He felt the quiet hit him first.

Not the silence of an empty room—but the hush of something sacred. Of her. Sitting there in the soft amber glow like a psalm wrapped in linen and lace, robe askew, leg curled beneath her, eyes full of something that cracked him wide open without ever lifting a finger.

She hadn’t touched the pastries.

Of course she hadn’t.

Lilith—Emilia—never made a move without intention. And this wasn’t about food. This was about offering. About waiting. About choosing him.

Again.

He moved toward her like gravity knew her name.

Set the suitcase aside with a dull thud he didn’t care about, and crossed the space barefoot, the cool marble grounding him while everything else about her unraveled him.

She smelled like lemon sugar and sweat and the ghost of expensive perfume—faded now, lived-in. The kind of scent that clung to hotel sheets and skin and memory.

When he knelt in front of the table, the twine practically came apart in his hands. He could feel her watching—quiet, steady, that storm-soft gaze she only gave to him. And it leveled him.

He cracked the box open like it held something holy.

And maybe it did.

One croissant. One lemon tart. Two tiny almond cakes nestled in parchment. A slice of pistachio something neither of them could pronounce, but she’d insisted on it anyway, whispering “it looks like art” with that crooked grin that always made his chest feel too small.

He reached for the croissant. The edges were still warm—flaky, golden, already crumbling slightly at the edge where jam had seeped through. He didn’t even glance down. Just lifted it, held it out to her.

Like a vow.

“You didn’t touch it,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges.

Her head tilted slightly. That small, breath-catching smile curved across her mouth—the one that meant you already know why.

“It’s not the same when you’re not the one feeding me.”

That hit like a goddamn confession.

His throat went tight.

He moved closer—closer than the space allowed—his knee brushing the edge of the couch, his other hand braced against her thigh. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

Her lips parted, taking the bite slow, letting the pastry brush his fingers before she caught it with her teeth.

She moaned. Just slightly.

God, he could’ve died right there.

“You make me want to be good,” he said—barely a breath, a prayer tucked between them, “and ruin you at the same time.”

She swallowed. Licked the corner of her mouth. He didn’t let the flake fall. Caught it with his thumb. Brushed it away. Kissed her after like he couldn’t help himself.

Because he couldn’t.

“Emilia.”

She looked up.

And in that moment, he didn’t see the girl who’d been torn apart by paparazzi or haunted by a voice that had made her shrink.

He saw her.

Soft, messy, present. Still choosing joy. Still choosing him.

“You saved the first bite for me,” he whispered.

His hand found her jaw.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making that worth it.”

Her smile was small.

Not coy. Not polished. Just real—like something delicate unfolding beneath her ribs.

Lilith didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. Not with the way she was looking at him. Like every version of herself had shown up just to sit in this room and let him love her the way she’d stopped believing was possible. Like this was the safest place in the world.

She leaned in slowly, catching his hand before it could drop from her jaw. Held it there. Let her fingers curl gently around his, anchoring them in the quiet. Her eyes searched his face like she was memorizing something—tracing the lines only she knew by heart.

“You always make it worth it,” she said softly. “Even when I forget how to let myself believe that.”

And it was true.

He saw through her shadows. Not past them—through. Like they were stained glass, and he was the only one who ever stopped to look at the way they caught the light.

Her thumb brushed over his knuckles.

She didn’t thank him. Didn’t try to make it lighter. Lilith had stopped pretending for him a long time ago. And in that silence, in that breath between bites and confessions, she let herself be soft.

“Most people want me as an idea,” she murmured. “Something beautiful and sharp they can name-drop and chase.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“But you just keep… showing up.”

A beat.

Her voice dropped. “Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m too much. Even when I hand you the worst of me and wait for you to flinch.”

She smiled again—wider this time, a little messy, a little wrecked.

“And you never do.”

She kissed his knuckles. Barely a brush, but it cracked something open anyway.

“I saved the first bite for you,” she said again, quieter this time. “Because no one’s ever made it taste better than you do.”

Her fingers drifted to his jaw then—light, reverent—tracing the edge of stubble like it grounded her.

And then, because it was them—always some mixture of sweetness and ache, indulgence and intention—she leaned forward just enough to whisper:

“Feed me another one, and I might let you ruin me properly.”

Her smile was wicked now.

But her eyes?

Still soft.

Still choosing.

He felt it like a heartbeat—quiet, steady, sacred.

That shift in her, from the untouchable girl the world worshipped from a distance… to the woman who looked at him like he was it. Like the room didn’t exist without him in it. Like her softness was something he hadn’t just earned—but something she wanted to give.

Nico didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Her words landed too close to bone. Too honest. Too fucking her.

And he let it.

Let her thumb brush over his skin.
Let her look at him like that—like he was a vow she whispered instead of broke.

