Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light entered hesitantly, as though testing the threshold. It slipped through the open window in narrow, gold-edged ribbons, scattering across the frescoed walls, their faded saints and crumbling halos catching the uneven glow. The air carried the scent of rosemary rising from the garden below, mingling with the warmth of sun-soaked stone. A faint breeze stirred the edges of the curtains, the kind of breeze that barely touched the skin. 

Caitlyn shifted beneath the linen sheets, the slow, drowsy heaviness of sleep still clinging to her limbs. When her eyes opened, the ceiling greeted her—cracks and fissures spreading like tiny rivers, forming patterns she traced and retraced in her mind. Shapes that had no meaning, and yet she looked for one anyway.

When she sat up, it was with the careful, unspoken reverence of someone not yet ready to disturb the morning. Her nightdress slipped from her shoulder, the fabric brushing against her skin like an afterthought. The tiles were cool beneath her feet as she stood, the sensation waking her fully, grounding her. She stretched, arms reaching, her fingertips brushing the soft drape of the canopy above her bed. 

Crossing the room, Caitlyn slowed as she approached the mirror on the old oak vanity. She hesitated—always hesitated—before meeting her reflection. The glass, rippled and imperfect along its edges, gave her face a faint distortion, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. But no. The face was hers, unmistakable in its familiarity and its flaws. Pale skin stood out against the room’s shadows like paper left too long in the sun. Her hair, dark and unruly, fell in loose strands around her face, framing her features with a sharpness that felt almost accusatory.

She leaned closer, her hands grazing the vanity’s edge as if steadying herself. The blue of her eyes caught the light, but they searched for something deeper, something more elusive than color. What did she hope to see? She didn’t know. Perhaps softness, warmth, some imagined version of herself that felt more like the women she admired—their graceful curves, their easy symmetry. Her own face, with its clean lines and angular planes, seemed rigid, unyielding, like something sculpted by a hand too impatient to smooth the edges.

The thought settled into her chest and she turned away abruptly, the sharpness of the motion stoking heat at the back of her neck, behind her ears. She didn’t want to look too closely and find nothing there.

In the bathroom, the air was cooler, the tiles beneath her feet colder still. The porcelain sink gleamed in its brightness, a sharp contrast to the dimness she had left behind. She cupped her hands under the faucet, the water cool from the pipes, almost startling as she splashed it over her face. 

Her movements became methodical. The brush in her hand swept across her teeth with a rhythm that felt purposeful. She counted the strokes, let the sound of bristles scraping enamel drown out the nagging questions that sounded just beneath her thoughts. For a moment, she tried to focus on the taste of mint, the chill it left on her tongue. 

When she glanced in the mirror, droplets clung to her skin, catching the dim morning light. Her lashes were still damp, tiny rivulets running like cracks through her reflection. She frowned, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the way her face looked strange—too pale, too foreign here—or the way the mirror seemed to reflect more than it should.

The villa was stirring. Voices rose faintly from the kitchen below, mingled with the clatter of pots and pans. Laughter echoed through the stone halls, each syllable folding into the next like water over worn stones. Italian always sounded like that—effortless. As though the words didn’t require permission to exist. Caitlyn stood there for a moment, listening, before retreating to her room. She reached for a cotton dress, something light enough to survive the unrelenting sun. The fabric brushed her fingers like a whisper—thin, weightless.

Descending the stairs, she trailed her hand along the smooth banister, the cool wood grounding her as morning light spilled unevenly across the hallway. The air smelled faintly of soap. The voices grew louder, drawing her toward them.

She turned a corner into the courtyard. Maria was there, pulling linens from a clothesline. The air shimmered, the heat warping the edges of the scene like a mirage.

Maria’s hands worked quickly, snapping the sheets free before folding them in deft, precise movements. Her dark hair was swept into a loose braid, though a few strands had escaped, curling damply against her neck. Her shoulders were bare, bronzed under the sunlight, a faint sheen of perspiration catching there. Caitlyn hesitated, watching, her pulse stuttering.

The curve of Maria’s shoulder caught her eye—innocently at first. But the longer she stared, the less innocent it seemed. She felt a faint pull, something she couldn’t name but recognized all the same. Her throat tightened. Wrong. The word rose, unbidden and unwelcome, lodging itself between her ribs like a splinter. She looked away, quickly, her cheeks burning despite the shade.

“Signorina Caitlyn,” Maria said, without looking up. Her voice was warm, unpolished. Caitlyn startled.  

