To be edited later

The Los Angeles sun was loud that day, but Lilith didn’t feel like turning herself toward it. She sat at the edge of the infinity pool instead, legs tucked to one side, one toe lazily tracing ripples in the water while the other held the weight of her favorite sin.

A clove cigarette burned slow between her fingers—fragrant, spiced, curling smoke like incense toward the cloudless sky. Her silk cover-up lay discarded somewhere behind her on the pale stone, forgotten. She wore a black one-piece with sheer paneling and gold hardware that matched the single ring on her index finger. Hair piled messily on her head, bare face, oversized sunglasses. She wasn’t trying to be seen. Not even by the sun.

The city spread below her in a soft shimmer. Somewhere in the canyon, someone was playing jazz too loud. Wind caught the edges of it, carried it across the hill and let it dissolve into birdsong and the distant thrum of life.

She exhaled smoke. Tapped ash into a small marble tray. Blinked slowly.

He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.

Nico was in Berlin—or Paris, she wasn’t sure anymore—doing something artistic and mysterious and half-impossible to track. She’d woken up in their bed without him and accepted the absence like she always did: with ritual. A slow morning. A late brunch she didn’t finish. A book she hadn’t opened. Now, the pool. Her version of silence.

A door closed.

Lilith froze.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the jazz. This was inside.

She went still—not dramatically, not movie-scene still—but in the way of someone trained to expect the wrong kind of surprise. Her fingers hovered just slightly away from the cigarette tray. Her other hand slipped down to grip the stone edge beside her.

Another sound. A shift. Bare feet on hardwood.

Her throat tightened. All at once the glass behind her felt too thin. The house too open. The silence too not alone.

She stood slowly, carefully setting the cigarette in the ashtray and reaching for the silk robe with fingers that didn’t shake but could have.

Lilith didn’t call out. She never did. Instead she moved inside—silent, barefoot, alert.

She passed the kitchen, heart pounding now. A glass sat on the counter. She hadn’t left that there.

Another step, and then—

There he was.

Not a stranger. Not a thief.

Nico Romano, back a day early, standing in their living room like he’d never left. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Hair wild from travel. Boots left at the door. Looking at her like he’d been gone for months.

Lilith didn’t speak. Just stared.

Her chest rose, then fell. Her mouth parted—but not for words.

Then she exhaled.

The fear melted into heat. The tension shifted. And for a moment, she didn’t care if the cigarette burned to ash outside without her.

He was home.

He hadn't meant to scare her.

But the moment Nico saw her—*really* saw her—standing barefoot and backlit by the California sun, robe clutched loosely in one hand, eyes wide in that way that made his chest ache—he realized how long it had been since he’d breathed right.

The silk fell from her shoulder like it forgot how to cling, and there she was: sun-warm and sharp-edged, freshly woken and half-wrapped in silence. Her mouth parted like she had a thousand things to say and none of them would come. His Lilith. His Emily.

He dropped his bag by the door. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

For one beat, then another, they just stared at each other. The house felt too still—like something divine was watching. Her lips parted. Her shoulders eased, barely. He watched the shift—the unraveling of fear into recognition, the kind that hit him harder than jet lag ever could.

“Emilia,” he said, voice low and rough, wrapped in longing and apology and need.

The name pulled something in her. Her *real* name. Her secret name. The one she’d buried under stage lights and studio smoke. The one he only used when he needed to anchor her back to him.

He crossed the room, slow, reverent. Not like a lover returning from tour, but like a man stepping into a cathedral built for one. Every step was an invocation. Every breath a confession.

When he reached her, he didn’t kiss her. Didn’t speak. Just brought his hands up to her face—thumb brushing the faint mark left by her sunglasses, fingers sliding into the loose knot of her hair. She was warm from the sun. From the wait. From the ache he hadn’t realized was mirrored in her.

She didn’t pull away.

Her lashes fluttered once, twice, and her lips trembled—not in weakness, but in the quiet surrender of someone who’d stopped pretending they didn’t care this much.

“I couldn’t wait,” he murmured, forehead resting gently against hers. “Was halfway through the shoot and I just… fuck it. I needed you.”

Lilith didn’t answer, but her breath hitched. He felt it—felt the quiet collapse of whatever wall she’d been holding up all morning. He could smell the clove smoke still clinging to her skin, the faint trace of her perfume—jasmine, leather, something darker. The scent of a storm dressed like a woman.

“You smell like smoke and saltwater,” Nico whispered. “Like something holy that forgot it was ever human.”

Still, he didn’t kiss her.

