hii, i love your writing. Could you write a fic where daniel falls in love with his neighbor who owns a dog even though he’s so scared of them?
All Bark, No Brake - DR3
pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem!neighboor!reader
summary: the one where Daniel tries to woo the girl next door while surviving the beast in her backyard.
wc: 4.7k
💭 you can ask for a part 2 if you’d like!
note: hello, beautiful! hope your okay and having a good day, here's your request! 💛😽
The sun was a heavy, golden weight on Daniel’s back, but for the first time in fifteen years, he didn’t mind the heat.
This was different heat. This wasn’t the suffocating humidity of Singapore or the tarmac-melting radiatior of Bahrain. This was Western Australia. This was home.
Daniel wiped a forearm across his forehead, adjusting his grip on the hammer. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The trellis against the back limestone wall was slightly crooked, but he’d built it with his own two hands. No race engineers, no strategists, just Daniel Ricciardo, retired F1 legend, and a bag of nails from Bunnings.
"Still got it," he muttered to himself, flashing a grin at a passing seagull.
It was quiet. The kind of quiet he used to dream about when he was trying to sleep on a long-haul flight between Baku and Miami. Just the wind in the eucalyptus trees, the distant crash of the Indian Ocean, and—
Snort.
Daniel froze. The sound was wet, guttural, and close.
He tightened his grip on the hammer. He scanned the yard. Nothing. He turned back to the trellis, assuming it was just the house settling or a rogue possum.
CRUNCH.
It sounded like a bone snapping.
Daniel whipped around, heart hammering a familiar qualifying-lap rhythm against his ribs.
There, resting its front paws on the low stone wall that separated his property from the neighbor's, was a head.
It was massive. It was black, white, and tan. It had eyes like deep, dark voids and a tongue that lolled out the side of its mouth like a pink, slobbery ribbon. To the average person, it was a Bernese Mountain Dog. To Daniel, who had a well-documented and entirely rational fear of anything with sharp teeth and a pack mentality, it was a Grizzly Bear.
"Jesus Christ!"
Daniel didn't scream. He definitely didn't scream. He simply emitted a high-frequency tactical alert noise and executed a reflex maneuver that involved throwing the hammer into a fern and scrambling backward over a patio chair.
He landed in the grass on his ass, scrambling backward on his elbows until his back hit the glass sliding door.
"Holy—okay. Okay. Good dog. Nice... bear. Nice bear."
The beast stared at him. It tilted its massive, fluffy head. Then, it let out a singular, earth-shaking woof.
Daniel flinched so hard he knocked his sunglasses off his head.
"Barnaby! No!"
A second head popped up over the wall, right next to the beast.
This head was much less terrifying. It belonged to a woman. She had messy hair pulled up in a clip, smudge of green paint on her cheek, and she looked horrified.
"Oh my god," she gasped, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: the discarded hammer, the overturned patio chair, and the Formula 1 driver cowering against his own living room window. "Did he bite you? Did he jump the fence?"
Daniel scrambled to his feet, dusting the grass off his shorts aggressively to regain some shred of dignity. "Bite? No. No biting. We’re good. Just... doing some stretches. Plyometrics. Very dynamic."
The woman blinked. She looked from Daniel to the dog—who was currently resting his chin on the stone wall, looking like a depressed marshmallow—and back to Daniel. A slow, amused smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"You're terrified," she stated. It wasn't an accusation; it was an observation, delivered with a soft Australian lilt that Daniel immediately liked, despite the circumstances.
"Terrified is a strong word," Daniel said, walking back toward the wall but stopping a safe three meters away. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, trying to summon the 'Honey Badger' aura. "I was just surprised. Usually, the wildlife stays on the other side of the fence. And usually, it’s smaller. That thing is... prehistoric."
"He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog," she said, scratching the beast behind the ears. The dog leaned into her hand, eyes closing in bliss. "Barnaby, say sorry to the nice man for giving him a heart attack."
Barnaby opened his eyes and stared at Daniel. He let out a long, dramatic sigh that flapped his jowls.
"He's judging me," Daniel whispered.
"He's just hungry. He's always hungry," she laughed. She extended a hand over the wall. "I'm Y/N, by the way. I think I moved in about a week before you arrived. Sorry I haven't said hello properly—I saw the moving trucks and figured you wanted peace and quiet."
Daniel took a step forward, eyeing Barnaby warily. The dog didn't move. Daniel quickly reached out, shook her hand, and retreated to his safety zone. Her grip was firm, her hand covered in paint flecks.
"Daniel," he said. "And yeah, the peace and quiet is... was... nice."
"I can take him inside," Y/N offered, though she looked a little disappointed to cut the conversation short. "I know he’s big, but he’s really just a rug that eats cheese. He’s harmless."
As if on cue, Barnaby saw a butterfly flutter past Daniel’s head. The dog snapped his jaws at it—a loud CLACK of teeth.
Daniel jumped a solid foot in the air.
Y/N bit her lip to stop a laugh.
"Right," Daniel exhaled, hand over his heart. "A rug with the bite force of a crocodile. Got it."
"I'll take him inside," she said, her eyes crinkling with mirth. "Nice meeting you, Daniel. Nice... plyometrics."
She grabbed Barnaby’s collar. "Come on, you monster. Let’s go."
She disappeared behind the wall.
"Bye!" Daniel called out, perhaps a little too eagerly.
He stood in the silence of his backyard for a long moment. His heart was still racing, but for the first time in months, it wasn't from adrenaline or stress.
He looked at the wall. He looked at the trellis.
"She was cute," he said aloud to the empty yard.
From behind the wall, a deep, booming bark answered him.
Daniel flinched. "Yeah, yeah. I heard you."
It had been four days since the incident, and Daniel was ready to reclaim his territory.
He had spent the afternoon prepping. He’d marinated steaks. He’d opened a bottle of his own Ric3 Shiraz to let it breathe. He had put on a fresh linen shirt that was unbuttoned exactly the right amount (three buttons) to say, I am relaxed, I am retired, and I definitely do not fear domesticated animals.
He leaned against the stone wall, wine glass in hand, waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long. The sound of a squeaky toy being murdered signaled Y/N’s arrival in her garden.
"Evening," Daniel called out, pitching his voice low and smooth.
Y/N popped up from behind a hydrangea bush. She was wearing oversized overalls and looked startled, then pleased. "Oh, hey! You’re brave, standing that close to the demilitarized zone."
