The next Sunday, rain threatened again.
Oliver declared this excellent weather.
Anna declared him suspicious.
"No one likes gray skies this much."
"I like when the city slows down."
"You like when people cannot reach you."
"That too."
They drove to the townhouse with coffee in hand and no schedule between them.
A luxury both had once considered irresponsible.
Now it was sacred.
The house already felt different.
Windows opened.
Fresh flowers in the hall.
Books stacked on the kitchen counter.
Life beginning where grief had paused.
Anna carried in pastries.
Oliver carried three boxes and still somehow looked offended.
"You brought enough food for a committee."
"I anticipated your appetite."
"I resent accurate forecasting."
She laughed and went to arrange plates while he watched her move through the kitchen like she belonged there.
Which, increasingly, she did.
He came up behind her and stole half a strawberry from the cutting board.
She turned sharply.
"Thief."
"I own the building."
"You stole produce."
"Vertical integration."
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
They spent the morning cleaning the upstairs library.
Meaning Anna organized shelves while Oliver held books and pretended to help.
"You are useless," she informed him.
"I'm decorative support."
"You're leaning on the ladder."
"I'm stabilizing morale."
She reached for a high shelf.
Before she could stretch fully, he lifted her easily by the waist.
She gasped.
"Oliver!"
"You needed elevation."
"Put me down."
"After the blue books."
She glared down at him.
He looked completely unbothered.
"Insufferable."
"Productive."
She placed the books just to end the scene.
He set her down slowly.
Too slowly.
Her pulse shifted annoyingly.
"You misuse strength," she said.
"I use it creatively."
By noon, sunlight broke through the clouds.
They carried lunch to the small balcony outside the studio.
The city rooftops shimmered after rain.
Anna sat cross-legged on the bench eating pasta from a bowl.
Oliver watched her.
Again.
Constantly.
"What now?" she asked.
"You have sauce here."
He touched the corner of his own mouth.
She wiped there instinctively.
Wrong side.
He shook his head once, leaned forward, and brushed his thumb gently across her lip.
Then, because he was impossible, licked the sauce from his thumb while holding her gaze.
She stared.
"That was unnecessary."
"It was efficient."
"You weaponize eye contact."
"You're blushing."
"I'm plotting."
He looked delighted.
Later, in the studio, they sorted sketches from his mother's old cabinets.
Between plans and watercolor pages, Anna found one folded drawing labeled in childish handwriting.
She opened it.
A crooked house beside a lake.
Two stick figures.
One much taller than the other.
And a dog that looked like a potato.
She laughed.
"What is this?"
Oliver glanced over and froze.
"Destroy it."
"Never."
"It was private."
"It was adorable."
He moved to take it.
She darted away, holding it above her head.
"Anna."
"Oliver."
"That is blackmail material."
"It is art."
He cornered her against the worktable.
Not aggressively.
Inevitably.
"Give it back."
"No."
His hands settled at her waist.
Dangerous tactic.
"You're distracting me."
"Yes."
"That's manipulative."
"Yes."
She smiled.
Then kissed him before he could continue winning.
When they parted, she tucked the drawing into her bag.
"For safekeeping."
"You're cruel."
"I'm your wife."
He had no defense against that.
Evening settled warm and gold.
They cooked together in the kitchen.
Meaning Anna cooked while Oliver chopped vegetables with the intensity of a hostage negotiation.
"You're overthinking onions."
"They're uneven."
"They're onions."
"Standards matter."
She moved beside him and adjusted his grip on the knife.
His gaze dropped to her hand over his.
Then to her face.
Then nowhere useful.
"Focus," she said.
"You touched me first."
"We're married."
"Still distracting."
She sighed dramatically and kissed his cheek.
"There. Compensation."
He set the knife down immediately.
"For one kiss?"
"For safety."
He turned, pulled her in by the waist, and kissed her properly until both forgot dinner entirely.
Somewhere behind them, something began to burn.
Anna pulled back first.
"Smoke."
Oliver glanced once toward the stove.
"Recoverable."
"Oliver!"
They both laughed while rescuing the pan.
Night found them curled together on the old sofa in the drawing room.
Blanket over their legs.
Fire low in the grate.
The townhouse quiet around them.
Anna rested against his shoulder.
"This was a good day."
"Yes."
"No coups."
"Disappointing."
"No board revolts."
"Manageable."
"No dramatic family revelations."
"Suspiciously peaceful."
She smiled and looked up at him.
"Can you survive ordinary happiness?"
He kissed the top of her head.
"With training."
A pause.
Then softer:
"With you, easily."
She tucked herself closer.
Outside, Milan moved on without them.
Inside, they learned the kind of love no one writes headlines about.
The steady kind.
The sweetest kind.
Theirs. ✨