He just stayed there, skin to skin, breath to breath, holding her face like it was the only fragile thing in the house worth saving. His thumbs traced slow arcs at the hinge of her jaw, grounding them both. Her hands had found his waist now, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt like she wasn’t sure if she meant to hold him there or tear him closer.

“Tell me you missed me,” he said, almost a plea. “Lie if you have to.”

But she didn’t lie.

She didn’t speak.

She leaned in instead. Just enough. Her forehead pressed firmer into his, and her breath caught again before settling into his.

And that was answer enough.

Her lips twitched.

Not quite a smile—but the ghost of one, laced with disbelief and devotion and the faintest trace of relief.

At the sound of Emilia, her nose scrunched. Not in protest. Not really. He knew the difference by now. This was the version that lived somewhere between a smirk and surrender—the one that meant you bastard, I missed you too much to say it first.

No one else could use that name.

Not her father, not directors, not exes who thought they knew her. It wasn’t even the word itself—it was the way he said it. Soft and slanted with accent, drawn out like something that needed to be savored. Like he’d stolen it from the past just to hand it back to her prettier.

And still, she didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Her robe slipped a little farther down one shoulder, the pool water still drying at her ankles, the California heat pressing gently against her spine. She stood like a statue—marble and glass, unmoving, unblinking—as he crossed the room toward her.

Inside, though?

Inside she was a storm.

Lilith had been trained young to hide it all: to smile when told, to cry only when cameras rolled, to never give anyone the satisfaction of watching her need. But she did. God, she needed him like she hadn’t let herself need anything in years.

She didn’t look away—not once—as he touched her. Her breath caught, quiet and sharp, as his hands framed her face like a prayer. His touch was familiar but new all over again. Reverent. Her body swayed slightly forward, like she could already feel the gravity of him pulling her under.

His words landed like confession.

And when he said, “Tell me you missed me. Lie if you have to.”—

She didn’t.

Instead, her lashes fluttered. Her hands, still curled against his waist, slid up just slightly—fingertips grazing bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. Her lips parted, and this time, something came through.

Barely a whisper. Just for him.

“Mon amour… tu m’as manqué comme la lune manque le soleil.”

My love… I missed you the way the moon misses the sun.

Not in the same sky.
Not often.
But always aching.

She leaned in then, not to kiss him—but to breathe him in. Forehead to forehead. Fingers threading up into his hair. Her eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time in days, her body softened completely. No tension. No posture. Just Lilith. Just his.

She wasn’t a myth. Not in this moment.

Just a girl who had spent the entire day trying to pretend she wasn’t waiting for him.

And failing.

He felt the words before he heard them.

Mon amour… tu m’as manqué comme la lune manque le soleil.

They landed soft, sure, like the whisper of silk slipping off skin. Like dusk catching the last edge of light. He didn’t need the translation—though he knew it. He felt it in his blood. In the space between her breath and his.

His throat tightened.

Fuck, she always did that—took the poetry right out of his chest and made it her own.

Not in the same sky.
Not often.
But always aching.

His fingers curled more securely at her jaw, like he could hold that ache steady if he tried hard enough. Like he could press it into her skin and promise she’d never have to miss him that way again.

“Dio santo,” he breathed, voice catching against her temple. “You say things like that and wonder why I write about you like you’re a curse.”

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t smile. Just stood there in the hush she’d conjured—where nothing mattered but the salt of her skin and the way her fingers disappeared into his hair like they belonged there.

“You waited for me,” he said quietly, not a question. A vow caught in reverse. “Even if you pretended not to.”

His hands slid down to her hips, anchoring her gently. She melted into him—finally, fully—and that was it. The weight in his chest, the tension in his spine, the distance still clinging to his clothes—it all dropped.

She was here.
She was his.
And he was already writing her into memory.

“You know what the moon doesn’t realize?” he murmured, lips brushing the edge of her ear. “The sun misses her too. Every goddamn day.”

He kissed her then—soft and deep and slow, like apology, like promise, like he’d just stepped back into his own body.

And when he pulled away, just barely, his smile was crooked, reverent.

“I came home early for this,” he said, eyes locked to hers. “Don’t make me regret it.”

But she wouldn’t. God, she never could.

She didn’t smile. Not right away.

Instead, Lilith tilted her head slightly—feline and deliberate—the kind of slow, sultry motion that once made casting directors call her mesmerizing and stylists call her impossible. Her fingers dragged lazily through his hair, letting the strands slip between them like silk ribbons.

"You say that like I wasn’t worth the flight," she murmured, her voice velvet-wrapped and dangerous.

Her lips ghosted across his cheek—not quite a kiss, just a promise. Her hands didn’t stop moving. One drifted to the back of his neck, the other settled flat against his chest, like she needed to feel the thrum of his heart to be sure he was real. He always said she looked like poetry, but he was the one who turned flesh into verse the second he touched her.