"I told you," Daniel swirled his wine. "I’m not scared. I was just... startled. There’s a difference. Anyway, I made way too much food. And I opened this wine, which is exceptional, if I do say so myself. You busy?"
Y/n smiled, wiping her hands on her overalls. "Are you inviting me to dinner, Mr. Ricciardo?"
"I’m inviting you to help me not waste high-quality Australian beef. But sure, call it dinner."
"I’d love to," she said, and Daniel felt a legitimate spark of victory. Then, her face fell slightly. She looked down at her feet. "Ah. There’s a catch, though."
Daniel’s smile froze. "Husband? Boyfriend? parole officer?"
" worse. Barnaby." She sighed. "He’s going through a phase. If I leave him alone in the house right now, he sings. Loudly. The last time I left him for an hour, the neighbors thought I was keeping a sorrowful whale in the living room."
Daniel’s grip on the wine glass tightened. "So... the catch is..."
"Can I bring him?" She gave him a hopeful look. "He’s really well behaved when he’s with people. He just hates being alone. I can keep him on the leash?"
Daniel looked at the steaks. He looked at Y/N’s hopeful eyes. He looked at his pristine, dog-free patio.
You are a Formula 1 race winner, he told himself. You have overtaken worse. You can handle a dog.
"Yeah," Daniel croaked. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, of course. Bring the... bring the little guy over."
Ten minutes later, Daniel’s doorbell rang.
He took a deep breath, checked his reflection in the hallway mirror—fear didn't show on the face, good—and opened the door.
Y/N stood there holding a bottle of white wine. Beside her stood the beast.
Up close, Barnaby was somehow even bigger. He came up to Y/N’s hip. His paws were the size of soup plates. He looked at Daniel, opened his mouth, and a string of drool landed on Daniel’s welcome mat.
"Hi," Y/N beamed.
"Hey." Daniel didn't move from the doorway. He was doing a mental calculation of the distance between the door and the kitchen island. "Come in."
He stepped back. Way back.
Barnaby lumbered in. His claws clicked ominously on the polished timber floors. Click-clack, click-clack. It sounded like the countdown to a bomb detonation.
"He likes your house," Y/N said, unclipping the leash.
"You—you’re taking the leash off?" Daniel asked, his voice rising an octave.
"He’s calmer off it. He likes to mingle."
Barnaby immediately began to mingle. He walked over to Daniel’s expensive Italian leather sofa and sniffed it deeply. Then he turned his giant head toward Daniel.
Daniel was currently standing behind a bar stool. It was a strategic position. It offered high ground and a wooden barrier.
"So," Daniel said, watching the dog’s every movement. "Wine?"
"Please." Y/N leaned against the counter, completely at ease. She watched Daniel navigate the kitchen. It was a fascinating dance. He moved with incredible agility, sliding along the cabinetry, ensuring there was always a physical object between his calves and the dog.
Barnaby, sensing a new friend, trotted over to the kitchen.
"Ah-bup-bup!" Daniel said, pointing a pair of tongs at the dog like a weapon. "Personal space, mate. Personal space."
Barnaby ignored the tongs. He walked right up to the stool Daniel was using as a shield and sat down. He leaned his 60kg weight against the stool.
"He’s leaning," Daniel whispered, horrified. "He’s trying to knock down my defenses."
"He’s hugging you," Y/N corrected, taking a sip of wine. "It’s a Bernese thing. They lean. It means he accepts you into the pack."
"I don't want to be in the pack, Y/NNNIE. The pack seems dangerous."
"He just wants a scratch."
"He wants my femoral artery."
"Daniel," Y/N laughed, walking over. She took his hand—which sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with fear—and guided it toward the dog.
"This is a bad idea," Daniel said, sweating. "This is how it ends. retired at 35, eaten by a carpet in his own kitchen."
"Just let him sniff."
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut and held his hand out. He felt a wet, cold nose bump his knuckles. Then a warm, sandpaper tongue licked his wrist.
He opened one eye. Barnaby was looking up at him with soulful, brown eyes.
"See?" Y/N murmured, standing very close to him now. "He’s a lover, not a fighter."
"He’s tasting me," Daniel insisted, though he didn't pull his hand away immediately. "He’s checking if I’m seasoned enough."
"Well," Y/N grinned, looking at the marinating steaks on the counter. "You do smell like garlic and rosemary. I’d probably take a bite too."
Daniel looked at her. The fear subsided, replaced by that familiar charm. He smirked. "Careful. I bite back."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I thought you were the one scared of sharp teeth."
"I contain multitudes," Daniel said. He finally pulled his hand away from the dog, feeling brave. "Alright. I’m going to grill. If the bear follows me outside, I cannot be held responsible if I climb onto the roof."
"Deal," Y/N said.
She picked up her wine glass and walked toward the patio doors. Barnaby stood up, shook his entire body—sending a cloud of fur into the air—and followed her.
Daniel watched them go. He looked at his wrist where the dog had licked him. He wiped it on his pants, grimacing, but the smile on his face stuck.
He grabbed the steaks.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Phase one complete. Survival rate: 100%."
He walked outside, giving the dog a wide, two-meter berth. "Nice dog. Good... bear. Stay over there."
Barnaby burped.
"Charming," Daniel muttered. "He takes after his mother."
"I heard that!" Y/N called from the garden.
"I meant the sass!" Daniel shouted back, grinning as he fired up the grill.
The sky over the Indian Ocean had turned a bruised, angry purple by 4:00 PM. By 6:00 PM, the world was ending.
It was a classic Western Australian squall—violent, loud, and relentless. Rain lashed against Daniel’s floor-to-ceiling windows like handfuls of gravel. Thunder didn't just roll; it cracked like a whip directly over the roof, shaking the wine bottles in his rack.
Daniel was fine. He liked storms. He was currently curled up on his sofa with a blanket, watching a documentary about sushi, feeling very smug about his double-glazed windows.
Then, his phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Y/N (Neighbor)
He frowned. They had texted a few times—mostly her apologizing for Barnaby barking at a squirrel or him asking if she wanted leftover lasagna—but she had never called.
He picked up. "Hey, Y/NNIE. Bit wet out there, yeah?"
"Daniel." Her voice was tight, high-pitched. He could hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of windshield wipers on maximum speed in the background. "I’m stuck. My car died on the freeway near Mandurah. The tow truck is hours away."
