The next morning, Jake could barely lift his head from the pillow.
His entire body felt like it had been steamrolled — muscles he didn't even know existed now throbbed with the heavy ache of honest vineyard labor.
He groaned dramatically, burying his face into the sheets when Ivory tried to nudge him awake.
"Come on, Mr. Global Superstar," she sang, way too chipper for someone who had spent the entire day stomping grapes and carrying baskets too. "You're not dying. Just sore."
Jake peeked one eye open. "You're evil."
Ivory only grinned and tossed him a fresh towel.
"Get up. Omma made Korean soup."
That got him moving.
Still groaning, Jake stumbled into the kitchen where the warm, savory scent of seolleongtang — rich ox bone soup — wrapped around him like a hug.
Ivory's mother smiled knowingly as she ladled generous portions into bowls.
Jake sat down, took a sip, and nearly moaned from relief.
The warm, milky broth melted the exhaustion from his bones, infusing him with new strength.
It was a taste that reminded him of home, of comfort, of being loved without asking for it.
Across the table, Ivory winked.
Later that morning, with renewed energy, Ivory and Jake hopped onto matching vintage scooters — old Vespas painted in pastel blue and cream — and set off to explore.
The Tuscan countryside rolled around them in waves of green and gold, dotted with stone farmhouses, ancient olive groves, and fields of swaying sunflowers.
They stopped wherever their hearts pulled — a rustic bakery for fresh cantucci and coffee, a small chapel where the floors echoed with centuries of prayers, an overlook where the hills folded into each other like a watercolor painting.
Jake couldn't stop smiling. He felt light, like he had left every burden somewhere behind the vineyards.
At one small, bustling market square, they spotted a familiar figure — Ivory's father, personally delivering cases of wine to a local trattoria.
He was laughing with the restaurant owner, clapping backs, exchanging bottles for baskets of fresh tomatoes and basil.
No airs. No suits. Just pride and simplicity.
Jake's heart squeezed at the sight.
"This is why he built the winery," Ivory murmured beside him, watching her father with soft eyes. "Not for money. For connection. For love."
"You really are your father's daughter," he says.
She smiled, resting her hands over his.
By late afternoon, they found a quiet meadow overlooking the vineyards.
Ivory laid out a simple picnic — crusty bread, slices of aged pecorino, fresh tomatoes, and sandwiches layered with prosciutto and basil.
Two tall iced coffees sweated against the cloth, sweet and cold against the summer heat.
They sat there, shoulders brushing, watching the sun begin its slow descent behind the hills.
Jake took a sip of coffee, eyes crinkling at Ivory over the rim.
"You know," he said slowly, voice rich with affection, "this might just be the best birthday week of my life."
Ivory tucked her legs under her, smiling back at him.
"No screaming fans? No giant cakes? No stages?"
Jake shook his head, gaze fond.
"Just you. And this place. And your crazy family."
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For bringing me here. For letting me be part of your world."
Ivory leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, her voice barely a whisper.
"You were already part of it, Jake. You just didn't know it yet."
They stayed like that — the world fading around them, the golden light settling like a blessing over their small, perfect corner of Tuscany.
"I could do this everyday." Jakes, unknowingly says.
***
The Morning of the Sagra
The next morning, Tuscany woke up dressed in celebration.
Colorful banners fluttered over the narrow cobbled streets, stalls lined the piazza selling everything from lemon soaps to handmade ceramics, and the air smelled like roasted chestnuts, grilled sausages, and sweet fried dough.
Ivory had tugged Jake out of bed early (again), practically bouncing with excitement.
"It's sagra day!" she chirped, pulling a simple linen shirt over his head while he groaned in protest. "Local festival, Mr. Superstar. No excuses!"
Jake grumbled, but secretly, he loved it — this side of Ivory, gleaming with hometown pride, was irresistible.
When they arrived, the festival was already buzzing with life. Kids darted between stalls, old men argued playfully over bocce games, women handed out samples of homemade wine and fresh figs.
Ivory dragged Jake by the hand through the chaos, stopping to try everything — sweet porchetta sandwiches, fried zucchini flowers, tiny cups of espresso so strong Jake's eye twitched.
She bought him a paper crown from one of the stalls.
(It was actually meant for kids, but she insisted.)
Jake wore it without complaint, grinning like a fool.
Somehow — somehow — Jake got roped into a local contest.
It started when they passed a group of men shouting around a big wooden barrel.
Ivory explained between giggles, "Gara di pigiatura dell'uva. Grape stomping contest. Winner gets crowned King of the Harvest."
Jake blinked. "...I thought we did this the other day?"
"That was business. Today is honor," she said dramatically, shoving him forward.
Before Jake could protest, one of the organizers had already pulled him in, slapping a contestant number on his shirt.
The crowd whooped and cheered — especially when they realized he was foreign and ridiculously handsome.
Jake, King of Chaos
He was a disaster.
Jake's technique was all wrong at first — arms flailing, laughing so hard he almost slipped several times — but somehow, somehow, he managed to produce the most grape juice.
Maybe it was all that core strength. Maybe it was the sheer will to impress Ivory.
Either way, when the final bell rang, the locals erupted into wild applause.
Jake was laughing, dripping with purple-stained juice, when an old man ceremoniously placed a giant straw crown on his head and handed him a bottle of the village's finest red.
