The villa was quiet in a way that felt sacred. Early spring had softened the cliffs, the sea's edge shimmering with silver in the morning light. The air was still sharp with salt and wind, but not threatening—yet.
Marco sat on the terrace, one hand braced against the railing, the other gripping the mug of tea I had brought him. He looked… whole. Stronger than he had been in weeks. His dark hair caught the sunlight, and the faint shadow under his eyes had faded enough to remind me of the man he used to be—alive, dangerous, impossible, and entirely his own.
"You've been hovering," he said, noticing my gaze. There was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, that teasing glint I loved to hate.
"I'm not hovering," I said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "I'm supervising."
He chuckled softly, the sound sending warmth through my chest. "Supervising? I don't need supervision, Isabella."
"Not yet," I said, trying to sound firm, though my voice quivered.
He studied me with that intense gaze, sharp and assessing. "You worry too much."
"I do not." I crossed my arms, though my hands were shaking slightly.
"You do." He leaned back, taking a slow sip of his tea, eyes never leaving mine. "But I'll forgive you, this once."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. The playful banter felt almost dangerous, like the calm before a storm. It was the kind of intimacy that made my chest ache and made me remember everything I had almost lost.
The days passed in a rhythm I hadn't realized I missed. Marco walked more each morning, testing his strength, moving from the terrace to the garden, then to the cliffs' edge, always careful, always measured. I stayed nearby, ready with water, a steadying hand, or simply silent company.
"You've gotten strong fast," I said one afternoon as he paused halfway down the garden path, the wind tugging at his coat.
"Not fast enough for your liking?" he teased, glancing back at me, lips curling.
"I never said that," I said, pretending to be calm, though the flutter in my stomach betrayed me.
"You're lying," he said softly, taking a deliberate step closer, the sunlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw. "You're always lying."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on the garden path rather than the heat in his gaze. "I have to keep you alive," I said, though my voice was quieter than I intended. "Someone has to."
"Someone like you," he said, a faint smile touching his lips, "makes it hard to die."
My chest tightened. I turned to hide my reaction, pretending to inspect a flowering bush, even though every nerve in my body screamed at me to look at him.
Leonardo was there, as usual. He would appear when least expected, observing quietly, offering small helpful gestures—handing Marco a towel, adjusting a pillow, carrying a tray—but never intruding. Yet his presence was enough to make the air between Marco and me taut.
One morning, as Marco practiced walking along the terrace steps, Leonardo came up behind him. "Careful with that step," he said casually.
"I know what I'm doing," Marco replied sharply, though his eyes flicked to Leonardo, dark and assessing.
"I'm just being helpful," Leonardo said smoothly, with a faint edge that made my stomach twist. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, almost… watchful.
Marco's hand brushed against mine as he adjusted his balance, and a flash of jealousy, confusing and unwelcome, burned in me. Leonardo had never tried to act on it. He hadn't needed to. His presence alone was enough to stir emotions I didn't want to feel, to complicate everything I thought I knew about desire, loyalty, and protection.
The most delicate moment came that evening. Marco had insisted on walking to the edge of the cliffs—careful, but determined. I stayed a few paces behind, heart pounding, afraid he would push too far.
"Isabella," he said softly, stopping, the wind tugging at his coat. "Come closer."
I obeyed instinctively, stepping to his side. The sunset painted the sea in molten gold, waves crashing rhythmically against the rocks below. He turned to me, the distance between us narrowing.
"You've stayed," he said, voice low. "Even when it was hard."
I swallowed. "Of course. You… you almost died."
He shook his head, brushing a curl from my face. "And you were there. You didn't leave. Not for a moment."
I felt my chest tighten, my throat dry. "I… I couldn't."
He leaned closer, almost brushing my forehead with his. The wind tugged at us, the waves crashing below like a heartbeat. "You shouldn't have to," he murmured. "But I'm glad you did."
The intimacy of the moment hung between us, electric and dangerous. I wanted to say something, to reach out and bridge the tension, but the words stuck, lost in the air.
Leonardo's voice broke the spell, smooth and casual: "Tea's getting cold."
I cursed him silently, though the corner of my lips twitched. Leonardo's interference was subtle, almost polite, yet it drew a line between Marco and me, reminding me that desire and loyalty weren't simple.
Marco let me go first, stepping back with that careful precision that was still cautious after everything. "We'll finish this walk tomorrow," he said, voice low, teasing, alive.
I nodded, though my heart refused to settle.
Over the next days, Marco's strength returned fully. He walked the villa freely, even managing a few laps along the terrace without hesitation. He joked, teased, and occasionally glared at Leonardo in ways that were both playful and warning.
I stayed close, preparing meals, tending to the garden, or just being present. And every so often, when I thought he wasn't looking, our fingers brushed, a glance lingered, and I felt the tension pulse between us—a mixture of relief, desire, and the unspoken understanding of how close we had come to losing everything.
Leonardo never left completely. Sometimes I caught him watching from a distance, quiet and precise, or offering subtle help in ways that made my chest tighten. The ambiguity of his presence only heightened the intensity of my connection with Marco.
By the end of the week, Marco stood fully healed. The lines of exhaustion had faded from his face, and the weakness from his limbs was gone. He moved with the confidence of a man who had survived death and returned to claim life.
I realized, watching him, that the danger wasn't just physical—it had been emotional too. And now that he was fully back, alive, whole… the tension, desire, and trust between us had been sharpened to a knife-edge.
That night, as the villa settled into quiet, with the waves breaking gently against the cliffs, I sat on the terrace steps beside him. Marco rested an arm around my shoulders, Leonardo nearby but silent, watching the sea.
"I'm back," he said softly.
"Yes," I whispered. "You are."
And as the spring wind tugged at the curtains, the first sense of true calm in weeks settled over me—fragile, tentative, but real.
Marco had returned fully to life. And with him, everything we had survived—all the danger, all the fear—had left its mark… but also the promise of something stronger, something we were only beginning to understand.