"Are you safe?" Daniel sat up, the smugness vanishing. "Do you need me to come get you? I’ve got the truck."
"No, I’m safe, I’m in the car. It’s not me. It’s Barnaby."
Daniel paused. " The bear?"
"He’s terrified of thunder," she said, her voice cracking. "Like, phobia-level terrified. If he’s alone, he destroys things. He hurts himself trying to hide. I can’t get there. Daniel, please. The key is under the wombat doormat. Can you just... check on him? Turn on the radio? Anything?"
A massive crack of thunder shook the house. The lights flickered.
Daniel looked out the window at the dark, rain-swept house next door. It looked like a haunted mansion from a horror movie.
"You want me," Daniel clarified slowly, "to go into the house with the anxiety-ridden, one-hundred-pound beast, in the dark, while the sky is exploding?"
"Please," she whispered. "I’m scared he’ll have a heart attack."
Daniel closed his eyes. He let out a long breath through his nose. He was the Honey Badger. He was a Grand Prix winner.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I’m going. Stay on the line with the tow truck. I’ve got the dog."
"Thank you. Oh my god, thank you."
Daniel ran through the rain, soaked to the bone in seconds. He found the key under the sodden wombat mat and shoved it into the lock.
The door swung open. The house was pitch black. The power was out.
"Barnaby?" Daniel called out, shaking the water from his hair. "It’s me. The guy you tried to eat last Tuesday. Hello?"
Silence. Then, a flash of lightning illuminated the hallway.
The house was a wreck. A lamp was knocked over. A rug was bunched up against the wall. But no dog.
"Barnaby!" Daniel moved deeper into the house, using his phone’s flashlight. The beam cut through the dark. "Come on, mate. Where are you?"
Another boom of thunder rattled the floorboards.
From the dining room, he heard a sound. A high, pitiful whine.
Daniel crept toward the dining table. He shone the light underneath.
There, squeezed into the tightest corner between the table leg and the wall, was the Beast. Barnaby was pressed so flat he looked like a rug. His massive body was trembling so violently that his teeth were chattering. He looked up at the light, his eyes wide and rimmed with white, panting frantically.
He didn't look like a monster. He looked like a terrified child.
Daniel’s chest tightened. "Oh. Oh, buddy."
He knelt down. "Hey. It’s okay. It’s just noise."
Barnaby flinched at the sound of his voice and tried to bury his head under his own paws.
Daniel looked at the shivering mountain of fur. He looked at the hard timber floor. He sighed, defeated.
"Move over," Daniel muttered.
He crawled under the table.
It was a tight squeeze. Daniel sat cross-legged next to the dog. "Alright. I’m here. I’m not edible, and I’m not thunder. I am a neutral party."
Another crack of thunder. Barnaby let out a yelp and scrambled sideways, pressing his entire weight against Daniel.
Instinct told Daniel to shove him away. Too heavy. Too close. Teeth.
But the dog was shaking.
Daniel hesitated, then slowly wrapped an arm around the dog’s thick neck. He buried his hand in the deep fur. "I got you. Shhh. I got you."
Barnaby let out a long, shaky exhale and slumped against Daniel’s chest. He was heavy, warm, and smelled like wet wool, but his trembling started to slow down.
"You’re a big baby, aren't you?" Daniel whispered, scratching behind the dog’s ears. "Everyone thinks you’re this big bad wolf, but you’re just a marshmallow. Yeah. Just a big, dumb marshmallow."
Barnaby licked Daniel’s chin.
"Don't push it," Daniel warned softly, but he didn't wipe it off. He leaned his head back against the table leg. "We’re just going to wait it out, mate. Just you and me."
Two Hours Later
The front door clicked open.
"Barnaby? Daniel?"
Y/N rushed in, her hair plastered to her face, a flashlight in her hand. The power was still out. The storm had softened to a steady drum of rain.
"In here," a voice croaked from the dining room.
Y/N swung the beam of light toward the table. She froze.
Under the mahogany table, Daniel was fast asleep, his head tipped back at an awkward angle against the wood.
Barnaby was asleep too. His massive head was resting squarely on Daniel’s lap. One of Daniel’s hands was resting possessively on the dog’s shoulder, his fingers tangled in the black fur.
Y/N lowered the flashlight, her heart swelling so fast it hurt. She leaned against the doorframe, watching them breathe in sync.
"Well," she whispered into the darkness. "I guess the truce is official."
Barnaby opened one lazy eye at the sound of her voice. He thumped his tail once against Daniel’s leg.
Daniel stirred. He groaned, blinked against the light of Y/N’s torch, and looked down at the dog on his lap.
"Oh, good. You're home," Daniel rasped, his voice thick with sleep. He looked at Y/N. "Your dog is heavy. I can’t feel my legs."
"You saved him," Y/N said softly, walking over and kneeling on the floor outside the table fortress.
"We had a conversation," Daniel said, trying to carefully extricate his legs from under 130 pounds of dog. Barnaby grumbled and refused to move. "He admitted he was overreacting. I admitted I was... perhaps... judgmental."
"You're cuddling."
"I am being held hostage," Daniel corrected. He looked at the dog, and his expression softened. He gave Barnaby a gentle pat on the head. "But... he's alright. For a bear."
Y/N reached out and touched Daniel’s knee. "Thank you. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done."
Daniel looked at her. In the dim light, with his hair messy and a giant dog drooling on his linen trousers, he smiled. It was the real one. The one with the dimples.
"Anytime, neighbor," he said. "Now, help me move the beast. I really need to pee."
Sunlight hit Daniel’s face with the subtlety of a checkered flag.
He groaned, trying to roll over, but found that his lower half was trapped under a cement block. He blinked one eye open. The ceiling wasn't his. The smell—coffee and wet wool—wasn't his either.
He looked down.
The cement block was Barnaby. The dog was sprawled across Daniel’s legs, snoring with a sound that vibrated through Daniel’s shinbones. At some point during the night, they had migrated from under the dining table to the rug in the living room. Daniel had used a throw pillow; Barnaby had used Daniel.
"Ugh," Daniel rasped, rubbing a hand over his face. "My back. My poor, athletic back."
"I think you look very cozy."
Daniel snapped his head up (too fast; his neck cracked).
Y/N was leaning against the kitchen counter, illuminated by the morning sun. She was wearing oversized pajamas and holding two mugs. She looked soft, sleepy, and dangerously pretty.
