Her sleep drifts through the murky shapes of nightmares,
until gunfire sears the screams of a woman whose children drift lifeless upon a crimson sea, and she wakes with a flinch,
her blurred gaze slowly clearing to the safety of the dim room with her fiancé.
Her heart sinks when she finds the other side of the bed empty, a million alarming thoughts tearing through her mind as the hum of the door opening reaches her ears.
Her eyes lift to meet Rhett's, and he pauses mid-step.
"You're awake?" he asks softly before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
Neva nods, pulling the duvet to her chest as she sits up.
"I had to head down and get us dinner," he says, setting the tray on the round table by the window.
"The room service isn't reliable here."
He parts the curtain an inch and, as though confirming something, unlatches the window just enough for the cool air to carry in the sounds of celebration, a melodious folk song woven with the hum of laughter.
The first day of January, 2018, is already slipping into night as sky deepens into an inky blue. They reached the small island, whose name still escapes her, in the first hours of dawn after an agonizing ride across the freezing sea aboard a RHIB.
"You barely ate anything during brunch, so I got you one of your favorites," he says, uncovering the dish and
letting the rich, savory aroma, laced with buttery warmth, drift through the room.
She absently touches the damp strands of her hair, still cool from the morning shower, having spent the rest
of the day in bed after a light brunch.
She looks up as she senses him approaching,
a smile already tugging at his lips.
He leans down and presses a kiss to her temple before lifting her effortlessly into his arms. Her arms instinctively wind around his neck as he carries her to the table.
He gently settles her into the chair before lifting her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. "You must be starving."
He moves to the chair opposite her, cuts a slice of the spaghetti pie,
and places it gently before her.
While he serves himself a slice,
she reaches for the jug of water and quietly fills both of their glasses.
"Thank you," he says, lifting the glass before taking a sip.
She reaches for her fork and closes her eyes, the prayer of gratitude ingrained in her heart that it comes without thought.
A quiet hunger stirs in her stomach, but she still has no appetite as she takes a bite of the spaghetti pie, its creamy,
savory filling melting across her tongue.
His eyes lingers on her for a moment
before lowers them to his own plate and begins to eat.
They dine in silence, accompanied only by the orchestral folk music drifting up from the town beneath them.
She eases the curtain back, letting a fresh, cold breeze brush her cheeks.
Beyond the window, lanterns bathe the cobblestone streets in golden light,
flower wreaths sway overhead, and people whirl in circles to the lively music echoing from the fountain in the center of the square.
The air hums with children's laughter, choral singing,
and the distant bloom of fireworks,
while below, the town revels in an abundance of food, music, and dance, the people embracing life with joyful abandon.
A faint smile touches her lips.
"Do you want to join them?" he asks playfully.
She shakes her head. "Do you?"
"I'd rather have your company over anything else," he says.
She glances at him, the warm candlelight softening the sharp planes of his handsome face.
"Have you found out if Noah and his dad are okay?" she asks.
He reaches over and squeezes her hand. "Not yet," he says quietly.
"But they'll be alright, Angel."
"How many do we know are safe?" she asks.
"Most of them are safe," he says with a small smile. "Rest assured."
He doesn't say more, or how many have died or been injured. She doesn't want to know.
Her eyes lower. "Is it because of me?"
"No, Angel," he says gently. "The authorities believe the attack was financially motivated."
"But what about you?" she asks quietly.
"From what I understand, no," he says after a brief pause. "But even if there's the slightest possibility that Raka was behind it, none of this is your fault, Angel."
Even so, he leaves open the possibility of another connection until the investigation satisfies him.
She takes a sip of water, though her fingers still tremble slightly as she lowers the glass back to the table.
Then she whispers softly, "Are your missions always this dangerous?"
"Not always," he says, his voice shifting into a teasing lilt. "Don't worry. I'm pretty good at what I do.
I'm one of the top elite agents, after all."
A smile breaks across her face, a genuine one, as the smugness in his foolish grin lifts the weight from her heart.
