The vineyard smelled of wet earth and crushed leaves when Ethan woke. Sunlight streamed through the half-open shutters, turning dust motes into floating gold. The storm had passed completely, leaving only the quiet hum of life stirring beneath the vines.
He dressed quickly, slipping into a shirt that smelled faintly of cedar from the wardrobe. Every corner of the main house reminded him of the past—his mother's paintings, his father's old tools, the furniture pressed like ghosts into their old corners. He tried to focus on the present, but the shadows of betrayal lingered behind his eyes.
Aria was already in the kitchen, perched on a stool with a clipboard and a steaming cup of coffee. Her hair was loosely pinned up, a few damp strands framing her face. She looked at him and smiled—a quick, small curve of lips that somehow made the weight in his chest lift.
"Good morning," she said. "You slept in, considering the chaos you brought yesterday."
He grunted, more in acknowledgment than complaint. "You made it sound worse than it was."
She leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter, and regarded him with those gray eyes that could both warm and unsettle. "It was bad," she said lightly, and for the first time, Ethan caught a shadow of genuine amusement in her expression.
He let himself notice it, committing it to memory. The way sunlight caught her hair. The tilt of her head. The way she smelled faintly of rain and coffee, a combination he'd never expected to be memorable, yet here it was, etched into him.
"You've been in the cellar," she said suddenly, tilting her head toward him. "Yesterday, I mean."
Ethan froze. The memory of flickering lights, dust motes, and the brush of her fingers rose in his chest like a pulse. "Yeah," he said, finally. "It's… safe. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Her lips curved in a teasing smirk. "I'd say that's ominous."
He ignored her, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You're part of it too. How much of what I found did you already know?"
Her gaze softened, and for a fraction of a second, she looked like someone he could trust. "I don't know everything," she admitted. "And I'm not sure I want to."
He wanted to ask her why—he wanted to demand the truth—but instead, the words lodged in his throat. He couldn't. Not yet. Not without shattering the fragile balance of proximity that had begun to form between them.
She stood, brushing off her skirt, and gestured toward the vineyard. "Come on. I need to show you something before you start imagining ghosts behind every barrel."
Ethan followed, the dirt still damp under his boots. The vines stretched before them, rows of emerald leaves glinting with dew, the land sloping toward the cliffs and the restless sea beyond. Aria walked ahead of him, confident, steady, yet somehow aware of every glance he cast her way.
They reached the far end of the vineyard, near a weathered wooden shed that smelled of hay and mildew. Aria knelt, reaching beneath a loose floorboard. Her fingers emerged moments later, holding a small leather-bound book.
Ethan's chest tightened. He recognized the cover immediately: the ledger. The same one he had glimpsed in the cellar. Only this one was thicker, older, hidden beneath layers of dust and neglect.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Something your uncle didn't want anyone to find," she replied, holding it out for him. Their hands brushed, a fleeting, electric touch that made him pause. His fingers lingered just a moment too long against hers, and he caught a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Aria…" he started, but she raised a hand, stopping him mid-word.
"You don't have to say anything," she whispered, her eyes on his, searching, questioning, almost vulnerable. "Just… trust me that this is why I'm here. Not him."
The words hung in the air, fragile as a spider's web. Ethan's chest tightened, but he nodded, gripping the ledger carefully. Something in her tone made him want to believe her. Not the words. Not even the explanation. Just her.
They moved together into the shed, where light slanted in through the cracks, casting stripes across the wooden floor. He set the book on an old workbench and opened it. The pages were filled with numbers and cryptic notes, just as he had feared.
Aria leaned close, peering over his shoulder. "See this?" she asked. "These allocations… they don't make sense. Funds vanish here, here, and here. Someone's siphoning money—probably for years."
He didn't respond at first. He was acutely aware of her proximity, the way her shoulder brushed his. Every subtle movement of her body seemed magnified in the stillness of the shed. His pulse thudded. Every instinct told him to step back, but another, louder one whispered to stay, to feel, to risk it.
"You're too close," he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
Her head tilted slightly. "Am I?"
Before he could answer, her gaze caught his, and the air between them thickened. His hand brushed against hers again—not on purpose, but neither moved away.
Ethan's breath caught. "I… you shouldn't—"
"You?" she whispered, stepping a fraction closer, daring him to protest. "Or me?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The words weren't necessary. The tension was enough—palpable, raw, and dizzying. His fingers twitched as if to reach out, to touch her cheek, to close the space between them, but he stopped himself.
Then she laughed softly, a sound that tumbled through the shed like sunlight breaking a storm. "We're ridiculous," she said, stepping back just enough to regain control.
"Yeah," he muttered, but his pulse didn't slow.
For several minutes, they poured over the ledger together. Aria's shoulder brushed his every so often—small, innocent touches that left a trail of heat in their wake. She pointed to numbers, traced lines with her fingers, leaned in to whisper observations. Ethan found himself leaning closer, drawn to her warmth and proximity, heart hammering with a mix of desire and caution.
He noticed things he hadn't before—the slight curve of her neck, the way her hair fell when she tilted her head, the intensity in her eyes when she caught a discrepancy he had missed. Every detail lodged itself in him, obsessive in its clarity.
"You're studying me too much," she said suddenly, snapping him out of his trance.
"I'm not," he said, though his gaze lingered.
"Yes, you are," she teased, her tone light, but her eyes darkened slightly. "You're thinking about touching me, aren't you?"
Ethan's chest tightened. He didn't answer. She was right. He was thinking about it. More than that—he was imagining it, imagining the brush of her lips, the warmth of her hands. He pushed the thought away like a wave, but the memory of their touch in the cellar yesterday made it stubbornly cling.
"Ethan," she said softly, "you're distracted."
"I'm not," he said, though his voice betrayed him.
She leaned closer, brushing her hand across his forearm to get his attention. The touch lingered just long enough to burn. "Then focus on this," she said, nodding at the ledger.
He did, but barely. His fingers itched to linger near hers again. His chest thrummed with a rhythm that had little to do with the storm outside.
Hours passed unnoticed as they worked through the documents. Every time their hands brushed, his heart leapt. Every time their knees bumped as they leaned over the table, he felt electricity spike. The boundaries between professional and personal blurred, yet neither dared cross them completely.
Finally, as sunlight slanted lower, Aria leaned back and stretched. "We should take a break," she said.
Ethan leaned back as well, eyes drawn to her. The light caught her profile, illuminating the soft curve of her jaw, the slight tremble of her lips. He wanted to kiss her—just a brush, a fleeting contact—but he hesitated, trapped between desire and reason.
Instead, he said quietly, "We make a good team."
Her lips twitched into a smile. "That's the nicest thing you've said all day."
He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. "That's depressing."
She stepped closer under the pretext of gathering papers, and he felt her warmth press against his side. "You've been carrying so much," she said softly, almost as if reading his thoughts. "You don't have to do it alone."
Her words struck him harder than any slap could have. He wanted to trust her completely, to let himself lean in, to let her see every fracture in his heart.
For a moment, they were just two people in a shed, the storm long gone, the vineyard silent around them, suspended in a tension that bordered on obsession.
Then Aria glanced toward the door. "We should save the rest for tomorrow," she said, her voice firm but gentle.
He nodded, though his pulse remained too fast. "Yeah," he said.
She hesitated, then brushed her hand against his briefly—an accidental touch, she claimed—but it was deliberate enough to leave a spark trailing down his arm.
As she left, he closed the ledger slowly, heart pounding. The obsession had begun. He didn't want it to stop.
Outside, the vineyard stretched golden under the late afternoon sun. Inside him, a storm raged just as fiercely.