"I’m not cozy," Daniel protested, his voice gravelly with sleep. "I am trapped. This is a hostage situation."
He tried to pull his leg free. Barnaby grunted, shifted his weight, and pinned Daniel’s ankle more firmly to the floor.
"He’s 60 kilos of dead weight," Daniel wheezed. "He’s doing this on purpose."
Y/N walked over, suppressing a grin, and held out a mug. "Black coffee. Two sugars. I guessed."
Daniel accepted the mug like it was a holy relic. "You guessed right. You’re an angel. Now, please, remove the beast."
"Barnaby," Y/N said brightly. "Breakfast!"
The effect was instantaneous. Barnaby’s eyes snapped open. The snoring stopped. In one fluid motion that defied the laws of physics for a creature of his size, he scrambled off Daniel and galloped into the kitchen, his claws clicking frantically on the tiles.
"Oh, sure," Daniel sat up, grimacing as he stretched his spine. "For kibble, he moves. For me? Nothing."
"He was keeping you warm," Y/N said, sitting on the coffee table opposite him. She watched him over the rim of her mug. "You two were pretty cute. I took photos. Blackmail material."
Daniel froze mid-sip. "Delete them."
"Absolutely not. It’s the Honey Badger snuggling a Teddy Bear. It’s internet gold."
"I was not snuggling," Daniel said, standing up and trying to look dignified despite his wrinkled linen clothes and bedhead. "I was providing tactical emotional support during a weather event. It was a service. A professional courtesy."
"Uh-huh." Y/N stood up, stepping into his personal space to pick a stray black hair off his shirt collar. Her fingers brushed his neck, and Daniel forgot how to breathe for a solid second. "Well, your professional courtesy involved a lot of drool."
"His or mine?"
"Both."
They stared at each other for a moment, the morning silence thick and comfortable between them. Daniel realized, with a jolt of panic, that he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay in this messy living room, drink this coffee, and maybe watch the dog eat.
Danger, his brain warned. Abort mission.
"Right," Daniel said, clearing his throat and stepping back. "I should go. I have... things. Important retired things. Vines to inspect. Dirt bikes to polish."
"Of course," Y/N smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks for staying, Daniel. Really."
"Yeah. No worries."
He walked to the front door. He opened it, stepping out into the bright, fresh morning air. The storm had washed everything clean.
"Bye, Y/NNNIE."
"Bye, Daniel."
He walked down the path toward the gate. He was halfway there when he heard the door open again behind him.
Woof.
Daniel turned around.
Barnaby was sitting on the front porch. He wasn't barking aggressively. He was just... sitting there. Staring. He let out a low, pathetic whine.
"Go inside," Daniel commanded, pointing a finger. "Go eat your breakfast."
Barnaby tilted his head. He took a step off the porch.
"No," Daniel said firmly. "Stay."
Barnaby took another step.
"Y/N!" Daniel called out. "Control your animal! He’s stalking me!"
Y/N leaned out the doorway, laughing. "He’s not stalking you. He’s upset you’re leaving. You’re part of the pack now. You can’t just walk out on the pack."
"I am a lone wolf!" Daniel shouted back. "I ride alone!"
Barnaby trotted down the path, ignored Daniel’s protests, and leaned his entire body weight against Daniel’s legs, almost knocking him into a rose bush.
Daniel looked down at the dog. The dog looked up at him, tail thumping a slow, hopeful rhythm against Daniel’s shin.
Daniel sighed. A long, suffering sigh.
He reached down and scratched the dog vigorously behind the ears. Barnaby’s leg kicked involuntarily.
"Fine," Daniel muttered to the dog. "You’re a good boy. But don't tell anyone I said that."
He looked up to find Y/N watching him with a soft, knowing expression.
"You know," Daniel called out, his hand still buried in the dog’s fur. "I’m probably going to fire up the pizza oven tonight. Since I have all that leftover dough."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Is that an invite?"
"Only if you bring the bear," Daniel said, trying to sound casual and failing. "I need someone to clean up the crusts."
"We'll be there," Y/N said.
"Good." Daniel gave the dog one last pat. "See you later, mate."
He walked back to his own house, trying to strut, but it was hard to look cool when he was smiling like an idiot.
Six Months Later
The sun was setting over the vines, casting long, golden shadows across the patio. The air smelled of salt and ripening grapes.
Daniel sat on the outdoor sofa, a glass of red wine balanced on his knee. He was reading a book, or at least pretending to. Mostly, he was watching Y/N sketch in her notebook on the other side of the table.
"You're staring," Y/N said without looking up.
"I'm admiring the view," Daniel grinned. "The light hits your hair nicely. Very cinematic."
"Smooth. You've been practicing."
"I have. Barnaby is a great listener."
At the mention of his name, the black-and-tan rug under the table stirred. Barnaby crawled out, stretched—a process that took a full ten seconds—and immediately rested his heavy head on Daniel’s foot.
Daniel didn't flinch. He didn't jump. He didn't even look down. He just automatically shifted his foot to give the dog a better angle and reached down to scratch the sweet spot behind Barnaby’s ear.
"You know," Y/N said, finally putting her pencil down. "My mom called today. She asked how 'The F1 Guy' was doing."
"And? What did you tell her?"
"I told her you were very busy. Very serious. High-stakes lifestyle."
Daniel chuckled. "Oh yeah? Did you tell her about the matching bandanas?"
Y/N groaned. "I tried to block that out."
"Barnaby looks good in papaya orange, Y/NNNIE. It brings out his eyes. And mine makes me look approachable."
"You bought matching bandanas for you and the dog you were terrified of six months ago," Y/N reminded him. "You are obsessed."
"I am respectful of a fellow apex predator," Daniel corrected, taking a sip of wine. He looked down at the dog. Barnaby looked back, his tongue lolling out in a goofy grin. "We have an understanding. I feed him the expensive steak scraps, and he doesn't eat my face."
"He loves you more than me now," Y/N said, feigning jealousy. "If you leave the room, he cries. If I leave the room, he just goes back to sleep."
Daniel smiled, a soft, genuine look that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He reached across the table and took Y/N’s hand.
"Well," he said softly. "I know the feeling. I hate it when you leave the room, too."
Y/N squeezed his hand. "You're a sap, Ricciardo."
"I'm retired. I have time to be emotional."
