Let’s bring it home
Laughter drifts down the vineyard hills like music, tangled in the scent of lavender, warm bread, and the lingering sweetness of crushed grapes. It’s golden hour—my favorite time of day. The light spills long and honey-soft across the wooden table where we’re all gathered beneath strings of fairy lights, like some kind of Pinterest-perfect dream no one remembered to ruin.
Except this one’s real. Every ridiculous, wonderful piece of it.
Marie throws her head back, bursting with laughter, and Albert leans in to pluck a petal from her hair—probably from the wild bouquet she crafted earlier and forgot she’d tucked behind her ear. He kisses her temple like it’s instinct, like he’s been doing it forever. I smile into my glass of juice—still my preferred drink over the rich, deep red wine everyone else is savoring.
Everyone else…but one.
He’s sitting right next to me, his hand resting easily on my thigh beneath the table. And honestly? That’s all I need.
Julian was always the quietest in this group—before and after he turned in his wings at heaven’s counter and traded eternity for a human life in ordinary France. With me.
He’s laughing with Henry now, and God, I love that sound. Sometimes I think it’s the only truly angelic thing that stayed behind. It’s so easy to make him laugh, and not just because Henry is currently balancing a spoon on his nose while Valentine tries not to throttle him. She already smacked him once on the shoulder, hard enough to knock the spoon to the ground. But I don’t miss the way her fingers brush his arm now and then—casual, but not at all. Seriously, I don’t know how she puts up with him. The guy just made a pun about wine and divine intervention. It physically hurt me.
Across from me, Quinn lounges back in his chair, arms crossed and smiling like he’s still trying to figure out how the hell he ended up at a French vineyard dinner party with four hilarious grown-ups and two teenagers in love—one of whom used to be his personal headache.
“You’re brooding over something,” he says, catching my gaze over the rim of his glass.
“Me?” I blink innocently and take another sip of juice. “I’m just here for the grilled cheese skewers.”
He lifts a brow. “Right. And I’m just here because I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“I still can’t believe you made it.” I nudge his shin with my foot under the table. “Thought you’d officially retired from rescuing me from bad decisions.”
“I had. But then I figured I owed it to the girl who went a whole year without stealing a single thing. That’s gotta be a record.”
“Technically,” I murmur, leaning in conspiratorially, “I did steal one thing.”
He blinks. “What.”
“A boy,” I whisper, a grin curving my lips as his expression twists into disbelief. “You might’ve heard of him. Blond. Kind of glowy.”
Beside me, the most beautiful sound escapes—Julian’s laugh. Not the amused, casual one from before. This one’s lower. Closer. Mine.
“That boy stole you, Montiniere,” Julian says, his voice like dusk and moonlight. “Don’t get it twisted.”
I turn my head toward him, heart flipping even though it really shouldn’t still be. But here we are. I should’ve known he was listening to every word.
Of course he was.
Someone clinks a fork against a glass, and Albert launches into a story about the time Marie fell into a wine barrel— which she so did not do, by the way—and the table erupts in laughter and loud protest. I chuckle, too, because I love them. Because I love this.
But then, something catches in my chest.
One year.
It’s been exactly one year since I first stepped onto this land—angry, guarded, already halfway out the door. I had no idea it would become a place I never wanted to leave. That the people around this table would become mine. That a boy who wasn’t even supposed to stay would end up staying just for me.
A familiar ache blooms under my ribs—half joy, half something softer. A quiet sort of longing I haven’t felt in a while.
I set down my glass and rise to my feet, slipping away from the table before anyone can ask where I’m going. I just need a breath, a minute to myself.
No one calls after me, but I know they all notice. And that’s the beautiful thing about them. They give me space without questions. Just because they know I’ll always come back.
The grass is cool under my bare feet as I wander past the rows of vines, fingers trailing along the leaves. The laughter fades behind me, replaced by the hum of cicadas and the whisper of dusk settling in. The sky is beginning to shift, violet bleeding into navy. Stars peeking out, one by one.
I tilt my head back and breathe.
It’s peaceful. That kind of stillness that fills your lungs and your heart all at once.
And then—quietly, without warning—I smile. Because I know he’s coming.
He always does.
The stars are brighter out here. Like they’re trying harder for attention now that the sun has left the stage. A soft breeze brushes my bare shoulders, cool and sweet like a sigh. I close my eyes and let it sweep over me.
One year ago, I would’ve felt lost out here. I might’ve curled up somewhere between the vines, counted down the minutes until morning, and planned a dozen ways to run.
Now? The stillness wraps around me like home.
I smile to myself and trail my fingers over a soft grapevine leaf. It tickles my palm, and for a second, I remember the first night I arrived here. Angry. Defensive. Already sure I’d hate everyone.
Especially the boy with the too-blue eyes and the voice like he’d stepped out of a storybook.
