Morning in Como begins quietly, sunlight slipping through the tall windows in soft bands of gold that spread slowly across the room and the tangled sheets.
The lake below lies smooth and pale in the early light, the surface barely disturbed except for the faint wake of a distant boat. The villa still holds the deep hush of early morning, a silence so complete it feels sheltered from the world beyond the hills.
Willow wakes first, aware of warmth before thought.
Zane’s arm rests around her waist, his hand curved naturally against her hip, holding her close even in sleep. His breathing moves slow and steady against her shoulder, deeper than she ever sees at ho, the guarded tension gone entirely.
She turns carefully toward him, studying his face in the soft light.
Sleep smooths the hard lines from his expression. A faint shadow darkens his jaw and his hair falls slightly forward in a way she never sees when he is awake and precise. He looks younger like this. Unarmored.
Her hand slides gently up his chest.
Then she leans forward and presses a slow kiss against his mouth.
For a mont he does not move.
Then his breathing changes.
His eyes open gradually, lashes lifting in unhurried awareness as recognition settles into place.
"You’re awake," he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
She smiles against his mouth.
"So are you."
His hand moves slowly along her side, warm and familiar, drawing her closer.
"How do you feel?"
She tilts her head slightly, eyes bright with quiet mischief.
"Strong enough to make poor decisions."
A slow smile spreads across his face, the last trace of sleep dissolving.
"That sounds promising."
He pulls her closer and kisses her again, slower this ti, unhurried and warm in the growing light. The morning stretches around them without structure or urgency, the quiet of the villa wrapping the mont in stillness.
Their movents remain unguarded and easy, the kind of closeness that belongs to ti with no obligations waiting.
Later they lie tangled in the sheets, sunlight warm across their skin, neither in any hurry to move.
Eventually Zane brushes a strand of hair back from her face.
"Shower."
She smiles.
"Good idea."
The bathroom fills with steam within minutes, warm water cascading in steady sheets that echo softly against stone tile.
They step in together, the space large enough that they move easily without crowding, though Willow stays close anyway, one hand resting lightly against his chest as the water runs over them.
Soap becos an excuse for distraction.
She presses foam against his shoulder.
He looks down at it.
"Is this necessary?"
"Completely."
He reaches for the shampoo instead, tilting her head back gently beneath the spray. His fingers move slowly through her hair, careful and thodical as he works the lather in, rinsing it out with practiced patience until the strands fall smooth and clean down her back.
She closes her eyes while he does it, relaxed in a way that surprises even her.
When he finishes she looks up at him with quiet satisfaction.
"My turn."
He arches one eyebrow slightly.
"You cannot reach."
"I can try."
She steps behind him anyway and stretches up on the balls of her feet, one hand braced lightly against his shoulder while the other attempts to reach the back of his neck with the soap.
It works for approximately two seconds.
Then her fingers slide across the muscles along his back and he reacts instantly, shoulders tightening with a sudden sharp breath.
She freezes.
"You moved."
"I did not."
She tries again, slower this ti.
The mont her fingertips drag lightly across his back he flinches again, this ti unmistakably.
Willow stares at him in astonishnt.
"You’re ticklish."
"I am not."
She tests the discovery with scientific curiosity, brushing her fingertips lightly along his side.
He turns halfway toward her with visible restraint.
"Willow."
"You are."
He exhales slowly, composure returning by force.
"It is irrelevant."
She laughs, delighted by the revelation.
"I did not think anything could make you lose control in under one second."
"That is an exaggeration."
She manages to soap at least part of his back while he stands very still in the water like a man enduring a necessary procedure.
By the ti they step out wrapped in thick white towels, the morning has fully arrived.
They dress without hurry and carry their cups onto the terrace where the lake stretches wide and pale beneath the morning light.
Boats move quietly across the water below while the mountains rise in layered green along the far shore. The air holds the clean warmth of a day already turning bright.
"Breakfast?" he asks at last.
She curls her fingers around the warm porcelain of her cup and shakes her head slightly.
"Coffee first."
He watches her finish it in slow contented sips before reaching for the small bell set discreetly on the terrace table.
Breakfast arrives a short while later, brought quietly by a staff mber who moves with practiced discretion before withdrawing again and leaving the terrace entirely to them.
The table fills with careful abundance rather than excess. Warm bread wrapped in linen. Fresh fruit cut into neat shining slices. Honey in a small glass bowl that catches the light like amber. Eggs prepared simply. Thin curls of smoked salmon laid beside lemon and herbs. A small pot of thick yogurt and a plate of pastries still faintly warm.
Willow leans forward slightly, breathing in the sll of fresh bread with visible appreciation.
"This is dangerous."
"It is breakfast."
"This is not breakfast."
"It is adequate breakfast."
She smiles and reaches for a piece of warm bread, tearing it apart with her fingers before dipping it into honey. The sweetness lingers on her lips and she closes her eyes briefly in quiet satisfaction before taking another bite.
Zane eats with steady calm, movents precise and unhurried in a way that feels natural rather than formal here. The tension that usually shapes his mornings is absent. No phone. No schedule. No interruptions.
The lake moves quietly beyond the terrace railings while sunlight warms the stone beneath their feet.
At one point she reaches across the table and steals a piece of fruit from his plate without asking.
He watches the theft without protest.
"Was that necessary?"
"Yes."
"You have your own."
"It tastes better stolen."
He nods as if acknowledging a point well argued and returns to his coffee.
They linger longer than they an to, talking little, comfortable in the quiet rhythm of eating and watching the water shift below them.
Eventually Willow leans back in her chair with the unmistakable satisfaction of soone fully awake and restored.
"Now," she says, brushing a crumb from her fingers. "We can explore."
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