Night did not rush them.
It never had.
---
The world quieted after the celebration, as if it, too, understood that this moment required gentleness. The music faded, the laughter softened, and the chapel grounds slowly emptied until only the hush of evening remained.
Isabella stood by the window of their room, still wearing her dress, the city lights of Italy glowing faintly beyond the glass. She watched them like distant stars—steady, patient, unjudging.
Xavier stood a few steps behind her.
For the first time in his life, he felt no urgency.
No mission clock.
No countdown.
No fear of what came next.
Only presence.
"You're very quiet," he said softly.
She turned and smiled—a smile that held relief, warmth, and a little disbelief.
"I'm just… letting it sink in," she replied. "We made it here."
He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, careful not to touch yet, as if asking permission without words.
"We did," he said. "Together."
She nodded.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached for his hand.
That was enough.
---
They talked.
About everything and nothing.
About the way the day felt too short.
About Andrea's jokes.
About Lucia's tears.
About how strange it was to finally say husband and wife aloud.
Xavier helped her out of her dress—not hurried, not clumsy—just careful, like he had always been with her heart. She laughed quietly when he struggled with a button.
"Military training didn't prepare you for this?" she teased.
"Nothing prepared me for you," he answered honestly.
The words made her pause.
Then she leaned her forehead against his chest.
"I'm still learning how to stop being afraid," she admitted.
His arms wrapped around her naturally, securely.
"You don't have to stop," he said. "Just don't be alone with it anymore."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time, fear did not answer back.
---
The night unfolded not with urgency, but with trust.
With shared breaths.
With whispered laughter.
With the quiet understanding that intimacy wasn't something to be taken—it was something to be given.
When they finally rested, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence, the world outside faded completely.
No past.
No enemies.
No ghosts.
Just now.
---
Morning arrived differently.
Soft sunlight crept across the room, touching skin, brushing over memories that already felt precious.
Isabella woke first again.
She lay still, listening—not to silence this time, but to Xavier's steady breathing beside her. She watched him for a long moment, memorizing the calm in his face, the absence of battle lines, the peace she had never seen in him before.
She smiled.
So this is what safety feels like, she thought.
When he stirred, he opened his eyes slowly and met her gaze.
"Good morning, wife," he said, voice low and warm.
She laughed softly. "Good morning, husband."
They stayed there longer than necessary.
Because they could.
---
Their honeymoon was simple.
No grand luxury.
No distant escape.
Just Italy.
The real Italy.
They walked narrow streets hand in hand, stopped for pastries at small shops that reminded Isabella of home, sat by the sea and let the wind tangle her hair while Xavier watched her like the view was secondary.
They talked about the future—carefully, honestly.
About work.
About balance.
About children, maybe one day, maybe not yet.
About building a life that didn't demand they lose themselves to it.
At night, they shared stories and quiet closeness, learning each other not as survivors—but as partners.
---
On their last evening, they stood on a balcony overlooking the water.
Xavier wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"No matter where duty sends me," he said, "this will always be home."
She leaned back against him.
"Then we'll always find our way back," she replied.
The moon reflected on the water, steady and bright.
And somewhere between the past they had survived and the future they were building—
love settled in.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
But lasting.
And for the first time in their lives—
nothing was chasing them anymore.