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Yalda had started to fall into a rhythm.

The villa, once vast and intimidating in its silence, had slowly begun to feel like home. Not just a place to recover, but something gentler, steadier. Familiar.

The mornings set the tone; quiet, warm, filled with the sleepy hush of dawn light spilling through the curtains. She woke to the sound of rustling linens and the scent of Ioannis’s cologne lingering on the sheets.

He always kissed her before leaving. Sometimes it was soft and slow, lips pressed to her temple while she blinked up at him with heavy eyes. Other times, it was a little more lingering; his mouth teasing, murmuring things in Greek she didn’t yet understand, but felt down to her bones.

The language didn’t matter. The way he said them, the way his voice wrapped around her name, it was enough.

He’d pull on a crisp shirt, slide cufflinks through, sometimes swearing under his breath when Loki decided to chase after his shoelaces. Yalda would watch from the bed, half buried under the plush duvet, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, and he’d smile at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Then he’d leave, with a parting kiss and the quiet click of the door.

But it wasn’t a lonely quiet.

Loki had made sure of that. The Pomeranian had declared himself her full-time shadow, refusing to leave her side unless Ioannis was home. He followed her everywhere, through long marble corridors, into sun-drenched sitting rooms, even waiting outside the bathroom with a dramatic sigh if she dared to close the door.

Their daily walks around the estate became sacred: past the cobblestone paths that curved like old arteries through the gardens, around the fountain that caught the light like spilled silver, beneath the orange and lemon trees that filled the air with a sharp, sweet tang.

She began to memorize the layout of the land. The way the vines curled around the veranda railings. The way the birdsong changed from morning to midday. Even the way the shadows shifted along the stone walls.

It was soothing. Healing, even. She hadn’t expected that.

And then there was Alina.

The chef had been a passing mention from Ioannis, but she quickly became one of Yalda’s favorite parts of the day. Alina was in her mid-forties, a woman with sturdy arms, kind eyes, and a laugh that echoed through the high-ceilinged kitchen like wind chimes. 

She wore her dark hair in a loose bun and always had a smear of flour on her apron or sauce on her sleeve. Her accent was thick, her English peppered with Greek, but her affection needed no translation.

She sang as she cooked, old Mediterranean songs that seemed to pull the air together like a spell. She’d hum while slicing eggplants or simmering tomatoes, tossing in herbs with reckless grace, all while occasionally scolding Loki for begging near the oven.

At first, Yalda only watched, perched at the counter with a glass of juice, content to breathe in the scents of rosemary and garlic, warmth curling around her. But eventually, curiosity tugged at her. She began asking questions.

“What’s that spice?”

“Why do you soak the onions?”

“Wait… how do you know when the dough is ready?”

Alina beamed every time. She loved to teach. Soon, Yalda was chopping parsley, zesting lemons, and tasting broth with the seriousness of a judge. Her fingers, once more used to turning pages and typing emails, began to learn the balance of a good kitchen knife, the rhythm of a stir, the satisfaction of a sauce coming together just right.

She’d never felt useful this way before. Not in a long time.

Cooking, surprisingly, gave her something she hadn’t known she needed: purpose.

Still, there were moments when her past crept in. Fleeting thoughts of Alexander, his voice, the way things had ended, the weight she’d carried for so long. But the pain was no longer sharp. It came like echoes. Lingering, yes. But manageable.

Ioannis had never pushed her to forget. Never demanded more than she could give. He offered space. Gentle affection. A place to land.

And somehow, in that freedom, she found herself softening. Trusting. Wanting.

The villa no longer felt like a pause in her life.

It felt like the beginning of something new.

That afternoon, she was in the garden with Loki sprawled at her feet, the sun casting dappled shadows through the climbing ivy. She was barefoot, a book in her lap, toes curling in the warmth of the tiles when she heard the distinct crunch of gravel.

She looked up to see a sleek black car turning into the drive.

Ioannis.

He stepped out, a little earlier than usual. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times. He looked radiant in that effortless, infuriating way he always did. Her heart did that familiar thing, it tightened and fluttered all at once.

“You’re back early,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun behind him.

“I wanted to see you,” he replied simply, walking over and bending to kiss her, slow and unhurried. Like the day didn’t matter.

She smiled, flushed. “Everything okay?”

“More than okay. I have news.”

Her brow arched.

“My parents are back. They flew in from Provence this morning. They’ve been texting nonstop about how excited they are to see me.”

Her smile stayed, but something twisted quietly inside her.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“I want to take you with me,” he said, kneeling beside her now. “To the family estate. Just for a short visit. I want you to meet them.”

She blinked.

That wasn’t nothing. That was... big.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

“I know it’s soon,” he added, watching her closely. “And if it’s too much, that’s okay. But I want them to meet you. I want them to know who matters to me.”

Yalda stared down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly in her lap. She hadn’t realized she was nervous until Loki nuzzled her elbow, a soft whine slipping from his throat.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she murmured. “It’s just… I don’t know how to be around families like that. I’ve never had one. Not really. I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing.”

Ioannis reached for her hands, warm and steady. “You’ll be yourself,” he said. “That’s all I want.”

“I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before.”

He smiled then, soft and genuine. “I’ve never introduced anyone to mine. We’ll be nervous together.”

She laughed quietly, surprised, but it felt good.

He stood and offered his hand. “We’ll go tomorrow. Dress however you want. My mother’s style is all over the place.”

“Seriously?”

“She thinks leopard print is a neutral.”

That made her giggle, and after a moment, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll come.”

His grin widened, and he leaned down to kiss her again, deeper, slower this time, like he was memorizing the moment.