Han reaches into the clutter of half eaten Chinese and Italian carryout boxes for the fried rice as Roman explains how he came to own a private jet, his faded, cracked folding chair creaking beneath him in protest. Their four voices fill the otherwise empty warehouse, mixing with the distant sounds of late night London traffic and echoing off of the metal roof.

Roman grabs the ravioli and shovels it onto his paper plate, "so I got the white one-"

Taj rips the carton of pasta out of Roman's hands, "man, quit stealing all of the ravioli."

Roman tries to snatch it back, "there's six other things to choose from."

"Yeah but you know ravioli's my favorite, that's why I ordered it."

Roman makes for another grab, "it's my favorite, too."

"Bullshit it's your favorite; I've never even seen you eat ravioli in my life."

"Don't say that shit like you know me, man, c'mon, give it back."

"You've already eaten half of it, like you said, there's six other things."

Han raises an eyebrow, smile in his eyes, while Gisele smirks into her beer bottle. The two share a look.

Roman momentarily gives up trying to recapture the ravioli and turns his eyes on them, "hey."

Gisele raises her eyebrow to match Han's as she turns to Roman, "hey."

"Can I ask you two a question?"

Taj rolls his eyes, "leave them alone, man."

"What? I just want to know why they're never lovey-dovey around us." Taj gives him his 'shut up' stare, which Roman ignores. "You two pretty people should be all over each other, but you don't hold hands or nothing."

…

Han leans forward, arms draped over the patio railing, white sleeves rolled past his elbows, and watches the small fishing boats pitch against the placid Mediterranean waves. Somewhere in the suite behind him a door closes. In the distance a church bell rings out eight slightly uneven chimes. He curls and stretches his toes as the morning sun warms his bare feet.

Minutes pass, counted by the constant ebb and flow of the waves against the white sand beach, before Gisele's impossibly light footfalls reach him. He turns to her as she comes to stand next to him. Watches as she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, "I love the smell of the sea."

He hums in agreement and places a chaste kiss against her hair before turning back to watch the sea. Gisele leans against the rail, twining her fingers into his, and kisses his cheek, smiling into his skin. He turns as she pulls away and brushes his lips against hers, his free hand coming up to card his fingers through her hair. "You left your hair down," he manages to mumble against her lips.

She releases his hand to rest both of hers on his hips, fingers playing with the hem of his khakis.

He peppers kisses along her jaw. "Let's stay in today."

"We stayed in yesterday," her fingers teasingly fiddle with his shirt buttons as his work the zipper of her sundress.

"Just the morning, then," he sighs against her lips before pressing into them again.

…