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Only me.

Marriage hasn’t altered the foundation of us. It’s simply carved the word ‘forever’ into the beams.

When he finally stirs, he kisses my hair, and without a word, reaches over to the nightstand drawer.

“I wanted to give you something,” he says, pulling out a small velvet cloth. He unwraps it and places a tiny wooden box in my hands.

Its surface is smooth, made of dark walnut, clearly old and loved. On the lid, a single word is carved in imperfect but deliberate letters: ‘Sempre.’

Always.

I open it slowly. Inside, a delicate ballerina twirls to the soft, sweet tune of a lullaby I don’t recognize—but I know it’s not random.

He watches me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maria used to hum that when I couldn’t sleep. I found the box years ago and restored it. I carved that lid myself.”

I blink, the tears already spilling. “Why give it to me?”

“Because when I think of 'always'—I think of you.”

My voice shakes. “I will keep it safe. Just like I’ll keep your heart.”

Later, we try to cook lunch. He insists on making the toast. He burns every slice. I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the counter.

“You’re hopeless,” I say.

“I’m dangerous,” he corrects.

“Dangerously bad at cooking,” I tease.

We swim in the secluded bay. I chase him into the surf. He dunks me. I retaliate. Our kisses taste like seawater and laughter.

It’s the lightest I’ve felt in years.

That night, wrapped in a thick blanket under a canopy of stars, I rest my head on his chest.

“I want to build something one day,” he murmurs. “A home. Not an estate. A real house. One where our kids won’t have to look over their shoulders.”

I don’t cry.

I grip his hand.

“Let’s build it,” I say. “Brick by brick.”

The music box plays softly from the bedroom window, the ballerina still spinning in the dark.

For the first time, we weren’t running from anything.

We were running toward something—together.

Epilogue

Stefano

One year later.

The sea stretches before us, endless blue meeting the horizon where it kisses the sky. Waves crash against the shore in a rhythm that’s become as familiar to me as Isadora’s heartbeat against my chest at night. Our footprints trail behind us in the wet sand, evidence of our existence that the tide will soon erase—temporary, like all things except what we’ve built between us.

Isadora walks ahead of me, dark hair dancing in the coastal breeze. Even now, after a year of waking up to her face, I find myself struck by her beauty—not just the obvious kind that first caught my eye in that club, but the fierce grace that makes her formidable. Myprincipessa.My salvation.