I exhale slowly, my chest tightening with something I can’t name. He wasn’t even human back then. Just this strange, beautiful…being. All secrets and warmth and maddening patience.
And now he’s flesh and blood and heartbeat.
Mine.
The crunch of a soft step behind me barely registers before I feel the air shift.
“Ah, there she is,” comes that familiar, velvet-rich voice, low and teasing, the sound of it already pulling a grin from me before I even turn around. “Marveling at the stars…clearly deciding which of them she should pocket and run off with.”
I glance over my shoulder, and there he is. Leaning lazily against one of the posts, arms crossed, golden hair tousled from the wind. His eyes gleam with amusement, but it’s the heat behind them that hits me like a warm wave.
Julian pushes off the post and strolls toward me, his voice dipping lower. “I knew I should’ve brought the handcuffs.”
I bark a laugh, watching the sky again. “What, you planning to arrest me for stargazing?”
“For attempted celestial theft, yes.” His steps behind me and, without hesitation, he wraps his arms around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like I belong there. Which, obviously, I do. “Repeat offender, this one. Stole my breath, my peace, my halo…”
“You never had a halo,” I mutter, but I’m already smiling like an idiot.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But if I had one, you would’ve stolen that, too.”
I lean back into him, letting my head rest against the base of his throat. His chin settles on top of my head, like it was made to fit there.
We stay like that for a while—quiet and warm, wrapped in the hush of the night. The vines rustle softly around us, and I count the rise and fall of his chest against my back, savoring the way his breath stirs my hair. Everything in me still feels a little stunned that I get to have this—that he’s real, and here, and mine.
Four months isn’t that long. Not really. But in that time, we’ve built something that feels like it’s always been there. Studying for entrance exams side by side on the porch. Making pancakes at midnight and setting off the smoke alarm—twice. Racing barefoot through the fields during a thunderstorm just to see who could find shelter first.
He won, by the way. But only because he cheated. With that smile.
“I like when you do that,” he murmurs, interrupting my thoughts.
I angle my head to look at him as good as I can in this position. “I was doing literally nothing.”
“That’s the dangerous part,” he says with a faux-serious nod. “Too mesmerizing. Even when you’re still, you make trouble look tempting.”
I snort. “That’s rich, coming from the celestial felon who literally fell from the heavens.”
Julian smirks. “I did say you stole my peace.”
“You said I stole your halo.”
“Same thing.”
Before I can roll my eyes again, he shifts. One arm tightens around my waist, and the other comes around in front of me. He opens his hand slowly, revealing something small and silver resting in his palm.
A delicate pendant on a thin necklace. A star.
It catches the moonlight, glittering soft gold and silver, its points gentle and curved like it was carved from a dream.
I blink. “What…?”
“For you,” he says softly. “To replace all the ones you didn’t manage to steal.”
My breath catches, full and sharp and too much all at once.
“For the girl,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to the side of my head, “who made me believe in my own wishes.”
My throat tightens. I reach out with trembling fingers and take it—the metal cool against my skin. For a moment, I just stare at the pendant in my hand, heart pounding like it’s forgotten how to calm down. Then I twist in his arms and press a kiss to his cheek.
Julian laughs, throwing his head back slightly, that golden sound wrapping around me like sunlight. “That’s it? Really? After that gift? I expected more.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “What, were you hoping for a dramatic swoon? A slow clap? Maybe a tearful monologue?”
“Nooo…” His voice dips, gaze turning wicked in that dangerous-but-still-somehow-angelic way only he can pull off. Then he slips his hands around my waist and pulls me flush against him, so close his breath dances over my lips.
“Something like this,” he murmurs.
And then his mouth finds mine—with a hunger that steals my breath and burns every thought clean out of my head.
It’s not a soft kiss.
It’s the kind that flips the sky and grounds the stars. The kind that lives in your spine, curls in your toes, and rewrites everything you thought you knew about gravity.
Julian hums against my mouth as he’s pulling me even closer, his hands tangled in my hair, and suddenly I don’t care about stars or vines anymore—I just care about this.
About him.
Eventually, we break apart, breathing uneven and a little dazed.
“Happy anniversary, Jona,” he murmurs against my lips.
I laugh, just a breath. “You’re such a dork.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
He grins and brushes my hair off my cheek. “Come with me.”
I don’t even ask where. I just let him take my hand and pull me with him, leading me along the rows of vines toward the old tree on the hill. The same one we sat beneath one year ago, when I found out the truth about him. About what he was. About what he was willing to give up.
And now…
Now he’s here. Still choosing me.
Every day.
The tree waits ahead of us, dappled in silver light. And tucked against its base, just barely visible in the grass, is something small and rectangular—wrapped in soft fabric and tied with a ribbon.
My heart flips.
Julian squeezes my hand. “Go on. Open it.”
