(Ivory's POV)
It had been a week since I'd arrived in Italy.
I had barely stepped out of the house, barely looked up from my phone, waiting for a message. A dot. A sign. Anything.
My mother knocked gently on my bedroom door that morning. "Tesoro, you have a letter."
I turned, confused. A letter?
When I opened the envelope, I knew that handwriting.
My chest clenched. It was Jake.
"My Yellow,"
I know you. You're probably curled up in bed, hair in a mess, wearing my shirt. You haven't seen the sun in days, have you? Tsk. Tsk. I'm not there to drag you out, but I'll do my best from here.
So here's your mission.
Put on your flowy dresses. (Please, not too revealing—remember the old man who almost had a heart attack?). Take your pastel blue Vespa. Helmet, too. I'm watching you.
Go to that café. Yes, the one where you bullied me into eating that cursed anchovy and pickle sandwich. The one I almost passed out from.
Then go get gelato from the guy who told me I was 'pretty for a boy.' Remind him I still remember.
And end the day in the garden. Where you gave me your heart, and I gave you that pearl necklace.
Little by little, love. One step at a time.
Come outside. The world misses your laughter.
And I miss you more than words can carry. Always.
—Jake.
I wiped my tears, sniffling. And I did what he asked.
Flowy dress. Vespa. Helmet.
I rode through town.
Locals waved. I ate that horrible sandwich. Laughed through my tears. Had gelato. The vendor remembered us.
"I knew he was a global superstar," he grinned. "Pretty boy, very lucky."
I smiled. "He's mine."
I watched the stars that night in the garden where he gave me the necklace. I held onto it.
Jake messaged sometimes—short, precious bursts when he had access.
"I had tuna today. Worst decision. Missing your pasta."
"They played a song that reminded me of Jeju. I nearly cried."
"Your voice is still my favorite thing."
***
[Voice message to Jake]
"Mamma had baked another strawberry cream cake today. She said it was good for the soul. It made me go back to the time when I baked you your birthday cake. That was hella tasty right? When I told you I put my sweat and tears there? It was literal. Sweat, NO. Of course not. Tears? Yep. HAHA. Mom and I had a heart-to-heart talk that day and she sprinkled lemon into my eyes. Blame her."
(FLASHBACK)
The cream wasn't cooperating.
I kept whisking harder than I should, but I couldn't stop. My wrists ached. The peaks weren't forming. Everything felt a little too soft — too shaky. Kind of like me lately.
Mamma's voice floated from beside me, soft and unimpressed. "You'll ruin the peaks if you keep being impatient, tesoro."
Before I could argue, she plucked the whisk right out of my hand like a queen with a scepter.
I huffed, leaning against the marble counter with a dramatic sigh that made her laugh under her breath.
"You used to let me lick the batter," I muttered.
"And you used to listen to me," she said, slicing strawberries like each one owed her rent. "Now you think you know better."
I bit back a grin, cheeks warming. Same old kitchen. Same old rules.
But the air shifted then — like something unspoken walked in between us.
She slowed her hands. Wiped her apron. Looked up with that kind of motherly softness that could break you without a single word.
"How serious is it, Ivory?"
She asked it so simply, like she wasn't already bracing herself for the answer.
I swallowed hard. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly. The smell of cream and strawberries didn't cover the lump rising in my throat.
"Very," I said. Voice small. Honest.
She didn't blink. Just watched. Waiting, the way she always did when she knew something big was about to fall out of me.
"He found me in Iceland," I whispered, fiddling with the edge of my apron.
"After the mess with his ex... his fall in his career. We just... met."
Mamma's eyes softened. She gathered the sliced strawberries into a bowl, quiet and thoughtful.
"A global superstar," she murmured, "choosing the quiet life for you."
That made me smile. A little. It tugged something inside me.
"He says I'm his peace," I told her, eyes fixed on the cream again, even though it no longer mattered.
Her smile curved slowly, tender and knowing.
"And you?" she asked gently. "Is he your peace too, my little storm?"
That undid me.
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak for a second. Then everything poured out.