Barnaby let out a loud, attention-seeking huff and nudged Daniel’s hand with his wet nose, demanding the scratching resume.
"Alright, alright," Daniel muttered, going back to petting the dog with one hand while holding Y/N’s with the other.
He looked around his backyard. The vines, the sunset, the girl, the giant bear-dog drooling on his expensive loafers.
For years, Daniel had chased adrenaline. He had chased seconds, podiums, and championships. He had lived his life at 350km/h, terrified of slowing down.
But sitting here, with the sun on his face and a dog snoring on his foot, Daniel realized something.
He wasn't scared anymore.
"Hey, Y/NNNIE?"
"Yeah?"
"I think this is my favorite season yet."
Y/N smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Mine too."Barnaby let out a happy woof, and for the first time in his life, Daniel Ricciardo didn't jump. He just laughed.
Your daughter had been seven that summer, brown from the sun, hair wild, always running. Her sandals forgotten in the fig orchard again. You remembered the way she’d lean out the open shutters in the mornings, calling for lizards or asking if she could eat gelato for breakfast. Henry always told her yes, he was an utter traitor about those things.
You'd rented the villa every summer since she was born. The same one, with the lemon trees out front and a tiled kitchen that got too warm by eleven. You remembered Henry buying far too many peaches at the market, cradling them like he was bringing you something illicit and decadent. Remembered your daughter climbing into bed with you in the early hours.
But always, always, there came that week when you and Henry would disappear.
It was quiet the day you told her, that particular summer. She was sprawled in the shade on the stone patio, drawing flowers in a spiral-bound sketchbook with pencils you'd packed from home.
“We’ll be back before you know it,” you said gently, brushing her curls from her forehead. “You’ll get to go to the beach every morning with Francesca. You like Francesca, don’t you?”
Your daughter paused, chewed her pencil. “I do. But you’ll miss the beach.”
You smiled. “We’ll be in another place. A pretty one. Just for a few days.”
She looked toward Henry, who was already folding his dress shirts into a suitcase. “Is it a secret?”
“Not a secret,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “But a private thing. Just for your mother and me.”
“Why?”
There was no suspicion in her voice, only curiosity. She was that sort of child, open-eyed, even-tempered. You watched Henry cross the room and kneel beside her chair. Always patient with her, always precise.
“Well,” he said, smoothing her shoulder, “because I like being alone with your mother. Don’t you?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “But I’m your daughter.”
He smiled. “Yes. And I’m grateful for that every day. But she’s still my wife.”
Your daughter kicked her foot, not entirely satisfied, but too gentle to protest. “Will you bring me something?”
“I’ll bring you two things,” he said.
“I want something you pick,” she said, pointing at him, then added, “and something she picks.”
He tilted his head toward you. “What will you choose?”
“Something lovely,” you said. “Something only she would like.”
“And I’ll pick something useful,” Henry added solemnly.
Your daughter narrowed her eyes. “Like socks?”
“Better.”
She finally grinned.
When you returned a week later, bronzed, salt-kissed, you found her asleep in the sunroom with an Italian picture book resting on her chest and a stack of sea-polished stones lined up at her feet. You remember how she stirred when you kissed her temple. How she mumbled, You’re back early even though you weren’t.
The gifts waited on her nightstand until morning: a tiny silver hairbrush with her initials engraved, and a gold-painted wooden box shaped like a strawberry that Henry had bartered for in a coastal market. You could hear her delighted gasp echo across the garden when she opened them.
Later, she ran to you on the terrace, holding both objects high. “Did you miss me?”
“Terribly,” you said, catching her in your arms.
Henry joined you at the railing, brushing windblown strands from your face. She didn’t notice when his hand found yours. Didn’t see the way he tilted his head, asking silently if it had been enough, if you were ready to be parents again.
“Yes,” you’d whispered over her head, though he hadn’t said a word aloud.
The first night alone was always the quietest.
You left the villa late in the afternoon, after your daughter’s nap, and by then she’d already kissed you both on the cheek and skipped back to Francesca without much fuss. Henry had packed everything. You always let him. He liked order, liked to fold things with crisp, hotel-like precision. There was something reassuring in it, the way he handled your clothes like they were delicate, precious.
It was a new place that year. A secluded bed-and-breakfast with vines curling around shuttered windows and only the sound of crickets and the occasional train far in the distance. The hostess had smiled as if she knew, offering you a bottle of wine without asking what you preferred.
By the time you were alone in the room, the sun had already dipped low enough to gild the floorboards. The walls were pale blue, uneven with age. The bed was wide and low to the ground, dressed in white linen that whispered when you passed your hand over it.
Henry stood at the window, jacket removed, cufflinks abandoned on the writing desk. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow. You watched him for a moment from where you sat on the edge of the bed, just watching. The back of his neck was warm with sun. His profile calm. He hadn’t spoken since dinner.
"You're quiet," you said.
“I’m thinking.” He glanced at you, faintly smiling. “About how long I’ve waited for this week.”
"You're always thinking," you murmured. "But not always like that."
"No," he said. “Not always.”
He crossed to you, kneeling, never abruptly, never brash, and touched your bare knee where your skirt had ridden up. His fingers ran over your skin lightly, reverently, as if remembering it. You reached out, pushing a curl back from his brow. He leaned into it.
"Do you miss her already?" you asked.
"Of course," he said. "But I miss you more."
You opened your mouth, some reply, some soft deflection, but you didn’t get to speak. His lips were already on yours, warm and certain. And maybe it was the sudden quiet, or the fact that there would be no little footsteps in the hallway tonight, no whispering under the door or tiny fists knocking for water. Maybe it was the way he sighed against your mouth: tired, grateful, relieved.
You let yourself melt into it.
That first time, he was almost too gentle. Like he didn’t want to startle you out of the spell. He touched your body like he was trying to remember the exact places that made you soften, made you arch and sigh and whimper. You’d almost forgotten what it was like to have time. To move slow. To let his mouth wander as long as it pleased.
“You should let me...” he whispered between kisses to your collarbone, to the curve of your breast. “Just tonight, let me take care of everything.”
You nodded, your hand curling around his shoulder. And he did.
Later, you lay tangled in the cool sheets, the open window lifting the curtains gently in the dark. He had you tucked against him, one arm curled under your back, one hand stroking your hip.
You murmured, “Was it worth it?”
He tilted his head to look at you. “What?”
