The early morning sun was streaming in through the slatted windows in bands of gold, casting long lines over the smooth stone floor of the villa. The sea beyond the balcony shimmered in pale blue, quiet and endless. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, a vendor’s bell rang once, twice – echoing up through the narrow streets alongside the smells of citrus and freshly baking bread.

Scott padded barefoot into the main room, dressed in his casual civvies, a pair of light linen pants and a black sleeveless shirt. Dathasa was in the kitchen alcove, standing at the sink sipping water from a glass. She was wearing one of his shirts, long and oversized on her, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her hair was damp, and tied up with a lazy twist.

She looked up as he entered, and her lips curled into that wry, knowing smile that had undone him more than once. “Well,” she said, “You’re up later than I expected.”

“I’m on vacation.” he answered, walking past her and stealing a sip from her glass. “I refuse to set an alarm.”

“Starfleet efficiency,” she deadpanned, “Slain by sun-soaked idleness.”

He smirked, setting his glass down. “You seem suspiciously awake and dressed.”

“Do I?” she asked, innocently. 

That tone. He knew that tone. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you scheming?”

“Nothing that should concern you before caffeine,” she said, reaching past him to adjust his collar. “Speaking of which…” She stepped back from him and picked up a credit chit from the counter, then pressed it into the palm of his hand.”Would you mind terribly running down to that little bakery on Via Sorin?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You know, there’s a replicator just over there.” 

“The replicator doesn’t serve hot apricot spirals.” she said, folding her arms, “And it doesn’t serve that dark roast coffee that little old lady does, you know, with the pinch of cinnamon?”

Scott eyes her suspiciously, but his expression softened. “You could go.”

“I could,” she agreed, “but I’m wearing your shirt, and no pants, so unless you want to start an incident with the locals…”

He gave a long, theatrical sigh, and took the chit. “This is clearly a trap,” he said.

“Obviously.”

As he turned towards the door, she stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Scott” she said, a bit quieter.

He looked back. Her expression was still amused, but beneath it there was something gentler: Anticipation, affection, maybe even nerves.

“Take your time.” she said, “But not too much time.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You planning something?”

 She just smiled. “Wear your black tunic when you get back. And skip the comms, I’ll leave instructions.”

His eyebrow raised once again. “Instructions?” She had already turned away, however, humming softly as she disappeared into the bedroom, leaving only the echo of her voice, and the slightest trace of her perfume behind.

Scott stared at the empty archway for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “Yup,” he muttered, grabbing his shoes, “Definitely a trap.” 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Scott returned to the villa, a paper-wrapped bundle of still-warm pastries in one hand, and two coffees in a tray in the other. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, and stepped out of the sun into the cool, stone interior of the main house. 

“Dathasa?” He called, setting the tray and bundle down on a small round table in the entrance hall. “I bribed a grandmother for the last Apricot Spiral. I expect applause.”

No answer. The villa was quiet, save for some birds twittering and flapping in the trees outside. He took a sip of his coffee. It was strong, creamy, and perfectly sweetened, and walked through the open air hall, glancing into the bedroom. The blankets had been tossed aside, and his shirt she had been wearing was hung haphazardly over the back of a chair, but there was no sign of her.

Then he saw the note. 

It was folded on the edge of the bedside table, held in place by a delicate shell. Iridescent and sea-blue, it was most likely collected from the beach, just beyond the stone path. The handwriting was clean, angled, and unmistakably hers.

Scott,

Follow the gold ribbons. Wear something you can dance in. Don’t be late.

-D

Scott raised an eyebrow. The warm ocean breeze played at the gauzy curtains as he stepped out onto the patio. He spotted it – the first ribbon, tied to an olive tree just beyond the courtyard gate. A silky golden strip, dancing delicately in the wind. He smiled, shook his head, and turned around to go back inside and change.