He hadn’t flinched. Not once. Not when she was shining, not when she was snarling. Not when she showed him the pieces other people had called too much and waited for him to run.

And God, he’d never wanted to run toward anything more in his life.

So he held her gaze.

Let it fill the spaces her mother’s voice once tried to rot.
Let it be quiet and wild and big in a way nothing else had ever been.

“Emilia,” he said, voice low, voice wrecked, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

Like a promise.

Like a man who didn’t just love her—but chose her. Again and again and again.

“You hand me your worst,” he murmured, “and it still tastes like fucking gold.”

Then—gently—he reached back into the box.

Found the tart with the sugared violet on top.

Lifted it with fingers that had traced every inch of her body and still trembled when she looked at him like this.

“You remember what you said in Vienna?” he asked, leaning in, voice dropping like sin. “That I make everything taste sweeter when I kiss you after?”

He brought the pastry to her lips, eyes locked to hers.

“Let me prove it.”

And when she took the bite, when she moaned softly—mouth sticky with lemon and sugar and want—

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t let the flavor linger.

He kissed her.

Slow.

Deep.

Ruined.

And when he pulled back, just barely, lips brushing hers like worship, he whispered:

“I’m gonna ruin you every way you let me.”

Then, softer—like a breath meant only for her:

“And build you back softer every time.”

Because she wasn’t too much.

She was everything.

And Nico?

He would never stop tasting her like she was.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Just for a second.

Not from the kiss—but from the way he meant it.

The way his voice cracked around words that weren’t just declarations, but devotions. The way his breath didn’t ask permission, but offered sanctuary. Like she could unlearn every cruel thing she’d ever been taught about love and still find him waiting on the other side—mouth warm, hands steady, heart open.

Lilith exhaled slow.

And then looked at him.

Not as a girl used to being worshipped. Not as the performer the world renamed a thousand times. But as herself. Just Emilia. Just this—soft and full and quiet in a way she never let herself be unless she was with him.

“You always do,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Ruin me, rebuild me. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s holy.”

Her fingers threaded through the back of his hair, nails grazing lightly—just enough to ground her. Just enough to say I’m here, without breaking the reverence of the moment.

“You keep tasting the parts I never thought anyone could stomach,” she murmured, “and telling me they’re your favorite.”

A pause.

She leaned in again—foreheads brushing, breath shared.

“I used to think love was supposed to make you smaller. Softer. Easier to keep.”

Her lips ghosted his.

“But with you, I just get louder. Braver. More.”

Her smile returned—slow, wrecked, radiant.

“Feed me another bite, Nico.”

Her eyes were still shining, still lit with something untouchable.

“But this time, use your mouth.”

And just like that, the room was firelight and promise again.

No gods.

No ghosts.

Just her.

Just him.

Just everything that came after.

He watched her lips part—not just for the taste, but for him. For the intention behind it. For the intimacy laced into every flake of pastry he’d pressed from his mouth into hers.

And fuck, he could’ve stayed in that breath forever.

Her lashes fluttered as she swallowed, powdered sugar dusting the corner of her mouth like some wicked halo, and he had the sudden, overwhelming urge to fall to his knees again—not for lust, not even for worship, but for reverence. For her.

The way she looked right now—barefoot and curled into his home like it belonged to her (because it did), robe slipping just enough to expose one shoulder, cheek still faintly flushed from earlier heat—she was every version of a storm he would choose to walk into. Every time. No questions. No map. Just her wind, her rain, her light.

His fingers ghosted down her neck, thumb tracing the spot just beneath her jaw where her pulse fluttered loudest.

“You taste like fire,” he said quietly, eyes locked to hers. “Like something I’ll never survive—and won’t ever stop chasing.”

He leaned in again, slow and unhurried, mouth brushing the corner of hers where a smudge of lemon curd still lingered. He licked it clean—soft, slow, sinful—and let the tip of his nose graze hers when he pulled back just far enough to look at her again.

“You know what wrecks me the most?” he murmured, voice sanded low, thumb now drawing slow, lazy circles on her thigh. “It’s not the way you look. Not the way you sound when I touch you.”

A pause.

“It’s this.”

His hand slid over her chest, flat and open-palmed, right over her heart.

“It’s the fact that you keep handing me this and trusting I won’t drop it.”

He didn’t blink.

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, Emilia.”

He let her sit with that.

Let her feel it.

Then—just when the silence between them had stretched into something sacred—he leaned forward again, nose trailing along her jaw, and whispered at her ear:

“Another bite?”

His teeth caught her lobe gently. Teasing.

“I’ll use my hands this time.”

Then he reached for the tart—bright lemon, glistening gold—and cracked the edge with his fingers. Lifted the broken half to her lips.

But he didn’t feed her right away.

Not until she looked him in the eye and opened for him again.