“Leaving her for a week.”
His eyes moved over your face. Then he bent, kissed the tip of your nose, and murmured, “It was necessary.”
You laughed softly. “Is that the official verdict?”
“Completely clinical,” he said. “No sentiment involved.”
You kissed him then, lazy and warm, still sleepy and sated and full of that unhurried affection that only came in silence. Only came when no one needed anything. When you weren’t mother or wife or hostess, just the girl Henry fell in love with, the girl he’d never stopped wanting.
You whispered, “One more time?”
And he whispered back, “As many times as you’ll let me.”
The next morning, he made coffee the way you liked it while you sat on the wide stone windowsill, your knees pulled up under his shirt. Your legs were bare. He couldn't stop looking at them.
"Drink," he said, placing the porcelain cup into your hands.
You smiled, took a sip, and hummed. "Perfect."
Henry leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching you with that inscrutable look he wore when he was already somewhere else in his mind. Somewhere quiet, internal. He did that often. But you knew the signs. This wasn’t a philosophical fugue or some classical Latin line stuck on repeat, this was anticipation.
"You're thinking of something," you said, narrowing your eyes over the rim of your cup.
He raised a brow. "Am I?"
"Yes. And it’s not something I’m supposed to guess, or you would’ve said it already."
He didn’t answer. Just walked over to you, slow, deliberate, and took the cup from your hands.
You blinked up at him as he set it aside, then knelt in front of you. Gently, he tugged your legs open around him and leaned in, hands cradling your thighs.
"Let’s not get dressed today," he murmured. "You look far too content to bother."
You blushed. Not because you were shy anymore, he’d touched and taken and held every part of you in every state, but because there was something about the way he said it. Almost prayerful.
"And if we want lunch?" you asked, tilting your head.
"I’ll bring it to you."
"And dinner?"
He kissed the inside of your knee. "You’ll be far too tired for dinner by then."
You let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh, looping your arms around his neck. His mouth was already moving higher, already coaxing your breath to catch.
That day passed like a dream, slow and syrupy, blurred at the edges. Henry didn’t let you leave the bedroom until dusk. You half-heartedly protested, but the moment his hands found your hips again and guided you back to the bed, you sank.
He worshipped you in fragments. A brush of your ankle with his thumb. The slow path of his mouth down your stomach. The soft murmur of yes, that’s it, darling, just like that as you gasped and trembled and reached for him again and again.
Later, your body sore and warm and wholly satisfied, you lay sprawled across the pillows. The sun had dipped low and painted the walls amber. Henry was beside you, propped up on one elbow, hair tousled.
"You think we’ll always need this?" you asked.
"This?"
"Time. Away. To feel like this again."
He didn’t answer right away. Just studied your face like he was memorizing it.
"Not need," he said finally. "But I’ll always want it. Just you. Just us."
You nodded. And curled closer. And somewhere in the hush between kisses, you fell asleep again.
That night, he didn’t wake you. He lay awake instead, one hand on your back, tracing soft circles there. Listening to your breathing. Thinking about how lucky he was that you had wanted him at all. That you still did.
In the morning, he’d make breakfast.
And in the afternoon, you'd want to go out. Market, perhaps.
The market smelled like tomatoes and lavender and old stone warmed by the sun. You practically skipped, paper bag full of little trinkets and linen serviettes cradled against your chest, your other hand clutching Henry’s. You were speaking in swift, musical Italian, fluent now, after all those summers. The old women smiled at you, indulgent. The vendors gave you extra fruit. Henry followed in your wake with that small, proud smile of his, pretending not to be charmed by how quickly you slipped into the rhythm of the place.
When you stopped to admire a stack of hand-painted ceramics, he leaned down to murmur, “We don’t have room in the suitcase for a dinner set.”
You turned to him, eyes gleaming. “Then we’ll buy another suitcase.”
He laughed, warm and low. “Of course we will.”
Later, you settled into a small ristorante on the edge of the piazza. Dappled shade from the vines above. Cicadas. The clink of glasses. You had your sunglasses perched on your nose, sipping wine, cheeks pink from the sun and the giddy high of being somewhere beautiful with him.
“I’ll be right back,” Henry said, brushing his fingers along your shoulder before disappearing toward the restrooms.
You were thinking how you'd have to remind your daughter to wear sunscreen later when you'd call her and a note to yourself about a shop you wanted to revisit, when the shadow fell over your table.
You looked up. A tall man, tan, expensively dressed in that breezy, casual way that still screamed wealth. Designer sunglasses, golden watch glinting on his wrist. He smiled at you.
“Excuse me,” you said automatically in Italian. “This table is taken.”
“I saw you were alone,” he said, switching to English. American, maybe. “Didn’t want you to be lonely.”
“I’m not,” you said, polite but firm. “I’m married. My husband just stepped away.”
He waved it off like that was charming trivia and not a full stop.
“I’ll be quick. Just wanted to ask, are you local? You speak beautifully.”
You gave a tight smile. “No. Just been coming here a long time.”
“That so?” He leaned forward. “It shows. You’ve got that look. Like you belong here.”
You didn’t respond. He didn’t take the hint.
“I’m staying just up the coast. Rented a place for the summer. Gets a bit dull, to be honest. Been hoping to find good company.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” you said coolly.
He took your silence as invitation. He was handsome, you supposed. Not threatening. But arrogant in that grating, too-rich-to-hear-no sort of way. And more than that - presumptuous. What kind of man sat down after a woman told him she was waiting for her husband?
“Let me at least buy your wine.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but the man’s gaze lifted suddenly. A slight twitch of discomfort flickered across his face.
You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.
Henry’s shadow stretched long beside the table, cast by the sinking sun. You looked up. He was standing perfectly still, just behind the man’s chair, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. The other held his sunglasses.
“I believe my wife was saving that seat for me,” he said, voice quiet but never enough not to be heard, very clipped.
The man stood up quickly. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Henry didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift. But something in his still gaze, his height, the pale, sharp disposition of him, made the moment feel colder than it should’ve been.
The man looked at you. You gave him a smile that was almost pitying.
“I did say he’d be back in a minute.”
He muttered something under his breath and walked off toward the main square.
Henry sat down across from you, setting his sunglasses on the table.
You watched him, biting back a grin. “He offered to buy me wine.”
“I saw,” Henry said mildly, as if discussing the weather.
“Also said I belonged here.”
“You do.”