But then she asks, "Why did you choose to become an agent?"
"Hmm..." He pretends to ponder deeply, resting his chin in his hand.
A small smile curves his lips. "Because I thought it made me closer to my late father," he says. "And the thrill of it, the feeling that I was doing something meaningful,
made me certain this was what I wanted."
A pang of guilt twists in her stomach. Now, she has taken away the very purpose of his life.
"What age were you when you became an agent?" she asks.
"The age you are now," he replies.
Eighteen. So young.
"There's still so much to learn about you," she says softly.
"We have a lifetime to learn about each other," he murmurs.
She gives a small nod before asking quietly, "When do we get married?"
His brows lift in surprise. "If you want to, we can get married tomorrow."
She watches his eyes for any trace of playfulness, but finds only firm honesty staring back at her.
"When did you think we'd get married... before all this?"
"Whatever you would've agreed to, as long as it was soon enough, I was content," he says.
" I wanted to ask you about this after I figured out how to tell Aunt about us," she murmurs. "...About you."
Had she been unfair to both her aunt and uncle, and to Rhett, by keeping their relationship a secret?
She hadn't known how they would react. If they had accepted him,
she would have taken Rhett to meet them. And if they hadn't...
she would have married him anyway.
A faint smile tugs at his lips. "What if they hadn't approved of me?"
"It wouldn't have changed anything," she says, rising to place her dish on the tray before reaching for his.
She wipes the table clean with a napkin and lays it atop the stacked dishes.
"I'll always be grateful to them for raising me," she says quietly. "But it's my life, and I have already chosen you."
She picks up the tray and looks up to find his gaze softened.
Then he rises as well, the chair scraping softly against the floor. Gently taking the tray from her hands, he says, "I'll take care of it."
She makes her way to the bed as he steps into the corridor to set the tray outside.
Drawing the duvet over herself, she melts into the soft pillow just as he returns.
"Sleeping already?" he asks, tugging off his boots on the woven mat by the door.
"I have nothing else to do," she murmurs, turning onto her side.
The mattress dips beneath his weight as he climbs into bed
and slips under the covers beside her.
He lies onto his side to face her, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Don't worry," he says. "We'll have plenty to do once we're married."
"Like what?" she whispers, nestling against his chest as he wraps his arms around her.
"Settle down somewhere peaceful," he murmurs. "Somewhere in the countryside, just like you wanted. We'll make it our home... and make love, and make babies..."
"What if we get married a week later?" she whispers, melting into the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his embrace.
"Really?" he asks, a note of surprise in his voice. "You'd make me wait another week?"
A soft chuckle escapes her. "I want us to find a place to call home first."
"About that," he says. "I've narrowed it down to a few places I think you'll like.
And if you agree, I think I've already found the perfect home."
She pulls away just enough to meet his eyes. "Is it a cottage?"
A smile tugs at his lips as he brushes a few strands of hair from her face. "Yes. A cottage."
"Are we moving across the continent, or are we staying in Europe?" she asks.
"We're staying in Europe," he replies. "It's a countryside village called Ziriri. Do you want to see it?"
Ziriri. What a whimsical name.
She shakes her head, nestling closer against his chest as his embrace tightens around her.
"I already have a good feeling about it."
As sleep's tender petals begin to brush against her, curiosity stirs within her again.
"Are you unemployed now?"
"Why? Afraid we'll go broke?" he teases.
"I've never earned a penny in my life," she says quietly. "I might have made something of myself through my degree, but now... I'd rather be a housewife."
"You can always study later, Angel," he says softly. "Your safety comes first. And financially, we're secure.
I may not be able to return to the agency, but I still have my workshop business."
She had forgotten about it. He's still the owner of the workshop in Vernellia.
"When are we leaving?" she asks.
"Tomorrow, if that's alright?"
"Could we leave the day after tomorrow instead?"
"Of course," he murmurs.
And as a half-dream smelling of flowers and woods slowly draws her in,
she whispers, "I love you."
"I love you more, Angel," he says, pressing a kiss to her hair.