The sun had only just begun to rise, its amber glow bleeding slowly into the dark edges of night. The morning air was quiet—soft, like a held breath—and the coastal winds slipped gently through gauzy curtains in the open window, rustling them with the sound of a lullaby.
Serra Evelise stirred beneath the warm linen sheets, her breath shallow and even, her cheek pressed lightly into the crook of Vincent's shoulder. The early light spilled over the shape of them—her tangled dark curls glinting with strands of gold, his steady hand resting on her waist like it belonged there. Like it always had.
He didn't want to move.
Vincent Aviel Leon watched her in silence, memorizing the peaceful curve of her mouth, the way her lashes fluttered faintly when the breeze touched her skin. She looked like art. Like something fragile, porcelain in both strength and vulnerability. His fingers ghosted along the arc of her back.
"You're staring," she murmured.
Her voice was thick with sleep, but there was a faint smile curling at the edge of her lips. She didn't open her eyes—she didn't need to. She knew him, the rhythm of his breath, the weight of his gaze.
Vincent laughed softly, his thumb brushing a gentle line along her spine. "Guilty. But how could I not? You look... divine."
Serra rolled over slowly, still cocooned in warmth, and propped herself up on her elbow. The sunlight finally caught her eyes—deep hazel, flecked with warm gold and pain long-buried. The kind of eyes that had seen too much, and yet held onto hope like it was the last star in a night sky.
"That's a dangerous word to use first thing in the morning," she teased. "Divine. What if I get used to it?"
Vincent leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Then I'll say it again. Every morning."
A slow silence fell between them again, but it wasn't empty. It was comforting. It was home.
She tucked her face into his neck, her fingers clutching the fabric of his sleep shirt. "Thank you. For not giving up. For still being here."
His arms tightened around her, his voice low against her hair. "Never. Not once. Not when you were hurting, not when you shut down. Not even when you thought you were too broken to be loved. I'm here, Serra. I always will be."
Serra didn't cry. Not this time. Instead, she smiled into his shoulder and closed her eyes again, allowing herself this quiet moment of safety. In this house, in his arms, nothing could touch her.
Not the shadows of the past. Not the wounds that still ached. Not the ghosts that lingered behind her every time she blinked.
Only peace.
---
The kitchen smelled of rosemary and warm butter.
Vincent moved about easily in the space, barefoot on cool tiles, a spatula in one hand and a mug of her favorite coffee waiting beside the stove. He hummed under his breath—a soft tune she didn't recognize but felt familiar all the same.
Serra padded in quietly, wearing one of his loose shirts that hung off her frame like it was made for her. Her bare legs glowed in the sunlight, the hem of the shirt brushing the tops of her thighs.
He turned at the sound of her light steps and smiled.
"You're up earlier than I expected."
She shrugged and took a sip of the coffee. "You left the bed. It got cold."
He chuckled, turning the omelet over with a flourish. "Apologies, my queen. I should've tucked in a heating charm."
She rolled her eyes but smiled—truly smiled, the kind that crinkled at the corners of her eyes. That used to be rare. Too rare. Now, it happened more often. Healing was slow, uneven, unpredictable. But it was happening.
Vincent set the plate down at the breakfast bar, pulled a chair out for her, and kissed her temple before sliding onto the stool beside her. The omelet was perfectly golden, and the toast was slathered with citrus marmalade—her favorite.
They ate in companionable silence, soft music playing in the background. Every once in a while, their knees touched beneath the table. He would glance up, and she would smile. And that was enough.
After breakfast, they moved to the sunroom, where the walls were mostly glass and the sea stretched out in endless sapphire.
Serra sat cross-legged on the couch, a notebook in her lap, sketching. Vincent sat nearby, reading an old book with worn corners. The silence was full of life.
Every line she drew, every word he turned over in his mind, was a part of the gentle rebuilding of something sacred.
It hadn't always been this way.
There had been nights when she couldn't sleep. When the nightmares swallowed her whole. When she'd lock herself in the bathroom and forget how to breathe. He had waited through it all—patient, quiet, and constant.
Some wounds took time. Others never fully faded, but they stopped bleeding. He never asked her to move faster. He never forced the healing. He simply stayed. Present. Loving. Safe.
