CHAPTER 142: CHAPTER 142: THE NEIGHBOR

GRAYSON’S EYES held hers for a fraction too long—dark, intent, and flickering with something that made her stomach twist. Then he looked away, jaw tight, and moved back to the sink as if nothing had happened.

Mailah exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the coffee cup.

"So," Oliver said, breaking the moment with perfect timing, "what’s the plan for today? More pretending we’re on a normal vacation, or do we actually explore the countryside?"

Lucien perked up immediately. "Oh! There’s a market in the village today. We could pretend to be normal humans doing normal human things."

"You mean you want to flirt with locals and steal pastries," Elin said flatly, not looking up from her phone.

"I prefer to call it ’cultural immersion’ and ’sampling local cuisine.’"

"Theft. You mean theft."

"Perspective."

Mailah laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension still coiled in her chest. She caught Grayson watching her from the corner of her eye, his expression unreadable but his gaze intent.

Shadow meowed—a sharp, insistent sound—and leapt from the windowsill to rub against Mailah’s legs. The gesture was oddly possessive.

"Someone’s jealous," Oliver observed.

"She’s territorial," Elin corrected. "There’s a difference."

Lucien grinned. "Aren’t we all?"

Grayson’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing, returning his attention to the dishes with unnecessary focus.

Mailah bit back a smile. The dynamic in this kitchen was absurd—supernatural beings acting like squabbling roommates over breakfast. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t also strangely endearing.

"I vote market," she said, setting her coffee down. "When in Tuscany, right?"

"Finally, someone with sense," Lucien declared, pointing his spatula at her like a scepter. "Grayson, you’re coming too. No arguments."

"I have work—"

"Work can wait," Mailah said before she could stop herself. "We’ve been cooped up here for days. Fresh air won’t kill you."

Grayson turned to face her fully, one eyebrow raised. "Won’t it?"

"Not today," she said with more confidence than she felt. "I’ll make sure of it."

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Is that a promise?"

"It’s a threat."

Lucien whistled low. "Oh, I like this energy."

Oliver smirked into his coffee. "This should be entertaining."

Elin finally looked up, studying them both with calculating interest. "If you two are done flirting, can we discuss logistics? The market’s crowded. Public. Not exactly ideal if something goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," Mailah said firmly, though her stomach fluttered with uncertainty.

Grayson held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But we’re taking precautions."

"Always so dramatic," Lucien said cheerfully. "Next you’ll want us to bring weapons."

"I always have weapons."

"Of course you do."

Shadow suddenly bolted from Mailah’s side, darting toward the doorway with startling speed.

"What—" Mailah started.

The cat stopped at the threshold, ears perked, tail swishing with interest rather than alarm. A moment later, the doorbell rang.

The sound was so ordinary, so mundane, that it made Mailah blink in surprise.

Everyone else, however, went still.

Grayson’s posture shifted instantly—not quite threatening, but alert. His eyes flickered briefly with that otherworldly light before settling back to normal.

"Expecting someone?" Lucien asked, his usual levity dimming.

"No," Grayson said quietly.

The doorbell rang again—polite, patient.

Mailah glanced between them, noting how Oliver had casually positioned himself near the knife block, how Elin had set down her phone, how even Lucien’s smile had sharpened into something more focused.

"It’s probably just—" Mailah started.

"Stay here," Grayson said, moving toward the door.

"Grayson—"

He paused, glancing back at her. "Please."

The word, soft and unexpected, made her heart skip. She nodded.

Shadow padded after him anyway, fearless and curious.

The others followed at a distance, forming a loose protective formation that Mailah was starting to recognize. She joined them, keeping close to Oliver, who gave her a reassuring nod.

When they reached the front door, Grayson paused, tilting his head slightly as if listening to something beyond normal hearing. Then, apparently satisfied, he opened it.

Standing on the doorstep, looking perfectly at ease in khaki pants and a linen shirt, was a man in his fifties with graying temples and laugh lines around his eyes. He held a basket of fresh bread and smiled warmly.

"Buongiorno!" he said cheerfully. "I am Marco, your neighbor from down the hill. I wanted to welcome you to the area."

The silence that followed was almost comical.

Marco’s smile faltered slightly. "Is... this a bad time?"

Mailah felt the tension radiating off Grayson in waves. She stepped forward quickly, her brightest smile in place. "No! Not at all. We’re just—we weren’t expecting anyone. Thank you so much for the bread, that’s incredibly kind."

Marco’s smile returned, genuine and warm. "Of course! My wife, she bakes every morning. Too much for just us. And we saw the lights on, knew someone had finally taken the villa. Beautiful place, yes?"

"Yes," Mailah agreed, accepting the basket. "It’s absolutely stunning."

"We are very happy to have neighbors again. The villa, she has been empty too long. Not good for a house to be empty, you know? Houses need life."

Behind her, Mailah could practically feel Lucien vibrating with barely suppressed amusement.

Grayson remained silent, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes tracked every movement Marco made.

"If you need anything—recommendations for restaurants, directions to the best viewpoints—we are just down the hill. The white house with blue shutters," Marco continued. "My wife would love to meet you. She speaks better English than me."

"That’s very kind," Mailah said warmly. "We’ll definitely stop by."

