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You nearly have to drag him out of the Abbey.
It starts as a harmless suggestion.
A simple, cheerful “let’s go to the farmers market this morning, Papa!”
It ends with a string of muttered Italian curses as he begrudgingly shrugs into his coat, sunglasses in place, trying not to look like a man willingly leaving the comfort of his lair.
“The farmers market,” he grumbles, hands in pockets as he follows you down the path. “Full of people. Crowded. Noisy. Smells like goats.”
You try not to laugh, though the corners of your mouth betray you as they form into a devious smile.
“You like goats!” You quip back playfully.
“I like them far away from me.”
Still, he walks beside you, hands in pockets matching your pace as the crisp autumn air swirls between you.
The town square is alive with chatter, wooden stalls overflowing with pumpkins, jars of honey, and fresh breads that make the air smell sweet and warm.
Secondo gives a long put upon sigh, that fools absolutely no one.
“You’re enjoying this.” You tease, watching him glance- multiple times- at a stand selling cured meats.
“I am tolerating this.” He corrects you, already reaching for a sample toothpick. “BIG difference.”
He takes one bite of salami and immediately calls the attendant for another. You raise an eyebrow.
“Tolerating it VERY enthusiastically, I see.”
“It’s purely research.” He says smoothly, then buys two packages- tucking them into your basket- before you could object.
It becomes a pattern: he complains about the prices but buys you things anyway. Fresh figs, fresh darkened honey, bread so fragrant you feel like you can taste the butter already. Every single time you thank him, he waves it off with a flourish of his hand, and mutters in exasperation something about “not letting you starve.”
When you pass a stall of beautiful blooming flowers, you slow down- the colors are a breathtaking fire of crimson golds and reds. Secondo notices the way your eyes soften, even though you say nothing.
He stops, sighing theatrically this time, and speaks to the vendor. A few moments later he hands you a bouquet of marigolds and eucalyptus.
“They smell nice.” He tuts gruffly. “Do not make a big thing out of it.”
But the shade of pink at the tip of his ears gives him away.
You stroll together until the crowd thins out, the sun warming the stones beneath your feet. You find a quiet bench tucked underneath a chestnut tree, the basket of spoils sitting between you.
Seconds unwraps a small loaf of bread, tears it in half and offers you a piece. You break it apart and laugh softly.
“See? Not so bad after all.”
“It’s fine.” He says as he chews. “For something you forced me into.”
You lean a little closer to him. “You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He turns his head towards you, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and amusement- but his eyes immediately soften when they meet yours. For a moment, the noise of the market disappears. Sunlight glows golden against his dark coat, the scent of warm bread and autumn leaves hanging in the air between you.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Rougher.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?”
You smile widely back at him. “Good.”
That earns you a low chuckle from him, and before you can even blink, his hand comes up to cup your jaw- careful, deliberate. The kiss that follows is slow and sure, tasting faintly of bread and honey and every little thing about the afternoon that has become perfect.
When he finally pulls away, his thumb gently brushes your lower lip.
“I still don’t like crowds.” He murmurs.
“Then we‘ll just have to come earlier next time.” You say, breathless.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Next time.” He repeats, as if testing the words- and this time he doesn’t sound like he minds at all.
You walk back through the square hand in hand, his other arm steadying the basket he was insistent on carrying. The vendors are beginning to pack up, the hum of the market quieting and fading into the soft sounds of late afternoon- laughter, music, the rustle of leaves tumbling along cobblestone.
Secondo walks quietly beside you, not saying much on the walk back to the ministry. He didn’t need to. Every now and then his thumb gently brushes over your knuckles, a quiet rhythm of affection he more than likely does not even realize he is doing.
When the abbey gates come into view, he exhales a low sigh that almost sounds content.
“Next time,” he says, glancing down at you sideways, “we get there early enough to avoid the crowd. You pick the bread. I’ll pick the wine.”
You smile up at him affectionately. “Deal.”
He leans down, and presses one last soft kiss against your temple- much softer than the one before, but no less certain.
“And you,” he continues, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You carry the basket.”
You laugh wholeheartedly, nudging his shoulder playfully as you both disappear back inside the abbey- the scent of bread, honey and autumn still lingering between the both of you.