“Oh—buongiorno,” she managed. The words came out too fast, clumsy on her tongue. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Maria glanced at her then, smiling faintly as she folded the last sheet. “You’re not interrupting. I was just finishing.”

Her English was careful, but it carried the same easy rhythm as her native language. Caitlyn nodded, though her gaze had already drifted back to Maria’s hands—slim, capable, brushing over the fabric. She felt a sudden urge to say something, to keep Maria talking, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You slept well?” Maria asked, breaking the silence.

“I did. Thank you.” Caitlyn’s fingers curled into her palm. “The villa—it’s lovely. I mean, I’ve never stayed anywhere quite like this before.”

Maria tilted her head, studying Caitlyn as if she wasn’t sure whether the statement was a compliment or something else entirely. “It’s old. A little broken in places, but it has character.” She shrugged, her shoulders shifting in a way that seemed almost deliberate, or maybe Caitlyn imagined that, too. “It’s the way things are here.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn said quickly, the word tripping over itself. She hesitated, then added, “I like that.”

Maria smiled again—an unreadable expression that lingered just long enough to feel heavy. “Good. You should.”

The silence that followed felt larger than it was, stretching between them in the dappled sunlight. Caitlyn swallowed, unsure whether to stay or leave, aware of Maria’s presence in a way that made the air feel too close.

“I should go,” Caitlyn said finally, the words breaking the stillness like glass. She turned before Maria could answer, the heat in her cheeks spreading as she walked quickly back into the house.

Caitlyn stood in the doorway, letting the cool dimness settle around her after the relentless brilliance of the outdoors. The walls seemed to drink in the heat, keeping it for themselves. The air here felt heavier, still, carrying a faint trace of dust and something older, like dried flowers or parchment forgotten in a drawer.

The hallway stretched out before her, its high ceilings vaulting above like a cathedral’s, the arches carved with patterns so faint they seemed to dissolve under her gaze. She wouldn’t have noticed them a week ago, wouldn’t have paused to trace their soft, eroded lines with her eyes. 

By the wall, a wooden console table stood as though it had always been there, steady beneath the weight of forgotten objects: a vase, long emptied and vaguely cracked; a shallow bowl filled with candles warped by years of neglect; and her satchel, slouched against the wood where she had left it the day before. It was a small thing, unobtrusive, yet her gaze caught on it and stayed.

Her hand hovered above the worn leather. The thought came unbidden: Had someone touched it while it sat here? The idea was absurd—no one in the villa would care to look, let alone bother. And yet, her chest tightened at the possibility, some quiet knot pulling tighter beneath her ribs.

She unclasped the flap carefully, as though she might catch the evidence of a trespass. The sketchbook emerged first, its weight familiar in her hands. Beneath it, a tin of charcoal pencils shifted, their edges blunted from use, and a ruler smudged dark from fingerprints. A scrap of folded paper clung to the corner—something she’d meant to discard but hadn’t. She hesitated, letting her fingers graze its edge before lifting the book close to her chest.

The pages were thick beneath her thumb, the edges roughened, softened in places by time and touch. Each bore the mark of hours spent in stillness, wrestling with lines and shapes that never quite matched the image in her mind. The earliest sketches lay at the front, shaded in precise, careful strokes: her mother’s garden in England, its roses manicured into perfection, each petal obedient and contained. Farther in, the lines loosened, the pages filled with the terraces of Amalfi, their wild beauty rendered in softer graphite, a kind of chaos she was still trying to understand.

Her gaze stopped on one page, a half-finished sketch of the hills at sunset, the shadows long and unruly, spilling across the slopes. She traced the lines lightly with her fingertip, her touch hesitant. There was something unfinished here, not just on the page but inside her. 

And the faces. Always faces. Some belonged to strangers she’d passed on Amalfi’s winding streets—a merchant with a furrowed brow, a child slumped against a market stall, watching the world pass him by. Others were born of her imagination: a young girl with unruly curls tumbling over her shoulders, a man whose gaze seemed clouded with secrets. Her pencil had hovered on one sketch, a woman’s cheekbones just beginning to emerge from the page. She had paused there, her hand faltering before she could finish the eyes.

The half-drawn face stared back at her, incomplete. Caitlyn swallowed and flipped the page, the movement abrupt, as if closing a door too quickly. She slipped the sketchbook back into her satchel and stood, heading for the stairs.

