," she said, sipping her coffee. "It's a survival skill."
He almost smiled. "You think you need survival skills here?"
"With you? Absolutely."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You're not afraid of me."
She met his gaze. "Should I be?"
"No," he said after a pause. "But most people are smart enough to pretend."
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed."
Later that afternoon, Damian walked down to the stables. The rain had left the ground soft, the air heavy with the scent of wet hay. He found Lucas there, checking the cars parked under the awning.
"Everything calm?" Damian asked.
Lucas nodded. "For now. The men are restless, though. They're not used to peace."
Damian gave a faint smile. "Neither am I."
Lucas hesitated. "You think it'll last this time?"
Damian looked toward the vineyards, where the horizon stretched wide and deceptively calm. "I don't know," he said. "But I'd like to believe it will."
Lucas followed his gaze, then smirked. "And her?"
Damian's expression softened slightly. "She's the only thing that makes it feel real."
Lucas chuckled. "Didn't think I'd live to hear you say that."
"Don't get used to it," Damian said, turning away.
That evening, Alessia found him in the study again. The rain had returned, softer this time, whispering against the windows. He was standing by the shelves, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring at a map spread across the desk.
"You're thinking again," she said.
He didn't look up. "Bad habit."
"Does it ever stop?"
He finally met her eyes. "It stops when I let it."
"Then maybe you should try."
He took a slow sip of whiskey. "You make it sound easy."
She crossed the room, her voice steady. "It's not. But you don't have to do everything alone."
He looked down at her hand when she touched his arm, then back at her. "That's not how I was taught."
"Then maybe it's time you unlearned it."
He didn't answer, but his gaze softened — just enough for her to see the man beneath the armor.
Outside, the rain kept falling, gentle and steady. Inside, something quieter began to shift — not a storm, not a battle, just the slow, certain pull of two people finding their way toward each other.