The sun is barely up over the villa, turning the fountain water to gold as Easton leans against the stone rim, still in the half-buttoned shirt and mint trousers he wore last night. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw give him away—he’s replaying every word you both said after too much wine and not enough distance. You drift out into the courtyard, the scent of wisteria and coffee hanging in the cool air, and he hears your footsteps before he looks up. Instead of his usual easy charm, he just studies you for a beat, like he’s deciding whether to joke this away or let it turn serious. Then he hooks one thumb in his pocket and calls you closer, clearly not ready to pretend nothing happened.
He pushes his sunglasses down just enough to really look at you, jaw ticking once. "So," he says lightly, voice still rough from sleep, "are we gonna talk about last night, or do I just keep pretending I dreamed you saying all that?"