That was what love looked like now.
---
By late morning, they had drifted to the back patio, where wildflowers grew freely and vines hung from trellises. Serra stood barefoot on the garden path, her face tilted toward the sun.
"You glow," Vincent whispered, watching her.
She turned, cheeks flushed from the light, and reached out a hand to him.
"Dance with me."
There was no music, just the sound of waves crashing in the distance and birds in the trees. But he took her hand anyway and pulled her close.
They swayed gently, barefoot on warm stone, her cheek resting against his chest. He pressed a kiss to her hair, holding her like the most precious thing in the world.
Because she was.
Serra whispered, "Do you think I'll ever be okay again?"
He pulled back slightly to meet her eyes. "You already are. Every day you smile. Every time you reach for me. Every moment you choose to live. You're more than okay, love. You're incredible."
Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall. She buried her face in his chest again, inhaling the familiar scent of him—cedarwood, rain, and something purely Vincent.
They stood like that for a long time.
Just breathing.
Existing.
Together.
Not as the people they had been. But as who they were becoming.
And though somewhere far beyond the walls of their sanctuary, the world turned darker and watchful eyes lingered, in this garden, in this morning, nothing else mattered.
Only them.
Only love.
The golden hues of sunset spilled gently through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm amber glow across the wide expanse of the living room. Serra Evelise curled beneath a woven blanket on the couch, her breathing soft and even, as though she were drifting between wakefulness and dreams. The scent of roasted vegetables and garlic lingered in the air—Vince had been cooking.
A few moments passed before she blinked her eyes open, stretching like a cat beneath the soft layers of comfort. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the last rays of sunlight as it slipped past the horizon. The house was quiet, filled only with the subtle hum of the fireplace and the clinking of plates being set at the dining table.
She turned her head, and there he was.
Vincent Aviel Leon stood at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room with a tray in his hands—a simple dinner arranged with quiet care. Herb-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with her favorite garlic butter, and a small bowl of strawberries for dessert. He smiled the moment their eyes met.
"You're awake," he said, his voice warm and tender.
"Mmm, I smell something delicious," she teased, sitting up with a sleepy grin. The neckline of her cozy knit top slipped slightly, revealing a hint of her collarbone. Vince's eyes flickered for a brief second, then he chuckled softly as he approached.
"Only the best for my queen," he said, placing the tray on the nearby table.
She stood slowly, walking over to him barefoot. The wooden floor creaked gently beneath her steps. Vince reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Did you rest okay?"
Serra nodded slowly. "Better than I thought I would. Your voice helps."
Vince smiled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Then I'll keep talking to you every evening."
They moved to the small table near the window, where the last colors of twilight painted the sky in shades of lavender and gold. They shared the dinner slowly, exchanging quiet words and soft laughter. It was in these small gestures—the way he refilled her water, the way her hand brushed over his—that made the world outside fade.
After dinner, they settled into the sunroom. Though dark had fallen, the soft lights above them twinkled like distant stars. Vince helped Serra onto the cushioned chaise before wrapping her in a blanket. Her hands were delicate and cool against his.
"Want to listen to music?" he asked.
She nodded, and he played a soft piano melody from his phone, the music curling through the room like a gentle breeze. She leaned her head on his shoulder, the harmony echoing in her chest.
Halfway through the song, she looked up and kissed the underside of his jaw. A soft, simple kiss—but it made him pause.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.
Vince turned to her, cupping her cheek. "I know," he replied, though deep inside, the memory of almost losing her still haunted him. He said nothing else. He simply kissed her back.
Later that night, Vince lit a few candles and brought out a soft blanket for them to share on the couch. They chose an old movie neither had seen in years. Her head rested over his heart, his fingers brushing through her hair in a calming rhythm.
"Do you want to talk about anything?" he asked quietly.
Serra took a long breath. "Not yet. But I will. Soon."
He kissed the top of her head. "I'll be here."
The fire crackled softly in the background, and the gentle glow of candlelight wrapped them in a world of their own. That night, wrapped in warmth and kindness, was theirs.
And the next evening would be, too.