Because this was a ritual now.

Devotion in sugar and touch.
Worship in silence.
Love, feral and soft, made edible.

And he’d feed her every piece of herself until she believed she deserved to stay full.

Her gaze didn’t falter.

Not when he traced the place her heart beat hardest. Not when he called her brave like it wasn’t just a compliment, but the truth—one she hadn’t let herself believe in too long. She held it now. Quiet. Reverent. Like something sacred passed hand to hand in a church made only for two.

Lilith’s breath caught as his fingers broke the tart in half, the delicate crack of pastry somehow louder than the city lights humming below their hillside home. She watched him bring the bite to her lips, waited for his eyes to meet hers.

And when they did—when he didn’t just look at her but into her—she opened her mouth again.

Not for the food.

For him.

And it undid her. Gently. Completely.

He placed it against her tongue with slow hands, careful hands. Hands that didn’t tremble, even when she swore she was crumbling in his. She closed her lips around his fingers, the lemon tang dancing across her tastebuds, and something deep in her chest ached with how safe it felt. How soft it was to be wanted like this. Fed like this. Held like this.

She chewed, swallowed, and didn’t look away.

Didn’t try to hide the emotion rising in her throat like a tide. Didn’t mask the glassiness behind her lashes. She let him see it. Let him stay in the room with every version of her—the strong, the tired, the unfiltered—and he didn’t flinch.

He stayed.

“You don’t drop anything,” she whispered, voice thick now. “Not even the parts I thought were too sharp to hold.”

Her fingers curled over his where they still rested on her thigh. Not to stop him.

To anchor herself.

“To be seen like this…” she trailed off, breath hitching, “and still kissed like I’m not a burden, like I’m beautiful even when I’m undone—”

She shook her head softly, a tear slipping free down one cheek, though her smile stayed.

“That’s the kind of love people don’t believe exists.”

Her other hand reached for him then, cradling his face. Thumb brushing the line of his cheek, where a smile had started to rise.

“But I do. Because I see it every time you look at me like this.”

She leaned in—forehead to his, nothing urgent, nothing wild. Just closeness.

“I love you,” she said, voice steady now. “Every way. Every moment. Even when I’m afraid.”

A beat.

Then she added, quieter:

“Especially then.”

And she kissed him—not desperate. Not claiming.

Just full.

Soft.

Like healing. Like honey.

Like something that didn’t need to be chased or earned—just held.

His breath caught.

Not in surprise. In awe.

Because when she spoke like that—when she let him see the full ache of what it cost her to stay soft in a world that begged her to harden—he didn’t feel like a man anymore. He felt like something ancient. Built to listen. Built to love her.

Her kiss tasted like lemon and salt and everything holy.

He didn’t rush to deepen it. Just pressed back, gentle and sure, hand cradling her waist as if she were the most delicate, most dangerous thing he’d ever held. And maybe she was.

When she pulled back, just far enough to breathe, he didn’t let her go. His forehead stayed against hers. His thumb brushed the tear from her cheek.

“You don’t have to believe in it,” he whispered. “You just have to let me be it.”

His voice cracked—not because it was fragile, but because it was full. Of her. Of the weight she didn’t make him carry but he chose to anyway. Gladly.

“I don’t love you because you’re brave, Emilia,” he said, eyes locked to hers. “I love you because you’re you. And when you’re afraid, when you’re messy, when you’re undone and don’t know what to do with the noise in your head?”

He leaned in closer. Kissed the edge of her smile.

“That’s when I want to hold you the hardest.”

He reached for her hand again—brought it to his chest, where his heart thudded so loud it shook under her palm.

“You’ve saved me a hundred times and don’t even know it. But this?” His fingers curled around hers. “Letting me in like this? That’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done.”

He kissed her knuckles.

Slow. Certain.

Then smiled—soft, wrecked, hers.

“And the next tart is mine,” he added, voice low but warm. “But I might share it if you kiss me again like that.”

Because love with her was weight and lightness all at once.

And he would hold both. Every day. Every bite. Every version of her.

Forever, if she’d let him.

Her laugh came quiet—small and unguarded, like sunlight filtering through stained glass.

It wasn’t the glamorous sound the world knew, that ribbon of silver she slipped into interviews and photo ops. No. This was something different. This was hers. His. A laugh that belonged to no one else because no one else had ever earned it like this.

“I’ll kiss you like that for free,” she whispered, still close enough to taste his breath, “but you’re going to have to earn the tart.”

Lilith shifted slightly, her knee brushing his thigh as she reached for the next delicate pastry—fig and mascarpone nestled in a golden shell, one she’d chosen because it reminded her of home and indulgence and something sweet she didn’t have to apologize for.

She lifted it from the parchment like it meant something. Like he meant something. And he did.

God, he did.

