Strings and Schemes

Chapter 31

I hum, brushing my lips over his jaw. "So, what do we do? Hide away all day and stress about it?"

He shifts, flipping me beneath him, pressing his forehead against mine. "Or, we go do something fun. No phones, no press, just us."

I grin, wrapping my arms around his neck. "That sounds dangerously close to a proper date, Malik."

His lips twitch. "Maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this whole boyfriend thing."

I pretend to swoon. "A miracle."

As if he isn't already the perfect boyfriend. He didn't even need the title to fit the role.

He rolls his eyes but kisses me anyway, deep and slow, before pulling me out of our place. "Come on, let's get lost."

"I told you to make a left," Zayn says, squinting at the crumpled map in his hands.

I scoff, trudging ahead on the dirt path. "I did make a left. You just weren't paying attention."

He stops walking. "I wasn't—? Raina—"

I turn, flashing him a grin. "C'mon, Jaan, what's life without a little adventure?"

He mutters something under his breath, stuffing the map into his pocket before jogging to catch up. The sun is dipping low, casting everything in a warm honey glow, but neither of us knows exactly where we are.

Milos' roads are tricky—windy, unmarked, designed for people who have lived here their entire lives. One wrong turn and suddenly, we're somewhere but also nowhere, surrounded by olive trees and sleepy white-washed houses.

"We could ask for directions," Zayn suggests.

I scoff. "And admit defeat? Never."

"Your pride is going to get us stranded."

"Your map-reading skills are going to get us stranded."

Zayn rolls his eyes but takes my hand anyway, leading us down the road like he actually has a plan. He doesn't. But I let him pretend.

After what feels like hours (but is probably twenty minutes), we stumble upon a tiny taverna nestled between two old stone buildings. It has no sign, no menu outside, just a few wooden tables under a string of dimly glowing lights.

"This place looks like a dream," I whisper, taking in the rustic charm.

Zayn grins. "Or a front for the Greek mafia."

"Well, if we die, at least we die with good food."

A woman, no younger  than seventy, appears in the doorway. She takes one look at us—our sweaty, lost, clearly not from around here selves—and waves us inside.

We follow her into a cozy, dimly lit room with a fireplace crackling in the corner. A few locals sit at wooden tables, chatting in rapid Greek over half-empty bottles of wine.

"Do you think they have a menu?" I murmur.

Zayn glances around. "I don't think they need one."

The elderly woman says something in Greek, and we stare at her blankly. She sighs, shaking her head before pointing to an empty table.

Zayn smiles. "Yassas."

She perks up, patting his cheek with an affectionate tut-tut before disappearing into the kitchen.

I raise an eyebrow. "Look at you, charming Greek grandmothers."

He smirks. "What can I say? I'm irresistible."

We don't order anything—it just arrives.

Fresh bread, warm and crisp, served with a bowl of olive oil that glistens like liquid gold. A plate of grilled octopus, still sizzling. Feta drizzled with honey, thick and sticky. Lamb slow-cooked until it falls apart with a touch.

And wine. So much wine.

At first, we pace ourselves, sipping slowly, savouring each sip. But the woman keeps refilling our glasses, and well—who are we to say no?

"Do you think we should, um, slow down?" I ask, voice already a little loose.

Zayn lifts his glass, studying the deep red liquid. "You think too much."

I laugh, throwing back the rest of my wine. "That's not an answer."

"Exactly."

Somewhere between the second and third bottle, we start giggling uncontrollably over absolutely nothing.

"Do you think if I ask for a menu, they'll kick me out?" I whisper.

Zayn snorts. "Please do it, I wanna see what happens."

I turn to the older woman, who is watching us with thinly veiled amusement. "Excuse me—do you have a—"

She tsk-tsks at me so sharply I shut my mouth immediately. Zayn loses it, his head hitting the table as he laughs.

"You deserved that," he says between gasps for air.

"Jaan, shut up."

An hour later, we stand outside the taverna, wobbling slightly.

"Where's the car?" I ask.

Zayn blinks. "We have no business going near that car this pissed."

Silence. Then madness erupts as we can't stop laughing.

I squint at the road. "We should just sleep in the sand."

Zayn groans. "I knew we were getting too drunk. I knew it."

I poke his side. "But was it worth it?"

He glares at me before sighing. "It was the best meal of my entire life."

We both turn as the old woman emerges from the taverna, hands on her hips. She rattles off something in Greek, shaking her head.

I look at Zayn. "What's she saying?"

He shrugs. "Probably that we're idiots."

She waves for us to follow her, muttering under her breath as she leads us through a narrow alleyway to a small guesthouse with whitewashed walls and blue shutters. She gestures to the door, then holds out her hand.

Zayn blinks. "Is she—charging us?"

I dig into my bag, pulling out some cash, but she waves it away.

"Efharisto," I say, bowing slightly.

She pats my cheek. Then, to my absolute delight, she pinches Zayns cheek.

I grin. "Now we're even."

The room is small but cozy—white sheets, wooden beams, the scent of fresh lavender hanging in the air.

Zayn flops onto the bed dramatically. "We're a mess."

I climb in next to him, curling into his side. "The best kind."

He hums, pressing a lazy kiss to my temple. "I like seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"Happy."

I press my face into his chest, hiding the way my lips twitch.

Outside, the waves crash against the shore, and for the first time in forever, I don't feel the weight of anything except this. The joy that today brought, and the knowledge that we have every day to do this - regardless of if others are watching, waiting in the lurches for some PR spin gone bad - this is what I want every day to feel like.