"Signore Jake!" they chanted, "Re della Vendemmia!"
(Jake, King of the Harvest!)
Ivory was doubled over in laughter, clapping with the crowd.
Jake stumbled toward her, holding his wine prize proudly.
"Your majesty," she teased, bowing low.
Jake hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Does this mean you have to kneel?"
She flicked grape juice at him in retaliation.
By sunset, Jake and Ivory were sprawled on the hill overlooking the village.
He still wore his straw crown, tilted haphazardly, a stupidly happy grin on his face.
Their hands were tangled between them, fingers sticky with melted gelato and grape juice, hearts even stickier with everything they weren't saying out loud.
Jake turned his head toward her, his voice soft, almost shy.
"Can we just... stay here forever?"
Ivory smiled, brushing her thumb along the back of his hand.
"We can," she whispered. "At least for today."
Above them, the sky burned orange and pink, the stars waiting patiently for their turn to shine.
The formal part of the festival faded with the last glimmers of sunset, but the real party was just beginning.
Someone dragged out an old speaker. Someone else rolled out barrels for makeshift tables. Glasses clinked. Bottles popped open. Plates of leftover focaccia and olives made the rounds.
Jake and Ivory got pulled into a small backyard tucked behind the vineyard. Fairy lights dangled between the olive trees, casting a soft golden glow over everything.
An old man handed Jake a beat-up acoustic guitar with a wink.
Jake hesitated — but Ivory's encouraging smile pushed him over the edge.
He settled onto a low bench, guitar balanced on his knee, barefoot and sticky from the day's chaos, his straw crown still lopsided on his head.
Jake strummed a few chords, tuning by ear.
Then, without even thinking, he started to sing — low and raspy at first, like a secret between him and the night.
It wasn't a pop song.
It wasn't a show.
It was just Jake.
Simple. Raw. Beautiful.
The villagers fell quiet, gathering closer.
Children curled up on their parents' laps.
Old women tapped their feet.
Ivory sat cross-legged at his feet, head tilted back, watching him with a look so soft it could've melted the moon.
Jake sang a mixture of soft English ballads and simple Italian folk songs that Ivory taught him just hours earlier — his accent messy, but nobody cared.
When he finished one song, the crowd clapped and whistled, begging for another.
Jake laughed, cheeks pink, strumming again.
After a while, Ivory stood and took his hand, tugging him up gently.
"Come on, King of the Harvest," she teased.
Jake set the guitar down and followed her into the clearing. Someone started clapping a slow rhythm. Someone else hummed a tune. The bonfire crackled high, sparks lifting into the black velvet sky.
Jake and Ivory swayed together, barefoot in the grass, the smoke-sweet air wrapping around them like a quilt.
No cameras.
No fans.
No schedules.
Just Jake and Ivory, lost somewhere between laughter and forever.
Jake leaned his forehead against hers, voice barely a whisper.
"I don't think I've ever been this happy."
Ivory smiled, tipping up to kiss the corner of his mouth.
"You deserve it," she whispered back.
And for once — for once — Jake let himself believe it.
***
The road back to Ivory's home was bathed in silver moonlight, quiet except for the soft chirps of crickets and their own footsteps crunching on the gravel.
Jake's hand found hers — then their fingers interlocked naturally, as if they had been made for it.
Every few steps, Jake tugged her gently to a stop just to steal another kiss. Light ones. Lazy ones. Longer ones. Ivory laughing against his mouth as she half-heartedly swatted him.
"Jake—!" she gasped after the fifth kiss. "You're worse than the wine!"
Jake just grinned, that boyish, dimpled smile, eyes shining under the moon.
"I'm drunk on you, not the wine."
Ivory groaned dramatically, but her hand squeezed his tighter.
When they finally stumbled up the porch steps, Jake wrapped his arms fully around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.
She unlocked the door — or tried to, because Jake wouldn't stop peppering kisses along her neck, her shoulder, her cheek.
"Stop it," Ivory giggled, feeling her face heat.
"Can't," Jake mumbled into her skin, voice deep and sleepy. "Might be my last chance for a while."
Ivory paused, the key halfway turned.
Her heart clenched.
Jake felt it too — the reality slipping between them like a draft through the door crack. Tomorrow, he would fly back to Korea.
And she would stay behind in Italy for her company.
Jake turned her gently around to face him, still in his arms.
"I don't wanna leave you," he whispered, forehead leaning into hers. His voice was raw. Honest. "Not even for a second."
Ivory cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing his skin softly.
"You're not leaving me," she said, eyes steady. "You're going to do what you love. And I'll catch up."
Jake pulled her even closer, as if he could somehow melt them into one person.
"You better," he muttered, almost pouting.
Ivory chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose.
"I will, Allegro," she promised.
Jake finally smiled again — small but real — and kissed her properly this time.
Slow. Deep. Full of everything he couldn't find words for.
Later, tucked into Ivory's bed, Jake couldn't sleep.
He held her close, his face buried against the curve of her neck, breathing her in like a man memorizing a dream he didn't want to wake up from.
She traced lazy patterns on his arm — over the ink of his tattoos, over the veins, over the warmth of him.
"You're taking a piece of me with you, you know," Ivory whispered into the dark.
Jake tightened his arms around her.
"Good," he said hoarsely. "Because you already stole all of me."