“You gave me the first bite,” she said softly, holding the tart between two fingers like a prayer. “Let me give you this one.”

There was no tease in her voice now. No edge. Just warmth. Just intention.

She brought it to his lips, not with the flair of performance or seduction, but the sacred quiet of someone who wanted to give. To share. To nourish.

And when he opened for her, when he took the bite from her hand, she watched him like it was holy. Like feeding him this sweetness was its own kind of intimacy—one that didn’t require heat or hunger to feel alive. Just this. Just them.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and she smiled.

Not smug. Not smug at all.

Just full.

“Good?” she asked, already knowing the answer but craving the way he looked at her when it came from his mouth.

Her fingers brushed his bottom lip gently, catching a smear of fig and bringing it to her own mouth without breaking eye contact.

And just like that, she settled back against the couch, legs folding beneath her once more, robe slipping a little further down her shoulder in the soft golden light.

“I think we should finish every trip like this,” she murmured. “No press. No photos. Just pastries and you letting me love you the way you let me be loved.”

She tilted her head, eyes searching, voice barely above a breath.

“Is that okay?”

As if he hadn’t already said yes in every way that mattered.

As if she hadn’t already carved her name into the quietest, safest corners of his life.

Still, she waited for his answer—not because she needed permission.

But because she wanted to hear him say it.

Because sometimes, sweetness was the bravest thing she could ask for.

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she’d already given him something no one else ever had—a moment that felt like peace. Like presence. Like he could sit in this silence and still be seen.

His lips curved around the fig and mascarpone like he was savoring more than just flavor. Like the pastry was a stand-in for all the love she didn’t know how to name. And when she brushed his lip, tasting the echo of what she’d given him, he nearly forgot how to breathe.

His hand came to rest at her thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into the softest part of her skin.

Not possessive.

Present.

“Good?” she’d asked.

His eyes finally opened. Found hers.

“Perfect.” His voice was low. Certain. Full of her.

Not just the tart. Not just the kiss.

Her.

And when she sank back into the couch like that—robe slipping, hair a little wild, skin still flushed from softness instead of sex—he looked at her like she was everything he’d ever tried to write down and never gotten right.

Until now.

Until this.

Her question hung in the air between them—tentative, brave, hers.

Is that okay?

He leaned forward, slow and sure, until their foreheads touched again. Until their breath was shared like a secret.

His fingers lifted to her face, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, then cradling her jaw like he couldn’t believe he got to hold something so real.

“You finishing every trip loving me like this?” he whispered. “Yeah, baby. That’s more than okay.”

A kiss to her cheek. Her temple. Her collarbone.

“I’ll take that over a thousand sold-out shows. Over the cover of every magazine. Over a city full of cameras.”

His voice dropped, low and reverent now.

“This? You feeding me tart with your fingers and asking if it’s okay to love me soft?”

He smiled, crooked and wrecked and all hers.

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Then he kissed her again.

Not like fire.

Like faith.

And when he pulled back, he grinned through his teeth and murmured, “But I’m still stealing the last bite.”

Because love like this?

It came with dessert.

She laughed—low and warm, the kind of sound that melted against skin and curled into the corners of the room like candlelight. Not loud. Not biting. Just soft. Sated. Entirely in love.

“You could’ve asked,” she murmured, eyes glittering like dusk over the ocean. “But I’d give it to you anyway.”

Lilith shifted forward, slow and fluid, siren-sweet in the way she moved—bare skin brushing his jeans, the robe sliding further down her arm like even it was surrendering to the moment. She reached for the final piece of tart, its edge just beginning to collapse under the weight of fruit and time.

Her fingers found it delicately, reverent as a blessing, and then paused.

Held it between them like an offering.

Like the final page of a love letter that didn’t need words.

“But since you’re feeling bold,” she said softly, her voice velvet-edged, “I want to be the one who gives it to you.”

She brought the tart to his mouth, just inches from his lips, but didn’t move closer yet. Not until he looked at her. Really looked.

And when he did—

That was enough.

She smiled, slow and sultry and heartbreakingly tender all at once. Then gently, she pressed the bite to his lips, her free hand lifting to cradle the back of his neck as he took it from her fingers.

“There,” she whispered. “Now you’ve had every piece of me.”

And it didn’t sound like a tease.

It sounded like trust.

Her thumb traced his jaw, catching a stray flake of pastry and brushing it away with the kind of gentleness that had nothing to prove. The kind she saved only for him.

“I want to end every night like this,” she said, voice low and honest. “No stage. No spotlight. Just your hands on my skin and the sound of you saying my name like it’s the only one that matters.”

She leaned in, kissed his cheek—then his mouth.

Soft.

Final.

Forever.

“And you don’t have to steal anything from me, Nico,” she added against his lips, sweet as the last bite. “I’ll give you everything. Every time.”