You rested your chin on your hand. “You’re not going to say anything mean about him?”
“No,” Henry said, reaching for his glass. “I’m just going to enjoy the rest of this lovely afternoon with my wife, who, despite the circumstances, was kind enough not to cause a scene.”
You laughed, finally, full and bright.
He looked at you over the rim of his wineglass. “Though I do hope you tell me if he follows us again.”
“You’d do something?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Henry said. “But discreetly. I’d never embarrass you in public.”
You leaned over the table and kissed him, slow and smug. “That’s very romantic.”
He smiled. “If you say so.”
And then you waved the waiter over and ordered pasta for both of you, like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn’t momentarily tilted under the weight of how absolutely, irreversibly yours he was.
You were lying on your back on the cool hotel sheets, the open shutters letting in the breeze and the hum of the evening outside, bells in the distance, the occasional motorbike, the clink of glasses on balconies. The sunset had turned everything gold.
You groaned softly, hand pressed to your stomach. “I shouldn’t have eaten that second helping of pasta.”
Henry looked over from the small desk where he was sorting through postcards. He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t eat a second helping. You finished mine.”
You huffed. “Because you said you weren’t hungry.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, standing. “You still devoured it like a starved little saint.”
You turned your head toward him. “Well, now I’m paying for it. My stomach is bulging.”
He crossed the room in easy strides and knelt beside the bed, tugging back the sheet to expose your midsection.
You tried to cover yourself with a pillow. “Don’t look!”
“Darling,” he said, utterly unfazed, “I’ve seen your stomach after Christmas dinner. This is nothing.”
“It's puffed out like I'm six months along,” you mumbled dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a watermelon.”
Henry leaned over and pressed a kiss just above your navel. “Nonsense. You look divine.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am too.” He nudged your hand away, palms smoothing over your sides. “Soft and warm and completely mine. Why would I ever complain about this?”
You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you’re secretly pleased. I remember what you said last time I was bloated.”
“I said,” he murmured, trailing kisses lower, “that I liked how full you looked.”
You snorted. “You said I looked like I’d been claimed.”
He looked up at you with a crooked smile. “Exactly.”
You groaned and tossed a pillow at his head. “You’re impossible.”
He caught it and set it aside. “And you’re beautiful. Even, or perhaps especially, when stuffed to the brim with pasta and wine and smugness.”
You swatted at him half-heartedly. He crawled into bed beside you, pulling you against him with a content sigh, hand resting over your belly like it was something precious.
You whispered, “You’re really not disgusted?”
He kissed your temple. “Perish that ridiculous thought.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “I might need gelato in an hour.”
“I’ll carry you to it.”
“You just want to see me bloated again.”
“I live for it", he said solemnly.
You buried your face in his chest, laughing.
You’d meant only to walk.
A morning stroll through the nearby village, nothing more ambitious than that. But the sun caught you both in a good mood, your hair braided down your back, Henry in his white linen shirt and dark sunglasses, and you wandered farther than intended, past olive groves and weatherworn signs until the narrow cobbled road gave way to sloped gravel.
“We’re lost,” you announced, not unhappily, as your sandals kicked up dust.
“We are not,” Henry said, although he looked around with mild displeasure.
“Do admit we’re a little bit lost. I think we passed that orange tree twice.”
“I think you simply believe all trees look the same.”
You swatted his arm, grinning. “All right, Signor Cartographer. Where to next?”
He didn’t answer. He was staring off toward the bend in the hill. Then he took your hand without comment and led you up the incline, thumb brushing your knuckles as you went.
The slope curved again, then flattened into a sun-drenched clearing. A faded wooden sign leaned against a stone wall: Mercato Locale – oggi fino alle tre.
“A market?” you asked.
“Seems so.”
You squeezed his hand. “See? This is why we get lost. It’s fate. This is our ‘quaint local experience’ moment.”
The small cluster of tents and stalls beyond the archway was clearly not built for tourists. Children chased a dog through the shade, and old women haggled in dialect far quicker than your Italian lessons ever prepared you for. The scent of grilled vegetables and salty air hung thick in the breeze.
Henry looked at you with the barest trace of amusement. “You’re going to buy something unnecessary, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to buy something perfect,” you corrected, already pulling him along.
You ended up with a ceramic olive dish shaped like a fish (“Henry, look at its face - look at it!”), two bottles of local wine, and an embroidered tablecloth you absolutely did not need.
Henry bartered politely for a vintage pocket watch - “Because it reminds me of my mother's father’s,” he said, though he refused to elaborate, and then you shared a cone of gelato beneath the olive trees. He wiped your lip with his thumb after a drip of honey-lemon ran down it.
On the way back, you sat beside him on the bus that cut across the hills, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the warmth. You rested your head against his arm, feeling pleasantly dazed.
“That was one of the best days of my life,” you murmured.
“You say that every time we accidentally go somewhere,” he replied, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.
“I mean it.”
He didn’t answer. He kissed the top of your head instead.
That night, over the simple dinner you cooked together, grilled vegetables from the market, fresh bread, olive oil poured into a dish you didn’t need, Henry watched you light candles as the sun sank behind the hills.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For still being someone who gets excited about a lopsided fish dish.”
You smiled, fingers grazing the tablecloth.
“I think we’re very lucky,” you said. “To have had this week.”
He reached for your hand across the table and gave it a light squeeze.
“You’re right,” he said. “But we made the luck. All the rest is just geography.”
You wandered into town again.
Not for sightseeing or dinner or any cultural pursuit. Just to walk. The villa had started to feel like a dream you’d stayed in too long, silken and drowsy, the way skin starts to feel after too much sun and sex and slow wine-drunk mornings. You loved it. But your legs were itching. You needed something else.
Henry humored you.
He always did when you got like this - restless without knowing why. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your thigh. You hummed along to the radio. Italian pop songs. Nonsense, but catchy.
You ended up in a town too small for tourists. A main street that had one café, a church, and a dress shop where the owner greeted you in a heavy dialect that made even you pause before replying.
You dragged Henry inside.
She showed you a rail of silk dresses, mostly handmade, simple but lovely. You picked out one in a faded cornflower blue and disappeared behind the curtain.
Henry sat obediently on the bench just outside, pretending to be deeply interested in an architecture book on the shop’s small display table. In reality, he was watching the hem of the curtain shift with your movement. You slipped out a minute later and twirled once.
He stared.
