The morning sun filtered through the linen curtains of Demy's apartment, casting golden lines across their tangled limbs. The soft whir of cicadas hummed in the distance, and the scent of warm stone and jasmine drifted in through the open window. Athens stirred softly below them. But inside, all was still.

Harry nuzzled into her shoulder and murmured something unintelligible. His voice was scratchy with sleep, the syllables warm against her skin. Demy chuckled and threaded her fingers into his curls, gently twisting one around her fingertip.

"Get up," she whispered, brushing her nose against his temple. "Or we'll miss the market."

He groaned like a petulant child and dramatically buried his face in the crook of her neck. "We've got all day."

"You've got two," she reminded him gently, voice feather-light.

That was enough. With a reluctant sigh, he rolled onto his back, stretching like a sun-warmed cat. The sheets slipped off his torso, and Demy took a moment to admire the mess of curls and half-lidded, adoring gaze pointed her way.

"Let's go, then," he mumbled, reaching for her hand.

By late morning, they were strolling hand-in-hand through the narrow streets of Thissio. The open-air market—laikí—had spilled into the streets like confetti, every stall bursting with colour and noise. Sunlight danced on canopies striped in red and white. Eggplants glistened like polished gems. Tomatoes, peaches, grapes, and herbs perfumed the warm air. Old men argued over olives with the exaggerated passion of lifelong rivals, and a butcher called out greetings in a voice loud enough to wake the gods.

Harry was enchanted.

Demy moved through the chaos like she belonged to it—pointing out stalls, bartering in Greek, and slipping fruit into their shared cloth bag as Harry trailed behind her like a very tall, very British duckling.

She stopped at a cherry stand, picked one up, popped it into his mouth. "Say, Kaliméra, thélo karpouzi."

Harry furrowed his brow, lips stained with cherry juice. "Kali...kara...karpoopzi?"

She nearly dropped the apricots. "Close enough. The woman will either give you watermelon or exorcise you."

Just then, as if summoned by fate or comedic timing, a woman behind a cooler waved them over. She was middle-aged, curvy and sun-kissed, with a wide smile and a thick braid pinned like a crown over her head. A slice of watermelon glistened in her hand.

She looked at Harry, her eyes lighting up like he was the first boy she'd ever loved.

"Gia sena, kouklos," she said, pressing the wedge of fruit into his hand. "Eise omorfos san angelos."

Harry blinked, charmed despite not understanding a word.

"She says you're as handsome as an angel," Demy translated with a grin.

Harry's eyes widened. "That's... high praise. I think."

He bowed slightly, then—on a whim—lifted the woman's hand and kissed the back of it gently.

Her cheeks flushed red as pomegranates. "Panagia mou," she gasped, laughing and fanning herself with a dish towel.

Harry grinned, eyes twinkling as he took a bite of the watermelon. Juice trickled down his chin and he let out a moan, far too dramatic for a fruit.

"Oh, that's it. I'm writing a song about watermelon. One day. Something about how it tastes like summer and seduction."

He wiggled his eyebrows for good measure.

The woman swatted his arm affectionately and turned to Demy, speaking in Greek that was rich with warmth: "He's a keeper, this one. You take care of him. He's got good hands and good manners. Rare combo these days."

Demy smiled, heart squeezing. "I know. I am."

As they walked on, the sticky sweetness of the fruit lingered on their fingers, and so did the joy. They took turns feeding each other apricots and cherries, laughing every time Harry tried to pronounce something and completely butchered it. His failures were spectacular. He once meant to say "nice tomatoes" but instead said something very inappropriate involving grandmothers.

The market continued behind them—vivid and bustling—but in their little orbit, there was only sunlight, laughter, and the echo of a kiss pressed to the hand of a stranger.

And perhaps, somewhere in Harry's songwriter's mind, a melody began to form. One that tasted like watermelon. And Greece. And summer mornings that stretched like a promise.

That evening, Athens softened into gold.

The city's hum dimmed beneath a blanket of twilight, and as Demy emerged from the bedroom, the fading light kissed the curve of her shoulders, casting her in a kind of glow Harry wasn't sure could be explained in lyrics—or at least, not yet. She wore a black sundress, the hem fluttering just above her knees, her hair loose and slightly windblown from their earlier rooftop lounging. Her skin was sun-warmed, her smile easy.

"You're staring," she teased as she fastened a gold hoop into her ear.

Harry stood by the doorway in a light blue linen shirt, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, a single button teasingly undone. "I'm allowed," he said. "You're unfairly beautiful."

"And you're going to make me late," she said, stealing a kiss before grabbing her bag.

They strolled through Plaka arm in arm, the cobbled paths bathed in the golden spill of antique streetlamps. Locals lingered on balconies with glasses of wine. Cats slinked across the paths like shadows. Somewhere behind them, the Parthenon loomed above the rooftops, glowing like a watchful god.

"This doesn't feel real," Harry murmured as they passed a courtyard blooming with jasmine. "It's like we stepped into a movie."

Demy smiled. "It's just an ordinary Athenian evening. This is my normal."

He paused to brush a curl behind her ear. "I love your normal."

