THE VILLAGE MARKET sprawled through the narrow cobblestone streets like a living organism—vibrant, chaotic, utterly overwhelming. Stalls overflowed with sun-ripened tomatoes, wheels of aged cheese, bottles of olive oil catching the light like liquid gold.
The air thrumd with voices haggling in rapid Italian, laughter spilling from café tables, the distant notes of a street musician’s accordion.
Mailah felt Grayson tense beside her the mont they stepped into the crowd. It wasn’t like the last market they’d gone to, the one that catered to the supernatural.
"Breathe," she murmured, slipping her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers imdiately—too tight, like she was the only anchor keeping him from bolting.
"There are too many people," he said quietly, his voice strained.
"I know. But you’re doing great."
"I haven’t done anything yet."
"Exactly. You haven’t frightened anyone or accidentally set sothing on fire. That’s progress."
His eyes cut to her, sharp and dark, but she caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Ahead of them, Lucien was already charming an elderly woman selling flowers, his Italian surprisingly fluent and outrageously flirtatious.
The woman was giggling, swatting his arm with her free hand while loading his arms with sunflowers.
"He’s shaless," Elin observed, though there was grudging affection in her tone as she snapped a photo of the interaction.
"He’s effective," Oliver corrected, watching Lucien walk away with enough flowers for a small wedding and having paid for exactly none of them.
Shadow had sohow materialized at Mailah’s feet, weaving between legs and carts with feline grace, her presence both reassuring and slightly ominous.
"That cat is a nace," Grayson said. "She just stole salami from that man’s bag."
Mailah looked down. Shadow sat primly beside her, a perfect slice of cured at dangling from her mouth like a prize. "Shadow, no."
The cat’s expression suggested she had zero regrets.
"See?" Grayson said. "nace."
Despite everything—the crowd, the noise, the barely controlled chaos—Mailah found herself smiling.
This was ridiculous. All of it.
A group of supernatural beings pretending to be tourists while a kleptomaniac cat terrorized Italian vendors.
And yet.
Grayson’s hand in hers felt real. Solid. His thumb traced absent patterns against her palm, and she wondered if he even realized he was doing it.
"Co on," she said, tugging him toward a stall selling leather goods. "We’re getting you a normal human souvenir."
"I don’t need—"
"Not negotiable. This is part of the training, rember?"
The vendor, a weathered man with kind eyes and calloused hands, greeted them warmly. Mailah browsed through journals and bags while Grayson stood rigidly beside her, looking like he was being subjected to torture.
"Relax," she whispered. "You’re supposed to be enjoying this."
"I don’t enjoy shopping."
"Liar. I’ve seen your closet. Everything is perfectly organized by color and fabric weight."
His ears went faintly red. "That’s different."
"How?"
"It’s... efficient."
She bit back a laugh and held up a leather-bound journal, its cover tooled with intricate vines. "What about this?"
He looked at it like she’d offered him a live snake. "What would I do with it?"
"Write in it? Draw? Keep a diary of all the tis I force you to do normal human things?"
"That would be a very long diary."
"Exactly. You’ll need a thick journal."
Sothing in his expression softened. He took the journal from her hands, his fingers brushing hers deliberately this ti. "You’re serious about this."
"About making you more human? Absolutely."
"Why?"
The question caught her off guard. His eyes were intent on hers, searching for sothing she wasn’t sure she could na.
"Because," she said quietly, aware of the vendor pretending not to listen, "I think you’ve spent so long being what you are that you’ve forgotten who you could be."
Grayson’s jaw worked like he was trying to find words that wouldn’t co. Finally, he just nodded once and turned to the vendor, pulling out his wallet with hands that weren’t quite steady.
The exchange was brief, conducted mostly in gestures and halting English.
But when Grayson tucked the journal under his arm, Mailah caught the ghost of sothing on his face—gratitude, maybe. Or hope.
They wandered deeper into the market, the others drifting in loose orbit around them. Lucien had acquired a ridiculous straw hat and was now haggling over ceramic bowls with theatrical enthusiasm that had the vendor laughing.
"Does he actually know how to bargain, or is he just charming people into giving him things?" Elin asked, appearing beside them with her cara.
"Does it matter?" Oliver said, joining them with a small bag of what looked like spices. "Either way, it works."
"He needs supervision," Mailah decided. "He’s going to accidentally promise soone his firstborn or sothing."
"Bold of you to assu he hasn’t already," Grayson muttered.
They found Lucien at a wine stall, swirling a sample in a glass with the confidence of a somlier and absolutely none of the knowledge. The vendor was watching him with barely concealed amusent.
