Beneath Crimson Skies

(Sophia's POV)

Six months.
That's how long it had been since everything unravelled, and somehow found its way back together.

And us?

We weren't perfect.

We still had late-night arguments about whose turn it was to pick the wine. He still left his cufflinks scattered across my vanity. I still forgot to water the plant he gifted me on my birthday, the one he now kept alive with silent dedication.

But we were good. Really, really good.

I still lived in my apartment, because I wasn't ready to give it up just yet. But Dante had a toothbrush in my bathroom. I had silk camisoles tucked into his drawers. And we both had keys to each other's places.

Some nights I cooked. Some nights he did. And some nights we just ordered food and made love on the couch until we were too tired to move.

That was our rhythm now.

Not always planned. Not always polished. But always ours.

It was a Saturday morning.

He was lying in bed, shirtless, one arm flung lazily across his eyes. The sheets were rumpled around his waist. My fingers trailed down the line of his chest, and he peeked from under his arm with a sleepy grin.

"You're staring," he murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.

"You're warm," I said, pressing my cheek to his chest. "I'm collecting heat."

He chuckled. "You're clingy."

"You like clingy."

He rolled over suddenly, trapping me beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion. My giggle caught between us as he kissed my collarbone.

"I do," he whispered into my skin. "Especially when you make that noise."

His hand slid under my thigh, coaxing me closer. The way he touched me, slow, steady, reverent, felt like home.

We didn't speak much that morning. We didn't need to.

His lips against mine said enough.

Later, over coffee, I sat on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his white button-downs as he fried eggs, humming to a song on the radio. I watched him, the lines of his shoulders, the small scar near his elbow, the way he gently swore when he burned his hand.

He turned and caught me staring.

"What?"

I just shook my head. "Nothing. Just... you look very domestic for a man with three guns in his safe."

He smirked. "Two guns. Ones at your place, remember?"

I nearly spit out my coffee.

He walked over, nudged my knees apart, and kissed the edge of my jaw. "Don't act surprised. I'm preparing for the apocalypse."

"Or my cooking."

"Exactly."

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was back at my place, curled on the couch with my sketchpad.

Dante was out of town for a quick meeting in Milan. But he'd left a note on my fridge.

"See you Tuesday, gorgeous.
Don't forget to water the damn plant.
, D."

I hadn't even noticed the plant had bloomed again.

Maybe we had, too.

Maybe, after everything, we'd finally found the version of love that didn't demand perfection, just consistency. One day at a time.

Was this the closure you didn't know you needed? Or the beginning of something even better? Tell me your favorite part of their peace. 🌿✨