They reached a quiet taverna nestled at the foot of a staircase, lanterns strung between olive trees, a soft breeze rustling the vines above. A man with a guitar sat on a stool in the corner, singing in low, raspy Greek—something mournful and beautiful.

They sat at a table under the stars, sharing a grilled sea bass, crisp Greek salad heavy with feta, and warm bread to soak up olive oil. A bottle of ouzo sweated between them. Harry's eyes never left her.

"I can't believe I've never been here," he said, taking another sip. "Well, except for that one time in Cyprus as a kid. I think I spent most of it in the pool and being sunburnt."

"You're getting the grown-up version now," she said, clinking her glass to his.

He leaned across the table and laced his fingers with hers. "It's the best version."

Later, they strolled through the winding backstreets of Plaka, their shadows dancing over stone walls, the Acropolis watching in silence. They stopped to listen to a street performer strumming a guitar, the chords lazy and bittersweet. Harry tried to hum along, his accent butchering the vowels, making Demy laugh so hard she had to clutch his arm.

They were still giggling when it happened.

Up ahead, just outside a dimly lit bar spilling with raucous voices and the occasional clatter of a dropped glass, a group of men lingered on the sidewalk. The street, normally serene, pulsed with the tension of something off.

A voice rose, sharp and slurred.

Demy stopped mid-laugh. Her body stiffened.

Harry, still chuckling, followed her gaze. "What is it?"

She didn't answer. She simply grabbed his hand and began to steer him around the corner.

Too late.

"Demetra?"

The voice cracked through the air like a slap.

Harry turned with her. A man stepped out from the bar's shadow—tall, lean in a way that had grown unkind with age, stubble dark across his jaw. His shirt was open too far, hair slicked back like it belonged to another decade. A cigarette dangled from his fingers.

Akis.

He didn't notice Harry at first. His eyes were trained solely on Demy.

"Well, well," he said with a bitter grin. "I thought I saw a ghost."

Demy stood straighter. "We're leaving."

"Shame. I didn't know you were back in town. Would've rolled out the red carpet."

His gaze finally flicked to Harry, then narrowed. He squinted, unsteady.

"Wait a minute... aren't you... you're that guy, right? From the... what was it? Boyband?" His lip curled. "Styles? That it?"

Harry didn't flinch, but his body shifted slightly, protective. "Don't."

Akis laughed, slow and cruel. "Wow. You went global with your taste, huh, Demetra? Always knew you liked your men famous."

"Akis," she warned, voice low and clipped.

But he wasn't done.

"Tell me," he sneered, "do you write songs about this one, too? Or is this just your new project? What is it now—seduce, write, vanish? Rinse and repeat?"

Harry stepped forward, voice sharp. "You need to back off."

Demy's hand shot out, grabbing his arm. "Harry. Please. Let's just go."

Harry's jaw flexed. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing," she said too quickly, too practiced.

Akis tilted his head, amused. "What, you don't tell him? Afraid if he knew the real you, he'd run? Just like all the rest?"

Demy's voice was ice. "I said enough."

Behind him, Akis's friends called out for him to drop it. One tugged on his sleeve. Another rolled his eyes and pulled out a cigarette. A scene, clearly, wasn't new for them.

"You haven't seen the last of me," Akis muttered, voice lower now, darker. "People forget. But I don't."

Demy's spine straightened, her fingers still on Harry's wrist. "No, Akis. You never let go."

The group melted back toward the bar, laughing like it was all one long, meaningless joke.

Demy didn't speak until they were three streets away, the sounds of the city smoothing back into music and voices and laughter that didn't sting.

Harry finally stopped walking. His face was unreadable. "Tell me."

She turned, eyes flickering in the low light. "Harry..."

"Dem. He insulted you."

"I didn't want to give him that power. Not with you there."

Harry's voice dropped. "Who is he?"

"My ex," she admitted. "The one I told you about. The one with the headlines. The lies."

Harry's jaw tensed. "He's worse than I pictured."

"He's bitter. He hates that I moved on. That I made something of myself without him. That I found people who really saw me."

Harry let out a slow breath, his hand curling into hers. "I wanted to hit him."

"I know."

"I wanted to knock that smug look off his face."

"I know," she said again, more gently.

"I hate that I couldn't understand. That you had to stand there and take it and I didn't know what the hell he was saying."

She looked up at him, eyes glassy. "I didn't want to translate it. I didn't want his poison between us."

Harry pressed his forehead to hers. "You don't owe me your past, Demy. But if anyone ever disrespects you like that again..."

She cupped his jaw. "He doesn't matter."

"But you do," he said. "You matter."

She swallowed hard. "I just didn't want it to taint this. What we have. This beautiful thing we're trying to build."

"It won't," Harry said, voice steady. "He doesn't get to live in the same sentence as us."

Her breath hitched.

"You're really something," she whispered.

And right there, under a flickering lamppost in a city that had known centuries of heartbreak and rebirth, he kissed her. Not like he was claiming her. Not like he was proving a point. Just like he loved her. Like he wanted her whole.

When they pulled apart, her hands still rested on his chest. His thumb brushed her cheek.

"Let's go home," she said softly.

He nodded. "Home."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, hand in hand. But the silence wasn't heavy. It was healing. Stronger than before.