"This one," Lucien declared, "has notes of... grape."
Mailah choked on a laugh. Elin didn’t even try to hide hers.
"It’s wine, Lucien," Oliver said dryly. "It’s made of grapes."
"Yes, but these are very... wine-flavored grapes."
The vendor said sothing in rapid Italian, grinning.
Lucien nodded seriously, as if he’d understood perfectly. "Exactly. That’s exactly what I ant."
"You have no idea what he said, do you?" Mailah asked.
"Not even a little bit."
Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is painful to watch."
"This is him experiencing humanity," Mailah corrected. "Embrace it."
"I’d rather not."
"Too bad." She grabbed his hand again and pulled him toward the wine vendor. "You’re both getting a lesson in normal human wine tasting."
"I don’t need—"
"Grayson." She fixed him with a look. "Stop fighting it."
Sothing flickered in his eyes—resistance lting into reluctant acceptance. "Fine. But I’m not drinking anything Lucien recomnds."
"Fair."
The vendor offered them samples, his weathered face creasing with pleasure at having such an attentive audience.
Mailah tried to pay attention to his explanations, but most of her focus was on Grayson beside her—the way he held the glass awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. The way his nose wrinkled slightly at the strong scent.
"You’re supposed to sll it first," she said quietly.
"I am slling it."
"No, you’re making a face at it. There’s a difference."
"It slls like fernted grapes."
"That’s literally what it is."
Lucien leaned in conspiratorially. "I think he’s broken."
"He’s not broken," Mailah said. "He just needs practice."
She demonstrated, swirling her glass gently, breathing in the aroma. "See? You’re looking for the notes underneath. The oak, the berries, the—"
"Pretension?" Grayson supplied.
Oliver snorted into his wine.
"The complexity," Mailah finished, fighting a smile. "Co on, demon boy. Humor ."
He sighed but mimicked her movents. His natural grace made even the awkward action look elegant. When he actually took the ti to sll the wine—really sll it—his expression shifted slightly.
"Well?" she asked.
"It’s... not terrible."
"High praise."
"From him? That’s practically a sonnet," Lucien said.
Grayson shot him a look that should’ve been lethal. Lucien just grinned wider.
They ended up buying three bottles—one because the vendor recomnded it, one because Lucien insisted it had the best label, and one because Grayson said it reminded him of sothing though he wouldn’t elaborate on what.
"This is nice," Elin said quietly as they walked. She had her cara down for once, just observing. "Weird, but nice."
"Weird how?" Mailah asked.
"I don’t know. Watching a century-old demon and a fallen angel argue about wine labels. It’s surreal."
"Welco to my life."
Elin smiled—a real one. "You’re good for them, you know. For him especially." She nodded toward Grayson, who was currently being dragged by Lucien toward a stall selling hand-painted ceramics.
Mailah felt heat creep up her neck. "I don’t know about that."
"I do. More..." She searched for the word. "Present. Like he’s actually here instead of just going through the motions."
Before Mailah could respond, Shadow yowled from sowhere nearby—a sound of triumph.
They found the cat erging from beneath a cheese stall with an entire wheel of pecorino sohow balanced in her mouth.
"SHADOW!" Mailah lunged for her, but the cat was faster, darting between legs and disappearing into the crowd.
"She just stole a ten-pound cheese wheel," Oliver said, impressed despite himself.
"How is she even carrying that?" Elin wondered.
"Determination," Grayson said. "And larceny."
Mailah was already running after the black streak, apologizing to vendors in broken Italian as she went. Behind her, she heard the others following, their laughter mixing with the market sounds.
She caught up to Shadow in a small piazza, where the cat had sohow climbed onto a fountain’s edge and was defending her prize from a group of pigeons. The absurdity of it—a tiny cat facing down a dozen birds over stolen cheese—made Mailah stop and just stare.
"Shadow, you can’t keep—"
The cat hissed at a particularly bold pigeon, and the entire flock scattered.
"Never mind. You do what you want."
Grayson appeared beside her, breathing slightly harder than normal. "Did we just chase a cat through an Italian market?"
"Yes."
"And she won."
"Apparently."
He looked at Shadow, at the cheese, at the scattered pigeons. Then, impossibly, he laughed—a real laugh, short and surprised and absolutely genuine.
The sound hit Mailah like a physical thing. She’d made him laugh. Actually laugh.
Their eyes t, and the laughter faded into sothing else. Sothing that made her breath catch and her pulse race and her skin feel too tight.
"Mailah—"
"There you are!"
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