Her thumb traced the chain at his throat.

"I would’ve waited longer," she admitted, voice low and heady, laced with unspoken truth. Then she grinned—slow, wicked, devastating. "But I’d have been in a far worse mood about it."

She let her nose brush his, featherlight.

"You should count yourself lucky, Romano. I was one sad song away from calling someone else to rub my shoulders." A pause. "Maybe two."

She didn’t mean it, not really. They both knew.

There was no one else.

There hadn’t been for a long time.

Lilith leaned in again, lips nearly brushing his—but not yet. She wanted him to feel it first. The heat. The gravity. The way her body was already molded to his like muscle memory.

"You want me to say it again?" she teased softly. "In Italian this time? Or would that make you too easy?"

Still, her eyes said it all. Not just want, not just heat—but love so deep it frightened her if she thought about it too long. She masked it well, as always, behind the arched brow, the parted lips, the razor-sharp confidence. But it was there. In her palms. In her touch. In the way she never stepped back.

"Maybe I’ll just show you instead," she whispered, finally kissing him—slow, molten, all the things her voice had been hinting at since he walked through the door.

The robe slipped from her shoulder again.

She let it.

And when she finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, her smirk curved like a blade dipped in honey.

“Welcome home, Nico.”

He laughed—but it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cocky.

It was low and stunned, like he’d just been hit with something holy and didn’t know how to survive it.

Because fuck, no one could undo him like this. No one else moved like a siren that had learned to walk in heels and heartbreak, silk and teeth. No one else could speak in velvet threats and still make him feel like she’d carved his name into her ribs.

“You’re cruel,” Nico murmured, his hands sliding down to her waist, thumbs grazing bare skin where the robe had fallen. “You know that?”

Her mouth twitched again, all mock-innocence and slow burn.

“And you’re worse,” she said, tone like a challenge he already knew he’d lose.

He tilted his head, breath catching against the corner of her mouth. He still hadn’t kissed her back, not really. He was letting her write the scene, draw the lines, set the fire—and God, he’d burn gladly.

But when she said “Welcome home”, something in him cracked open.

Because this—this wasn’t a stop on tour. This wasn’t a layover in lust. This was the thing. The center of it all. The reason he left and came back and left again only to crave her like hunger.

His forehead rested against hers, the chain around his neck catching against her collarbone.

“I don’t need you to say it again,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not in any language.”

His hands tightened gently at her waist.

“I feel it every time you look at me like that. Like you already know how this ends and you’re still here anyway.”

He kissed her then—real, consuming, and slow like worship.

The kind of kiss that tasted like long nights and soft sheets and forgiveness for all the ways they weren’t built for normal love.

When it broke, he kept her close. Kept her there, tethered to the thrum of his chest and the unspoken words he couldn’t say yet. Not out loud.

Instead, his voice dropped, almost a growl at the edge of reverence.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure no one else ever gets the chance to touch you like that.”

A beat passed.

Then he grinned—feral, undone, boyish beneath the burn.

“And if I get too easy when you speak Italian, you better start using it more.”

Lilith’s laugh was soft, barely more than breath—but it curled at the edges like smoke.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t blink.

Just stayed pressed to him, foreheads still touching, his chain still caught between them like a promise made of metal. Her fingers wandered lazily over his collar, down to the curve of his shoulder, tracing the lines of him like she needed to relearn what missing him had stolen.

“I told you,” she murmured, voice teasing, sultry, but weighted now with something gentler. “Too easy.”

But her gaze—God, her gaze gave her away. It was molten. Anchored. Unflinching. She wanted to keep looking at him until her bones remembered what it was like to sleep beside him instead of just dreaming.

Her breath ghosted over his lips, her fingers drifting back to his jaw, and then to the back of his neck again—never idle, never far. She couldn’t stop touching him if she tried.

“I don’t have your words,” she whispered, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before finding his again, “not the way you do.”

A pause.

Then—

“Ma posso provare…”
(But I can try…)

She swallowed, nerves barely noticeable beneath the velvet confidence she wore like perfume. The next words came hesitant but sure, tangled in her accent, each syllable a little shaky but so achingly her it didn’t matter.

“Dimmi cosa vuoi, amore. Sono tua. Sempre.”
(Tell me what you want, love. I’m yours. Always.)

The phrasing wasn’t perfect. She knew it. The rhythm off, a vowel wrong—but she saw it in his eyes. How it hit him. How his chest pulled tight like he wasn’t ready for her to hand him that kind of softness.

And then she smiled.

Soft and sharp and impossibly beautiful.