I drop to my knees under the tree, the grass cool beneath me, the old bark rough and familiar at my back. Julian sinks beside me, legs stretched out, hands braced behind him. His eyes are on me, but he doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t have to.
I pull the ribbon loose and unfold the fabric.
It’s a notebook.
Worn around the edges, the cover a soft brown leather, clearly carried around more than once. I trace my fingers over it slowly, unsure what to expect.
“Open it,” he repeats, his voice edged with impatience now, like he’s barely restraining himself from doing it for me.
So I obey.
The first page is blank, but the next one holds a messy scrawl in dark ink: Don’t read this when I’m not around. I want to see your face when you do. 😈 —J
Incredulous, I glare at him, biting back a grin. “You left me a warning label?”
“More like a challenge,” he says, sounding warm and full of mischief. “You love challenges.”
“I love winning challenges.”
He hums. “Same thing.”
I flip the page.
And my heart trips.
There are pages of entries. Some short, some long. A line here, a paragraph there. Doodles in the margins. Lists. Dates. Snippets of memories. The time I fell asleep on the porch with a book on my face and drooled on chapter seven. A sketch of my Doc Martens next to his old angel feather he used to carry like a secret. A poem titled Little Spark of Trouble, so awkwardly sweet I almost cry-laugh on the spot.
I flip another page.
June 12 – She punched the baguette guy for flirting with me. Not hard. Just a warning jab. I’ve never been more flattered—or more turned on—in my life.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, covering my face.
Julian just laughs. “He deserved it.”
“I barely touched him!”
“You bruised his baguette.”
I snort and flip another page, unable to stop now. Every line is another memory, another laugh, another little reminder that he’s been watching me, really seeing me, this whole time. Even before he was fully human, he was already collecting me in pieces.
He’s still doing it.
Finally, near the back of the notebook, I hit a page that’s completely blank…except for the header at the top, written in that same teasing scrawl:
Things I Love About Julian
(by Jona Montiniere — under protest, probably)
I blink. And Julian holds out a pen to me.
He’s watching me with that look again—half-smirk, half something softer. Mischievous and sincere all at once.
Julian tilts his head, challenging me. “Come on, trouble. It’s not that hard. Just write something. One thing.”
I raise both eyebrows at him. “You want me to list things I love about you?”
“That is what the heading says, yes.”
“Wow. Modest.”
“Confident,” he corrects, eyes glinting. “Besides, I figured I’d give you a head start before university. Think of it as a writing prompt.”
I scoff. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re stalling.”
With a flustered huff and narrowed eyes, I mutter, “Fine.” Then I grab the pen, click it, and lean forward.
Julian grins in triumph.
I write: He’s insufferably smug.
Leaning over my shoulder, he reads aloud, then says through a chuckle, “Wow. Such depth. I’m touched.”
And I add:
– He makes terrible jokes. Like, truly awful.
– He has no concept of personal space.
– He acts like he’s the sun, but he hogs the blankets like a gremlin.
Julian gasps. “I knew you were keeping track.”
“Every morning I wake up clinging to a corner like a refugee.”
Julian pretends to look offended—but he fails. Terribly. “You’re lucky I don’t use my human strength to tickle you into admitting you love me.”
I set the pen down slowly. “You even try it, and you’ll wake up bald.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Totally worth it.”
The air between us shifts, just slightly.
And I know that look. That burn behind his eyes that’s equal parts play and promise. I feel it in my chest, my fingertips, the back of my neck.
He leans in, slow and easy, and brushes his nose against mine. “Seriously though,” he murmurs, his voice soft now. “You don’t have to write anything. I just wanted you to know…that I see you. I always have. Even when I wasn’t supposed to.”
My throat tightens, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. He always gets to me—always—and it’s never with grand gestures. Just…little things. The ones that slip under your skin and stay there.
I glance back down at the page, and a quiet sigh escapes. With a little space beneath the earlier lines, I draw a tiny heart. Just one.
And next to it, I write:
I love that he sees me. Even when I don’t want to be seen.
Because it’s true.
And the deeper truth is—
I love him.
With everything I have, for everything he is.
Eventually, I cap the pen and gently close the notebook.
Julian takes it and sets it aside, then pulls me into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I melt into him, arms around his neck, cheek resting against his shoulder.
As my fingers trail over the spot between his shoulder blades, I whisper, “Do you ever miss them?”
“The wings?” he asks.
I nod.
There’s a pause. Then he breathes against my ear, “No.”
I tilt my head back to look at him, to search the truth in his eyes.
“Not when I get to fall like this,” he adds.
God. He’s still so unfair.
“You’re impossible, you know that,” I murmur, all sweet frustration.
“And yet.” He kisses me again—slow and deep and lingering, like he’s got nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.
Which is perfect. Because neither do I.
*
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