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And we walk out of the alley and back through the village, fingers laced, my sundress wrinkled and my hair a disaster and his shirt untucked with a powdered sugar stain still on the collar. We look like exactly what we are—two people who just wrecked each other in the best possible way.

Neither of us speaks.

We don't need to.

The drive back is different than the drive here.

On the way to Villefranche, I sat in my seat and watched France pass by and tried to keep my feelings in a box. Now I'm curled sideways with my hand on his thigh and my head tipped against the headrest, watching his profile while he drives.

He glances at me. "Stop staring."

"No."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He takes one hand off the wheel and laces his fingers through mine on his thigh.

The coastline blurs past in the early dark. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand and I close my eyes and let myself feel what I've been fighting since we said "I do".

Happy. I'm just... happy, and hopeful.

It’s not the conditional kind of happy where I'm already bracing for what comes next. Or the kind that comes with a contract and an expiration date. But the real kind. The kind that fills your whole chest and makes your eyes sting and makes you want to laugh for no reason.

The villa is quiet when we get home.

He leads me down the hall without turning on any lights. Past the bedroom and straight into the bathroom where he turns on the shower and lets the steam fill the room before he touches me.

Then he undresses me. My sundress is already wrinkled and half-ruined from the alley but he unzips it like it's still something worth being careful with. It falls to the tile. He pulls his own shirt over his head, steps out of his trousers, and takes my hand.

We step into the shower together.

The hot water hits my shoulders and I exhale, letting the whole day go with it, but keeping all the best parts because today has been the best day I’ve had in the last three years.

Everett reaches for the soap. He washes me himself—his hands moving over my shoulders, down my arms, across my stomach. His thumbs work the knots out of my shoulders. His palm slides down my spine. He tips my head back to rinse my hair and I close my eyes and let him.

I return the favor. Running my soapy hands across his chest, his shoulders, the hard planes of his stomach.

"Turn around," he says.

I do.

His chest presses against my back. One arm wraps across my stomach. His mouth finds the curve of my neck and then his other hand slides down slowly between my thighs.

"Again, so soon?" I tease.

"I’ve been waiting a long time to get to touch you whenever I want. I have no intentions of stopping anytime soon."

"How long have you been waiting?" I ask.

"Since the day I walked into the Hawkeyes stadium and you were sitting at your desk."

I inhale sharply when his fingers find my center.

"I've got you," he murmurs against my ear, and his fingers find exactly where I need them.

He works me slowly. Circles and pressure and the occasional curl of his fingers inside me while the hot water runs over both of us and the steam makes everything soft and hazy. I lean back against his chest, my hand gripping his forearm, my hips rocking into his hand.

"That's it," he says quietly, and the low rumble of his voice against my back is almost enough to push me over by itself.

When I come, it's different than the alley. Not the desperate, crashing kind. The slow-building kind—the kind that starts in my toes and rolls up through me until my legs buckle and I'm gripping his arm and gasping and he holds me up with one arm around my waist like he's done this a thousand times. Like he'd do it a thousand more.