Florence, Italy.
One year later.

The spring breeze from the Arno River brushed past gently, carrying the scent of lavender from the tiny balconies, each overflowing with flower pots tended by local hands. Along the cobbled streets, sunlight poured down like a soft ribbon, weaving gold across the terracotta roofs of ancient houses.
The city seemed to whisper stories—stories of lovers who found each other again after the storms had passed.

Joss opened the door to a small penthouse south of Ponte Vecchio.
It wasn't a luxury hotel. It wasn't a grand villa.
Just a warm little home, with white curtains that danced in the morning light and the smell of espresso lingering in the kitchen air.

He was standing there.

Gawin—dressed in nothing but Joss's oversized white shirt, hair tousled, sleep still softening his features.

Joss paused at the threshold, watching him pour milk into a cup, sunlight outlining his figure in a faint golden halo.

That moment... felt achingly peaceful.

Another day.
The breeze wandered through the olive trees. The sun stretched its arms lazily across the red rooftops that had withstood centuries. This city had seen countless love stories, countless goodbyes, countless promises whispered and broken under the weight of time.

Joss stood at the balcony, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his gaze drifting toward the winding streets below.
The wind carried the aroma of coffee from a corner café, mingling with the faint fragrance of jasmine.

He was there, behind him.

Gawin.

Ten years of searching. Ten years apart. Ten years spent standing on opposite ends, binding each other with hatred and longing.

And now... he was only a few steps away.

Joss didn't turn around.
He listened—to the sound of Gawin breathing, to the fragile silence between them, something he had never dared to hear before.

"No meetings today?"
Gawin's voice, light as the breeze.

Joss smirked faintly, stubbing out the cigarette.

"No."

No meetings. No boardrooms. No power plays, no bruising wars for survival.

Only the two of them, finally, finding their way back.

Gawin stepped closer, a cup of espresso in hand, the rich scent curling into the air between them.
His hair was still messy, his clothes nothing more than Joss's borrowed shirt—and Joss thought, he had never looked more beautiful.

Gawin leaned against the railing, staring out over the city.

"How did we come this far?"

Joss said nothing.

Instead, he reached out and pulled him into his arms.

Gawin didn't resist. Didn't pull away.
Didn't whisper about needing freedom, the way he once did.

He simply sighed—a quiet surrender, melting into the warmth of Joss's chest.

They had come so far.

Through hatred. Through loss. Through storms that once seemed endless.

Joss tightened his arms around him.
No words.
No chains.
Just the embrace they had been waiting for, across ten long years.

"If we hadn't lost each other back then," Gawin whispered, "would things have been different?"

"No," Joss said, his voice low, steady.

"Because no matter this life or the next—or a thousand more—I would have found you."

Above them, the clouds began to break apart, and a shaft of light fell onto the ancient rooftops—
as if, for the first time in ten years, the sky had finally cleared.

Gawin smiled faintly.

His pheromones drifted freely now—no longer hidden.
Velvet Storm had returned, but not to destroy.

Not every storm comes to tear things apart.
Some storms... come simply to remind us that we are still alive.

Gawin rested his head against Joss's shoulder, eyes half-closed.

Joss pressed a kiss into his hair, breathing in the familiar scent—their scent—like a quiet hymn whispered into the sunset.

"Why do you always kiss my hair?"
Gawin asked, his voice airy, almost teasing.

"Because I still can't believe," Joss murmured, tightening his arms around him, "that after everything... you're here."

Gawin didn't answer.

He simply leaned into him, allowing the rhythms of two heartbeats to sync beneath the fading light.

One morning, they wandered the alleys near Santa Croce, stopping at an old bakery where the Tuscan owner still remembered exactly what kind of biscotti Gawin liked.
They sat in a dusty little bookshop under the bridge, where Gawin found a battered poetry volume by Rilke—an edition printed back in the '60s.

"Do you think love is ever enough?"
Gawin asked, swirling his glass of chilled white wine as they lounged under a sun-worn awning.

Joss thought for a long moment.

"No," he said. "But love doesn't have to be enough. It just has to be right."

Gawin smiled.
That was the only answer he ever needed.

In the evening, they drifted down the Arno on a small wooden boat.

The sun slid low, gilding the river in molten gold.

The breeze skimmed across their skin, carrying the scent of damp wood and leather.
In the center of the boat, they didn't speak.

They simply looked at each other.

No pheromones.
No promises.
No vows.

Just two people who once tried to destroy each other—now learning, quietly, how to love again.

Later that night, Florence lit up in a soft golden haze.
The ancient city pulsed with a quiet, forgiving rhythm.

Gawin rested his head on Joss's shoulder, a half-finished glass of red wine in his hand.

"Joss."

"Hmm?"

"If you'd found me back then... where would we be now?"

Joss didn't answer right away.

The wind brushed past them.

"I don't know," he said quietly.
"But if we hadn't been torn apart... we wouldn't have learned how to love like this."

Gawin laughed under his breath.

The last laugh of the evening, before the balcony light blinked out—and they let their old scars fall asleep behind them.

Florence—the place where storms ended.

And sunlight began.