“Well?”
“It’s pretty,” he said, “but you look far too innocent in it.”
You blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means I know what you look like when you’re flushed and naked and whispering my name, and now you look like a Sunday-school girl. It’s confusing. I don’t like being confused.”
You grinned.
“Buy it,” he muttered.
“Really?”
“I’ll make you wear it in the mornings when I’m too tired to touch you but still want to stare.”
You snorted, turned, and went to change back, cheeks warm.
The old shopkeeper winked as she wrapped the dress. “Marito?”
You grinned and nodded.
He paid in cash. Always in cash in these places. No paper trail, no disruptions. Just the old rhythm of exchanged pleasantries and polite refusals for a bag.
You walked back hand in hand. The air was beginning to cool. A few lights flickered on in the houses above the shops, and the distant clang of bells marked the hour.
“You’re quiet,” Henry said.
“I feel like we’re playing house,” you admitted.
“We are.”
“No. I mean…more than usual. Like it’s some secret life.”
He glanced at you sidelong. “Isn’t it?”
You smiled. “Then let’s keep it.”
He paused. Tugged you close. Kissed your hair once, lightly.
“We will.”
You wore the dress next morning, as asked. You made it exactly halfway through your espresso. The ceramic cup was still warm in your hands, fingers curled lazily around it, your legs stretched out beneath the table on the shaded terrace of the villa. The sky was pearl-grey, still waking up, and the cicadas hadn't yet begun their chorus. You’d just taken your first bite of buttered toast when Henry rose from his chair and crouched beside you instead, hands sliding up your bare calf, then higher still, brushing the hem of the new dress.
You lowered the cup slowly. “I thought you said you’d be too tired to touch.”
“I was,” he said, thumb trailing along the inside of your thigh. “Then you came out in this.”
You raised a brow. “We bought it so I could wear it. Not to torment you.”
“Same thing.” His hand disappeared beneath the fabric, pushing it up in lazy increments. “You know what you look like in this? Like I dreamed you up.”
You snorted softly. “You’ve dreamed up shorter skirts than this.”
“Yes. But none of them sit across from me at breakfast acting like nothing’s happening while I’m on my knees for them.” He kissed your knee, then the space just above it. His hair brushed your skin. “It’s the combination. The civility of it. Morning light and jam and your lip print on the rim of that cup.”
He wasn’t even really doing anything yet. Just kissing the inside of your thighs. Just talking.
“You’re awful,” you murmured.
He smiled against your skin. “And you’re still here. Which means you want me like this.”
You sighed, carefully placing the cup down on the table.
“And if I spill the coffee on us both while you’re under the table?”
“I’ll lick it off.”
You covered your face with both hands.
He chuckled, then moved the chair out of the way entirely and urged your legs apart. The dress bunched around your hips. He kept you right there, half-covered and flushed, the scent of espresso and heat rising around you.
He was wrong, actually, he wasn’t too tired to touch. Not even close.
And you were far, far too soft for him like this to protest.
The sun in Italy never quite felt real. It gleamed too gold, too cinematic. The sky too blue. The sea, visible from their villa’s balcony, was always calm enough to look painted on. You said this every year, and every year Henry agreed, mostly so he could hear the amused lilt in your voice as you declared it all "indecently picturesque."
That afternoon had been long and indulgent. A walk through the shaded ruins just outside the town, Henry with his camera around his neck and you with your sunhat angled like a movie star. Then a late lunch in a quiet alley cafe, where the pasta came drowning in oil and lemon zest and you’d each finished a carafe of wine between shared forkfuls.
And after that, the gelato.
Always the gelato.
He’d watched you pick flavors like a scientist and a child rolled into one, meticulous, greedy, shining with anticipation. Chocolate and berries, blood orange and pistachio, vanilla and honey. Today you’d chosen caramel and cherry.
He hadn’t even ordered any for himself. Just leaned against the sun-warmed stone wall and watched you eat, eyes behind his sunglasses, mouth faintly curled.
But now, back at the villa, with your sandals kicked off and your thighs sticking slightly to the wooden kitchen chair, your fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt and your brows pulled together.
“I think I’ve eaten too much gelato,” you said.
Henry, crouched in front of the mini fridge, probably deciding what wine to open before dinner, turned his head without standing. “Is that…a confession or a lament?”
“A concern.” You exhaled. “We’ve only been here a few days and I feel...God. Like I’m becoming rounder. Squishy.”
He stood and shut the fridge. “You’re on holiday.”
“I know, I know. But I’m eating sweets every day. And olive oil with everything. I can feel it in my waist.”
“You walked five miles today. And swam this morning.” He came closer, pulling off his glasses. “And, though this may come as a surprise, you’re not meant to stay perfectly taut and angular while consuming almond with gelato beside the Mediterranean.”
You gave him a weak glare.
He crouched in front of you now, his hand sliding along your bare knee. “You think I didn’t notice the way you closed your eyes after the first bite? You think I didn’t see the cherry drip down your wrist? You think I wasn’t imagining what it would taste like off your tongue?”
“Henry.”
He leaned forward. “You don’t look squishier to me,” he murmured, lips brushing your thigh where your skirt had ridden up. “You look soft. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that belongs in a Botticelli. Or the kind of beautiful that ruins a man’s mind and sleep and logic.”
“That’s dramatic,” you said, but your voice had quieted.
“Correct.”
He stood then, tall and bare-armed, and pulled you to your feet so slowly it felt ceremonial.
“I’ll cook tonight,” he said into your hair. “Something light. Salad and mozzarella. That strange little herb you like.”
“Parsley?”
“I was trying to be poetic.”
You laughed. “Fine. But no more gelato tonight.”
“You’ll want it after dinner,” he said, nose grazing your cheek.
You squinted at him. “Do you want it?”
“I want you,” he said. “If you happen to taste like cherry and chocolate, all the better.”
You buried your face in his chest, flushed and half-laughing, and let him hold you until the heat of the kitchen and the day began to lift.
Later, he set the table on the balcony. Poured you cold wine. Served you the salad and stole slices of cheese from your plate.
And after dinner, when the breeze came in and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, he was already holding out a spoonful of gelato.
“Just a little,” he said solemnly. “For ritual. For science. For ruin.”
You ate it from his hand. And when he kissed you after, you tasted like summer.
a/n: I remember someone wanted more dad!Henry? So I sneaked in a bit of that.