Shadow, apparently deciding Marco passed inspection, sauntered forward and rubbed against his legs with a purr that sounded almost smug.

Marco laughed, delighted, crouching down to scratch behind her ears. "Ah! What a beautiful gatta. What is her name?"

"Shadow," Mailah supplied.

"Perfect name for such a dark beauty. She is very friendly, yes?"

Behind them, Elin muttered, "That’s debatable."

Marco straightened, still beaming. "Well, I will not keep you from your morning. Enjoy the bread! My wife’s specialty—rosemary and olive oil. Best in Tuscany, but don’t tell the others I said so."

He winked conspiratorially, and Mailah couldn’t help but smile genuinely. "Your secret’s safe with us."

"Bene, bene! Welcome to our little corner of paradise!"

With a cheerful wave, Marco headed back down the path, whistling a tune that floated on the morning air.

The moment he disappeared around the bend, Grayson closed the door with careful precision.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Lucien burst out laughing. "Did we just have a collective panic attack over Italian hospitality?"

"Yes," Elin said flatly. "Yes, we did."

Oliver rubbed his face. "I was genuinely prepared to fight."

"I noticed," Mailah said, eyeing the fork he’d somehow acquired. "Were you planning to stab him with cutlery?"

"Improvise, adapt, overcome."

Grayson leaned back against the door, exhaling slowly. "This is what paranoia looks like."

"To be fair," Lucien said, "unexpected visitors could really try to kill us."

Mailah looked down at the basket in her hands, then at Shadow, who was grooming herself with exaggerated nonchalance. "I think Shadow approved of him. That has to count for something."

"Or she just wanted bread," Elin pointed out.

"Traitor," Lucien said to the cat, who ignored him completely.

Mailah met Grayson’s eyes and found him already watching her. Something passed between them—relief, absurdity, and underneath it all, that constant, thrumming awareness that never quite faded.

"Well," she said, fighting a smile, "at least we know we’re all sufficiently traumatized."

His lips twitched. "Apparently."

"Could’ve been worse. You could’ve actually threatened him."

"I was considering it."

She laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders dropped slightly, the rigid tension bleeding out.

"Come on," Lucien said, already heading back to the kitchen. "Let’s eat this panic bread before I burn the rest of breakfast."

"Too late," Elin called after him.

As they filed back through the corridor, Grayson caught Mailah’s wrist—gentle, brief.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For... managing that."

She smiled up at him. "Someone had to. You looked like you were about to interrogate a sweet old man about his intentions."

"Old habits."

"Maybe we need to work on those."

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, and her pulse jumped. The touch was feather-light but it sent heat racing up her arm. "Maybe we do."

His eyes dropped to where his fingers circled her wrist, to the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his touch.

"Mailah—"

"I know," she whispered.

Whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips. Instead, he just looked at her—really looked at her—like she was something precious and dangerous all at once.

Shadow yowled from the kitchen—demanding, imperious—and the spell broke.

Grayson released her hand, stepping back. The loss of contact felt almost physical.

"We should—"

"Yeah," she agreed, breathless. "We should."

But as they walked back to join the others, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. Something inevitable and terrifying and impossibly right.

The kitchen was chaos again—Lucien attempting to salvage breakfast while Elin documented his failures for posterity, Oliver making sardonic commentary from the sidelines.

Mailah broke off a piece of Marco’s bread and nearly moaned. It was perfect—crusty outside, soft inside, fragrant with rosemary and olive oil.

"Okay," she admitted. "This was worth the heart attack."

Lucien tried some and nodded appreciatively. "Marco’s wife can bake. We should definitely visit them."

"So you can steal recipes?" Elin asked.

"So I can appreciate art."

Grayson leaned against the counter beside Mailah, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t take any bread—just watched the others with that careful, guarded expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much.

Mailah bumped his arm gently. "You okay?"

He glanced down at her, and for a moment, that mask slipped. She saw exhaustion there, and wariness, but also something softer. "Getting there."

"Good." She held up a piece of bread. "Eat something. Even immortal beings need breakfast."

"I’m not—"

"Grayson." She fixed him with a look. "Eat."

His lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. He took the bread, their fingers brushing again, and the touch lingered longer than necessary.

Across the kitchen, Oliver caught her eye and raised an eyebrow knowingly. She felt heat creep up her neck.

"So," Lucien announced, successfully plating something that resembled crepes, "market trip is still on, yes? I need to see Grayson attempt small talk with Italian vendors."

"That’s not happening," Grayson said.

"That’s exactly happening," Mailah countered. "Consider it still part of your humanization training."

"My what?"

"You heard me. Today, you’re going to be normal. Or as close to normal as you can manage."

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, challenge, heat. "And you’re going to supervise this experiment?"

"Someone has to make sure you don’t scare anyone."

"I don’t scare people."

Everyone in the room looked at him.

He scowled. "Intentionally."

Mailah laughed, bright and genuine, and watched as his expression softened in response. "Come on, demon boy. Let’s go be tourists."

"This is going to be a disaster," he muttered.

"Probably," she agreed cheerfully. "But it’ll be our disaster."

And as his hand found hers under the table—brief, secret, electric—she thought maybe that was enough.