Her room had filled with light now, the sun cresting higher and spilling boldly through the open window. The breeze threaded in behind it, carrying the faintest breath of salt from the distant sea, though the hills stood stubborn and unyielding in its path. She moved to the window, her sketchbook in hand, and sank onto the bench that curved snugly along the sill.

The hills stretched out in front of her, uneven and restless, like waves caught mid-motion. Heat wavered above the ridges, softening their outlines, and the olive trees scattered across the slopes seemed frozen in time—some huddled together, whispering secrets she couldn’t hear, while others stood alone, their knotted trunks bending toward no one. Farther off, where the land blurred into sky, the ruins clung to the horizon.

She flipped open her sketchbook and settled it on her lap. The pencil felt natural in her hand, moving as if it already knew what to do. She started with the olive trees—their shapes came easily, their twists and curves familiar by now. Then the hills: soft, rolling lines that rose and fell like a sigh.

It was clean, tidy. Too tidy. Her hand slowed, and the pencil hesitated before pressing harder, pushing deep into the paper, as if weight could force life into the drawing. Darker lines, sharper edges—anything to give the image what the landscape had. But no matter how she tried, it stayed flat. Lifeless.

Her fingers tightened around the pencil, and she let out a breath, her frustration catching in her chest. The hills out there were alive in a way she couldn’t match. They refused her control, no matter how much she wanted them to bend to her will. She looked down at the page again—lines and shadows, neat and perfect and wrong.

She wanted to feel connected to it. She wanted to catch whatever it was that made this place feel so alive. To make her pencil do more than skim the surface. But the harder she tried, the more it all slipped away.

Her mother’s voice drifted into her thoughts, slipping in like it always did. You’ll see something of the world, her mother had said. It’s a rare opportunity, Caitlyn. Don’t waste it.

Was she wasting it? She thought about the days behind her—mornings trying to sketch hills that never looked quite right, afternoons spent wandering ruins that felt more like monuments to someone else’s life, and evenings staring at the sea as if it might tell her what she was missing. It all felt so big, this trip, like it was supposed to mean something, but every day felt smaller than the one before.

Her pencil hovered over the page, the half-formed image in her mind refusing to come through her hand. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth another attempt, or if trying again would only leave her with that hollow silence she’d come to expect.

“Caitlyn!”

Her uncle’s voice echoed faintly down the hall. She startled, blinking herself back to the present. Carefully, she closed the sketchbook, smoothing her fingers over its spine before setting it aside. Rising, she brushed the creases from her dress. The stillness of the room seemed to settle again in her absence, like dust resettling after a disturbance.

The study greeted her with a wave of mingling scents: the bitter tang of old coffee and the earthy musk of paper softened by time. Stacks of books leaned haphazardly on every available surface, their faded spines bearing titles that blurred together in the dim light. Blueprints and sketches lay scattered across the desk, curling at the edges from the damp air that crept in through unseen cracks in the window frame.

A half-empty cup of coffee perched precariously on the windowsill, its rim stained dark, a faint ring marking the wood beneath it. The room felt alive in its disarray, as though it carried the imprint of a thousand restless thoughts, half-finished ideas that remained long after their creator had moved on.

Caitlyn stepped into the room cautiously, careful not to disturb the delicate order of her uncle’s world. His desk lay in a state of disarray that somehow felt intentional.

“Ah, there you are,” her uncle said, his voice warm but distant, as if she were an afterthought slipping into the edges of his focus. He didn’t look up immediately, his attention fixed on the sheet of vellum spread out before him, his fingers smudged faintly with graphite.

Caitlyn clasped her hands in front of her, lingering in the doorway. “You called for me?”

“I did, yes.” He straightened. When he finally met her gaze, his smile was genial but distracted, the bridge of his glasses slightly askew—a sign of how long he’d been hunched over his work. “I wanted to show you something. Come here.”

She approached slowly, her steps careful, her gaze flicking over a stray book lying open on the floor. Her uncle turned to the side, already reaching for a roll of canvas propped against the edge of the desk.

“You’ve been sketching, haven’t you?” he asked, glancing at her briefly as his hands worked to untie the string around the canvas.

“Yes,” Caitlyn said, her voice measured.

“Good, good. This place is an artist’s paradise, don’t you think?” His tone suggested he wasn’t looking for an answer, the words spilling out like a conversation he was having with himself. “When I first arrived, I was overwhelmed. There’s a kind of grandeur here that sneaks up on you—one day, you’re admiring the hills, and the next, you realize they’ve changed you.”

