After a long, lazy morning wrapped in each other's warmth, Malvor finally sits up and gently nudges Annie. "Up, my love. Adventure calls."
She groans, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. "You're lucky I like you," she mutters, dragging herself out of the covers.
While she gets dressed, he snaps his fingers, his usual flair. But when she turns around, she pauses.
"Are you… wearing khaki shorts?"
Malvor stands there proudly in offensively crisp khakis, a fitted white t-shirt clinging to his chest like it had opinions, and white dad shoes that look like they have seen both war and a Home Depot sale.
He says nothing, just flashes a mischievous grin, takes her hand, and with another snap, the world around them twists.
They are suddenly atop a mountain, the air fresh and filled with the gentle murmur of a stream winding through the valley below. Wildflowers dot the hillsides, and sunlight dances on the water like it's part of the magic. It's peaceful. Breathtaking.
He doesn't speak, just waves his hand and places a ratty red and white checkered blanket on the grass. It looks like it belongs in every cliché mortal picnic ever written, frayed edges and all. A classic wicker picnic basket appears in his arms, and for once, he doesn't say anything smug.
He just sets everything down with care, opens the basket, and starts pulling out simple, perfect food: fresh fruit, cheese, soft bread, wine, and little desserts in paper wrappings.
She stands there quietly, eyes scanning the scene. It's familiar.
It's very familiar.
Her breath catches.
"You remembered the story," she says softly.
"I did more than remember it," he replies, patting the blanket. "I made it real. For you."
And for a long moment, Annie says nothing. Just stares. Then slowly, she kneels beside him, touched in a way words can't hold.
She never had that day with her parents.
But she has this one. With him.
He grins like a man who's just pulled off the most impressive culinary crime in history. With a dramatic flourish, Malvor reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out two slightly charred, questionably edible peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.
"Tah-dah!" he announces. "Burnt. Just like you described. Authenticity, Annie. You are welcome."
She stares at them, wide-eyed. "Mal… these look like they survived a forest fire."
"I know." He beams with pride. "I used actual fire. It was very dramatic. You should have seen the flames."
She bursts into laughter, real and full and beautiful, throwing her head back as the sound echoes across the quiet hillside.
He holds one of the sandwiches gingerly between two fingers. "I will not be eating this. I have dignity."
She is still laughing as she takes it from him. "You brought them just for the memory."
"I brought them for you." He leans back on the blanket, watching her fondly. "Even if they are a war crime."
She nibbles a corner of the burnt crust, nose scrunching immediately. "Yep. That's awful."
They both dissolve into another round of laughter, the kind that comes not just from something being funny, but from something being right.
And for a moment, burnt sandwiches and all, it feels like the world is exactly where it's supposed to be.
Her emotions swell like a rising tide, too big to contain, too much to ignore. And this time, she does not push them away. She does not bury them or hide them beneath practiced indifference. She lets them come. All of them. The laughter. The gratitude. The ache of having been so alone. The wonder of being seen. The fragile, unfamiliar bloom of joy.
Malvor feels every piece of it.
The grin on his face melts into something deeper, something real. His eyes shine, not with mischief, but with warmth. With awe. He does not shield himself from her feelings. He opens to them fully, letting the wave of her emotions crash into him, letting it soak through his skin and settle into his chest. Her. He is feeling her.
He brushes a strand of hair from her face and exhales slowly, voice quiet, almost reverent.
"Would you like to hear a story, Tesoro?"
She nods, still teetering on the edge of all her feelings.
He shifts, laying on his side beside her on the blanket, elbow propped, gaze fixed on her like she's the only thing that matters in the world. Because right now, she is.
"Once," he begins, "a long, long time ago, I found myself walking through a tiny village in Northern Italy. There was a storm coming, massive, the kind that rolls over the mountains like it's chasing something. Everyone was rushing to get inside, windows shuttered, doors locked. But not one old woman."
His voice softens.
"She was out in the square, trying to gather flowers that had blown free from her basket. Rain was just starting to fall, and no one helped her. No one even looked twice. But I… I stopped. I helped her gather every last petal. And when we were done, she looked at me and said, 'Chaos or not, you still have a heart. Don't forget that.'"
He chuckles, almost sheepishly.
"She gave me a flower. Pressed it into my hand and made me promise I wouldn't lose it."
"Did you?" Annie asks quietly.
He smiles, eyes twinkling.
"I kept it. Still have it. It's in the castle, my real castle. Hidden in a book."