[Jay's POV]The first morning in Ravello didn't start with an alarm clock or the chaotic shouting of the squad. It started with the smell of lemons and the sound of the Mediterranean waking up beneath our balcony.I blinked my eyes open, feeling the high-thread-count Italian linens against my skin. The "Glow" was humming at a steady, peaceful $100\%$. I turned over, expecting to see Keifer, but the space beside me was empty—though still warm.
"Keif?" I called out, my voice sleepy and thick.
"On the terrace, Empress," his voice drifted in, deep and vibrating with that "Husband" frequency that always made my heart skip.
The Private Breakfast
I wrapped myself in a white silk robe and stepped out into the sunlight. The view was breathtaking, but Keifer was the real masterpiece. He was leaning against the stone railing, dressed only in linen trousers, holding a cup of espresso. The morning sun hit the sharp lines of his back and shoulders, making him look like one of the statues we'd passed in the village.The table was covered in a spread that looked like a work of art: fresh cornetti, local figs, buffalo mozzarella, and a carafe of blood orange juice."System check," Keifer murmured, setting his coffee down and pulling me into the circle of his arms the second I was within reach. He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. "Sleep quality: $100\%$. Recovery: Complete."
"I think I could stay in this spot for the next ten years," I whispered, leaning back against his chest. "No laptops, Keif. You promised."
"I ran a diagnostic on the villa's Wi-Fi," he said, his lips grazing my ear. "And then I promptly changed the password to something I've already forgotten. We are officially in a dead zone."
The "Romantic" Pasta Incident
By afternoon, the heat had climbed, and we decided to have a late lunch on the lower terrace, tucked away under a canopy of lemon trees. The private chef had left us a massive bowl of Pasta al Limone and a bottle of chilled white wine before disappearing.
"Let me," I said, picking up a fork. "Since you've been the one managing the 'System' all week, I'll handle the refueling."
I twirled a perfect nest of pasta and held it up to his lips. Keifer watched me, his eyes dark and focused, that 1,000% possessive gaze never wavering. He took the bite, but as he did, a small drop of the lemon-cream sauce escaped, landing right on the corner of his mouth.
"Oh! Wait, I got it," I said, reaching out with a napkin.
Keifer caught my wrist mid-air. "Inefficient, Jay."
Before I could breathe, he leaned forward, but instead of letting me clean him, he pulled me toward him until I was perched on his lap. He didn't use the napkin. He used the moment to turn a simple lunch into a high-voltage encounter, his lips finding mine in a taste that was salty, citrusy, and entirely too hot for a public setting—even if the "public" was just the seagulls.
The Afternoon Escape
"Analysis, Mrs. Watson?" he rasped against my lips, his hands sliding down to grip my waist, pinning me to him. "The pasta is excellent, but the dessert is currently sitting on my lap."
"Keifer!" I laughed, my face flushing a deep crimson. "The chef might come back for the plates!"
"The chef has been given a very generous bonus to stay at the bottom of the hill until tomorrow," Keifer murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
He stood up, effortlessly lifting me with him as if I weighed nothing. He didn't head back to the table. He started walking toward the private path that led down to the hidden cove—a secret beach tucked between the cliffs where the water was crystal clear and the world couldn't see us.
"Where are we going?" I asked, though I already knew.
"The pool is too structured," Keifer said, his eyes glowing with that 'Watson' blue. "The ocean is unpredictable. Just like you. I want to see how the Mediterranean handles the 'Glow' when there's no one around to witness the interference."