Blake's attention never left her face, even when she lowered the champagne glass, even when she looked at him like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to kiss him or cross-examine him. The distinction had always been dangerously thin with Willa. As she talked about British sad boys and minor keys and Robert Smith, he felt the familiar pull of amusement building alongside something softer. She was teasing him, obviously. She was also looking at him with an honesty that made every joke feel transparent around the edges. He could hear the affection underneath it. Could hear the confession tucked inside the mockery. By now, he knew the difference.

The accusation that he was campaigning for the title of favorite British man settled somewhere embarrassingly deep in his chest. He should have had a clever response ready. Something self-deprecating. Something capable of surviving her scrutiny. Instead, he found himself watching the way the evening light caught in her hair and thinking that he would happily lose every argument she ever started if it meant getting to stand here listening to her make them.

When she called him annoying, his smile widened immediately because the look accompanying the insult stripped all venom from it before the words even landed. He saw the way her eyes softened. Saw the heat beginning to thread beneath the affection. Saw the exact moment she stopped pretending she wasn't looking at him. That awareness moved through him slowly, like warmth spreading through cold hands. It wasn't surprise. Willa had never been difficult for him to want. The dangerous thing was how the wanting had only deepened over time. Marriage hadn't dulled anything. It had somehow made every feeling sharper.

The word wife caught his attention exactly the way she knew it would. He felt it every time she said it. Not because it was new anymore, but because it still carried the same quiet shock. Wife. Not girlfriend. Not partner. Not some temporary title waiting for circumstances to change. Wife. The woman standing in front of him with champagne on her breath and mischief in her eyes and more honesty in her heart than she knew what to do with. Wife. The word settled differently every single time, and he suspected it always would.

As she crossed the remaining distance between them, Blake felt his body respond before his thoughts could organize themselves. He noticed her bare feet against the floorboards. The careful way she moved. The complete absence of performance in it. She wasn't trying to be seductive. That was what made it impossible to ignore. Every step felt deliberate because it was honest. She wasn't hiding the fact that she wanted to be close to him. Wasn't disguising it behind humor or distraction. She was simply coming toward him.

Her hand settled against his chest, and Blake's gaze dropped briefly to her fingers before lifting back to her face. When she touched the chain at his neck, when she toyed with it absentmindedly while holding his eyes, he felt a laugh threaten somewhere low in his chest. Not because anything was funny. Because she had no idea how impossible she made it to think when she looked at him like that.

The mention of her imaginary itinerary only confirmed what he already suspected. He listened to her describe a version of the evening built around responsible adulthood, champagne, music, and scenic appreciation, and every word made him more certain she didn't believe any of it herself. The longer she spoke, the more her voice shifted. The more honest it became. The more she revealed without meaning to.

His eyes followed hers when they dipped briefly toward his mouth.

That particular look had never been subtle.

Neither was the feeling that followed it.

By the time she admitted that some of her reasons for marrying him were extremely physical, Blake felt the corners of his mouth tug upward despite himself. Not because the statement surprised him. Because it was so unapologetically Willa. She could deliver a declaration of love and a flirtation in the same breath and somehow make both feel equally sincere.

When her hand rose to his hair, his eyes closed briefly. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel her relearning the shape of him. He knew she liked touching it. Knew she was still adjusting to the change. Knew she was fascinated by it despite all her complaints. The knowledge settled warmly beneath his ribs.

Then came the choices.

Blake listened carefully, not interrupting once.

The first option sounded exactly like them. Cake. Music. Champagne. Long conversations that wandered nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The kind of evening that started with jokes and ended with confessions. The kind of evening they had both spent months missing.

Then came the second option.

The smile that appeared on his face arrived slowly, helplessly, as she leaned closer and lowered her voice. He felt the brush of her fingers against the back of his neck. Felt the warmth of her breath. Felt every bit of affection and longing wrapped around the words she wasn't quite saying outright.

But it was the final part that reached him most.

Not the teasing.

Not the invitation.

The honesty.

I want the honeymoon.

All of it.

The simplicity of that landed harder than anything else she'd said.

For a moment, Blake just looked at her.

Really looked at her.

At the woman who had crossed countries to get here. The woman who had spent half the evening making jokes because the alternative was admitting how much she cared. The woman who loved fiercely enough to survive distance, schedules, exhaustion, and every logistical nightmare two musicians could create for themselves.

His hand rose slowly to her face.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just certain.

His thumb brushed lightly across her cheek as he held her gaze.

The smile never fully left his mouth, but something gentler settled beneath it.

"You know what's unfair?" he asked quietly. "You spend ten minutes giving a speech like that, and somehow I'm still expected to make a decision."

His hand slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, holding her there with easy familiarity.

"The champagne stays."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the bottle.

"The cake stays."

Then back to her.

"The music definitely stays."

His smile deepened.

"But if you're asking whether I'd rather spend the next hour staring at the view or staring at my wife, I feel like the city has to accept a very distant second place."

The confession came easier than it once would have. Maybe because they were alone. Maybe because she'd already gone first. Maybe because he was tired of pretending he wasn't affected by her.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead lightly against hers.

"I missed this," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Not Prague. Not the suite. Not even the honeymoon part."

His fingers tightened gently at the back of her neck.

"You."

The word lingered between them.

Simple.

Complete.

True.

Then the seriousness cracked just enough for amusement to return.

"Although," he added, glancing briefly toward the cake, "I do think we'd regret abandoning that lemon frosting. It seems vindictive."

His eyes returned to hers.

"So my official ruling is that we have champagne, cake, music, and my extremely beautiful wife for a little while longer."

The smile that followed was warm and entirely unguarded.

"And after that, we stop pretending we're the sort of people who can be trusted with an expensive honeymoon suite."