New Beginning and Future

Chapter 74: His Own Warning

Summary: When peace stretches long and quiet beneath foreign skies, devotion sharpens instead of softens. Surrounded by sunlight and stolen time, loyalty reveals its fiercest edges, protective instincts rise, territorial lines are drawn without apology, and one thing becomes unmistakably clear: when it comes to her, he does not share, he does not waver, and he does not warn twice.

Notes:

⚠️ Author's Note: Sometimes staying inside is good thing, even on vacation.

Disclaimer: The Muse would like to remind everyone we do not own FIYS nor the beloved characters nor any dialogue from either the show nor the book...the Muse is very sad and not pleased with this continued reminder that they do not own them and never will!

Chapter Seventy-Two

The next couple of weeks unfolded without urgency, without schedules, without alarms vibrating against nightstands or managers knocking on doors with itineraries in hand, and for the first time in what felt like years there were no obligations dictating when they woke, where they went, or how long they stayed, because it was simply them, moving through Italy at their own pace as though the world had quietly agreed to slow down in their favor.

They wandered through Rome without maps more often than not, turning down side streets on impulse, stopping for espresso in cafés where no one recognized them and no one cared, sitting close enough that their knees brushed beneath small round tables while locals debated politics in rapid Italian around them, and sometimes Yao would rest her chin in her hand and simply listen, trying to catch familiar words while Sicheng translated selectively, only the parts he found amusing enough to share.

They stood inside the Pantheon in silence, staring upward at the oculus where sunlight poured through like something sacred, and Yao had whispered, "Imagine designing this without modern technology," and he had replied, "Imagine trusting it to hold," and they had stood there a while longer, absorbing the weight of history without needing to fill the space with conversation.

They walked along the Tiber at dusk, fingers laced together loosely rather than possessively, the river reflecting streaks of pink and gold while musicians played somewhere behind them, and she had leaned into him without thought as they paused against the railing, her head resting briefly on his shoulder while he pressed a quiet kiss to her temple, the gesture absent of heat but heavy with familiarity.

In Florence, she spent nearly an hour inside a small bookshop that smelled faintly of old paper and dust, emerging triumphant with two volumes in Italian she insisted she would translate herself, and he had raised a brow and said, "You just learned how to call me sweetheart," to which she had responded smugly, "That is a starting point," before slipping her hand back into his as they stepped into the sunlit square again.

They took a train north one afternoon simply because she wanted to see the countryside blur past from a different angle, sitting shoulder to shoulder while vineyards stretched endlessly beyond the window, and she had fallen asleep again briefly, head tipping toward him, and he had let her rest there without moving for the entire ride despite his arm going slightly numb, because her comfort outweighed inconvenience without question.

They explored coastal towns where the sea met cliffs in dramatic arcs of blue and white, where she tasted seafood she could not pronounce and declared half of it life-changing, and he watched her with that same fond, amused expression as she negotiated in halting Italian for a handmade scarf she did not need but desperately wanted, emerging victorious and triumphant as if she had just secured another championship win.

Evenings were quieter, slower, often spent back at whichever villa or hotel they were staying in, sharing wine on balconies while the sky darkened around them, talking about nothing and everything in equal measure, old matches, future seasons, places they still wanted to visit, books she wanted to write, strategies he wanted to refine, and sometimes they simply sat in companionable silence, comfortable in the absence of performance.