“I practice more when you’re gone,” she said, brushing her thumb across his lower lip, voice lowering like dusk settling on skin. “Makes it feel like you’re still in the room.”

Her other hand drifted to his chest again, palm flat to his heart, as if to ground him—or maybe herself. Her voice was quieter now, almost shy behind the smoke of it all.

“But I’d rather take care of you than talk tonight.”

She leaned in, not to kiss him again—but to press her lips to his throat. A reverent, lingering touch. A vow in silence.

“You’re home,” she whispered against his skin. “Let me prove it.”

And God, she would. However he needed. However long it took.

Because when it came to him, there were no roles. No stage.

Just herself.

And him.

And the kind of love that didn’t need perfect language to be understood.

He didn’t breathe.

Not really. Not when she said those words—in his language, no less—raw and wrong in all the ways that made them real. The vowels tangled, the cadence imperfect, but fuck, it landed like a bullet made of roses. Straight to the center of him.

Dimmi cosa vuoi, amore. Sono tua. Sempre.

Tell me what you want, love. I’m yours. Always.

The air between them pulsed, electric and tender, the silence after her vow so thick he could’ve wept through it. His fingers flexed against her hips, knuckles white with the weight of everything he suddenly couldn’t say.

She was offering herself without armor. And Nico—who knew how to command a crowd, how to burn down cities with a song—was struck silent by a girl whispering devotion against his throat.

When her lips pressed there—slow, reverent, real—his eyes fluttered closed.

For a second, he let it wash over him: the scent of her, the burn of the sun still on her skin, the way her fingers moved like they’d never forgotten him even for a moment. She felt like home. But more than that—she felt like absolution. Like being forgiven for every hour he’d been away.

His hand lifted—shaky, careful—and threaded into her hair at the base of her neck.

He didn’t pull her back. Didn’t speak.

He just held her there, against the place his pulse lived loudest, his voice caught in the space between worship and want.

“You practicing when I’m gone…” he finally rasped, lips brushing her temple, “Emilia, you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He exhaled, shaky. Then pulled back just enough to see her eyes.

To really see her.

Not Lilith Valentine, not the siren in silk. Just the girl who’d waited, who learned his language, who could break him with a whisper and put him back together with a smile.

His voice was hoarse when it came again.

“Then take care of me.”

No bravado. No pretense.

Just need, quiet and open.

“I’ve been gone too long.”

And he let her lead. Let her take his hand. Let her undo every thread of distance with the softest kind of ruin.

Because here, with her?

There were no perfect words.

Just this.

Just them.

She didn’t say a word.

Just looked at him—deep, dark, steady—like she was deciding whether to shatter him or save him.

Then she turned.

The robe slipped further from her shoulders as she walked, letting sunlight trace the curve of her spine. She moved without hurry, without show—just intent. Like her body remembered exactly what to do when he was close. Like she’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her head and now was simply hitting her mark.

She led him to the bed without looking back.

When they reached it, she turned—close, poised, and quiet—and tapped the mattress behind him with two fingers.

“Sit.”

One word. That’s all.

He did.

She stepped between his knees. Her fingers went to the buttons of his shirt—not rushed, not teasing, but careful. Like unwrapping something breakable. She didn’t speak, didn’t smirk—her mouth was soft, parted, her gaze never leaving his. She undressed him like it was art. Like she owned the moment.

The shirt slipped off his shoulders. She let it fall.

Her hands ghosted over his chest for a beat longer than necessary, then she turned to the dresser, pulling open a drawer he hadn’t seen her open in weeks. She returned with a small, dark-glass bottle—the oil she only used when she was serious.

She knelt on the bed behind him, letting her thighs bracket his hips. Her hands were warm, slick with oil, when they touched him.

He exhaled. Sharp. Then again, softer.

Lilith said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Her thumbs pressed into the tension at his shoulders, slow and rhythmic, like she could wring the miles out of him. The scent of clove and cedar filled the room, layered with her skin—sun-warmed, expensive, unmistakably hers.

She leaned forward slightly, letting her lips brush the nape of his neck without kissing it. Her breath was cool, her hands hot. The contrast made him shiver.

“You’re tired,” she murmured finally, her voice barely there. “I feel it.”

Another pause. Another press. Her hands slid up to his neck, down his spine, working him open like a lock she had the key to.

“Let me fix it.”

That was it.

No performance. No seduction in the usual way.

Just Lilith—quiet, sure, in control—loving him with her hands, with silence, with a softness so precise it felt surgical.

She didn’t need to be loud to unravel him.

She just needed him still. Needed him here.

And this—this—was how she reminded him he never had to carry the world alone.