The dinners. The way he folded towels wrong but kissed my forehead like it was ritual. How we argued without throwing knives. How he looked at me like I was real. How scared I was of his enlistment, of two years passing and the whole world shifting while we weren't looking.
"Two years, Mamma..." My voice cracked. "What if everything changes?"
She leaned back against the counter, arms folding like armor. Calm. Fierce. Beautiful.
"You know I fought my whole family for your father?" she said, slicing through the silence.
My eyes widened. "You did?"
"They thought I was throwing away my life. That loving a man halfway across the world was insanity. My sisters stopped speaking to me. My father disowned me."
She popped a strawberry in her mouth. "But your father made the world feel small. Like Rome and Seoul were only a street apart."
I blinked back tears.
"Distance means nothing if you're both all in," she said. "If it's real, you don't let go. You fight harder. You choose each other — again and again and again. You lift each other up."
I wiped my cheek clumsily. "But it hurts."
"It will." She didn't sugarcoat it. "But if it's him, and if it's you... that pain will carry you through, not break you."
She stepped closer then, voice dropping to a whisper.
"You know why I never forced you to stay in Italy? Aside from that time when your rebelled, piccolo marmocchio?"
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
"Because love isn't locking someone up. It's letting them run free, knowing they'll come back anyway. That's what I always tell your papa, and here you are, coming back on your own."
And just like that — fat tears slipped down my cheek and splashed right onto the icing we were spreading.
"Mamma! The cake—"
She only laughed, swiping my tears with the corner of her apron. "Bellissima. Cry all you want. A little salt only makes it sweeter."
I laughed with her, sniffling like a child. She smoothed icing over the cake like she was smoothing the panic in my chest.
Somehow it worked.
"You should come home more often," she said softly.
"I will," I promised.
"Promise?"
I nodded so hard it made my hair bounce. "Promise."
She leaned in, kissed my forehead — and left a trace of flour in my hair.
"No matter where you go, amore mio," she whispered, "you'll always have a home. Right here."
And outside the window, the vineyard soaked in late-afternoon light. The air smelled like strawberries and time. And I knew she was right.
Because I wasn't just someone's girlfriend.
I was Jake's peace.
And he was mine.
*
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A Few Months Later
(Ivory's POV)
I stepped out of the cab in Iceland. The wind bit my cheeks.
The mansion looked the same.
Except someone was standing on the lobby. Tall. Lean. Muscular. Dressed in all black.
I dropped my bag.
He turned.
And I ran.
"JAKE!"
He laughed before I even reached him. His arms were open. I leapt and collided with his chest, my legs wrapping his waist, burying myself into him. I kissed his face, his nose, his lips, his jaw. Over and over and over.
"You're here."
"First vacation," he whispered, nuzzling me. "There was only one place I wanted to be. Those sticky notes you left on my apartment? Come on, you know I won't survive on those. I needed the real you. To see you."
We spent that night catching up. Cooking together. Laughing. Arguing over who missed who more. It was like nothing changed, yet everything had.
Final Scene: Dual POV
(Ivory's voice, looking at the stars)
They said long distance was a death sentence. But not for us. Because when it got hard, we didn't give up—we fought harder. We made space for each other's silences. We learned to speak love in fewer words. I've known loneliness. I've known the ache of an empty room. But nothing aches more than imagining a life with anyone but you.
(Jake's voice, watching her laugh)
We'll still argue. Still throw pillows and burn pancakes and cry in frustration. But we'll always come back. We'll always choose each other. Because in a world full of people who never saw me... she did. Even when I couldn't see myself. And now, I can't picture a tomorrow with anyone but you.
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She stayed there, long after his silhouette disappeared through the security gates, holding onto the necklace he had fastened around her neck weeks ago.
The world moved on around her — hurried footsteps, crackling announcements, the distant hum of planes lifting into the clouds.
She closed her eyes and smiled, even as her chest ached.
It could have been anyone else.
Someone easier. Someone closer. Someone safer.
But it wasn't.
It was him.
It was always him.
Anyone but you, she thought, her fingers brushing the small heart-shaped pearl at her throat.
Never.