Her eyes flicked to the window where the hills stretched faintly in the distance, their shapes softened by the curtain’s shadow. She hesitated, unsure if she agreed. They were beautiful, certainly, but had they changed her? She felt like the same person she’d been in England—if not smaller, more constrained, more restless.

“They’re remarkable,” she said finally, the words feeling borrowed. 

Her uncle smiled faintly, as though he’d expected the answer but hadn’t needed it. His focus had already shifted, his hands gently unrolling the canvas.

found this while clearing out one of the old storage wings,” her uncle said, shaking his head with faint amusement. “It was buried under so much dust I nearly missed it.” He chuckled softly. “Imagine my surprise when I uncovered this.”

The canvas unfurled slowly, revealing the curve of a bare shoulder first, then the elegant sweep of a neck, drawing the eye upward. The woman in the painting was seated, her body angled slightly away, as though caught in an unguarded moment. Loose waves of hair tumbled over one exposed collarbone, softening the lines of her figure, while her skin seemed to hold an almost impossible warmth—alive despite the centuries.

Her gaze was startling, direct. It met Caitlyn’s as though she were a trespasser, as though she’d been caught looking too long. Her lips were parted, mid-breath, her expression unreadable—intimate without invitation. The backdrop, muted and shadowed, offered no distraction from her. Every detail was deliberate: the turn of her torso, the curve of her breasts, the lines painted with a precision that celebrated her form.

It was sensual, but not provocative. Reverent, almost. The artist’s devotion was evident in every stroke, a rendering of beauty that transcended the flesh and reached something timeless. Her nudity was free of artifice, stripped of coyness or shame. She simply was. Human, imperfect, and divine in equal measure.

His voice broke the silence. “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” he said softly, stepping back to study the painting. “I suspect it’s sixteenth century, though I’ll need to look into it. There’s a purity here—a kind of fearlessness, wouldn’t you say?”

Caitlyn said nothing. Her throat had tightened, and she could feel her pulse in her temples. The woman’s eyes seemed to follow her, watching too closely.

Her uncle, oblivious to the turmoil unraveling inside her, continued. “What strikes me most is her defiance. It’s rare to see a portrait like this—so honest, so raw. There’s no pretense. Whoever painted her wanted to show her as she truly was, not as the world might have dressed her.”

“It’s unsettling,” she managed flatly. 

Her uncle glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Art often is.” 

Caitlyn’s gaze flicked to the painting again, and the intensity of it struck her all over. She turned quickly away, her heart hammering.

She felt exposed, as though the painting itself had peeled something raw within her. Longing, desire—it was all there, laid bare in the figure’s gaze. The shame curled in her stomach like smoke, thick and suffocating. She stared at the bookshelf instead, focusing on the worn spines, her breathing shallow.

Her uncle began rolling the canvas again, oblivious to her silence. “It’s a shame we don’t know who she was. Someone like this—someone with that kind of presence—deserves to be remembered.” He tied the string back in place, setting the canvas aside with a reverence that bordered on affection.

He looked at her again, his smile breaking the tension in the air. “Enough about my discoveries. How are you finding it here? Has the villa inspired you yet?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Her uncle chuckled. “Beautiful, yes, but is it speaking to you?” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “The midsummer festival is coming up soon. That will be something to see. You’ll feel the energy of this place then, I’m sure of it.”

Caitlyn nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. The energy of the place? What had she felt so far, besides its vastness, its indifference? Wasn’t she here to observe, to study, to create? To take something back with her in the end? 

“You remind me of myself, you know,” he said. “I spent months trying to make sense of everything here. I wanted to catalog it, understand it. But this isn’t London. It doesn’t yield to logic or… order . You can’t put it in a box and label it. You have to let it move through you.”

Caitlyn looked down at her hands, the faint smudges of graphite still clinging to her fingertips. “I can try, I suppose,” she said finally.

“Good,” he replied as he leaned back, his hands moving to straighten a stack of papers. “That’s all I ask.” 

The heat seeped into her skin and made the world slow, like wading through honey. Caitlyn made her way along the path she’d traced from her bedroom window each day since she arrived. The ruins, perched just beyond the villa’s southern boundary, were hardly more than a skeleton now. It drew her, the way something both forlorn and defiant might.

Her shoes crunched against loose stones as she approached, each step accompanied by the symphony of summer: the ceaseless hum of cicadas, the occasional rustle of a lizard darting through the undergrowth, the faint bark of a dog somewhere far away. Above her, the sky was cloudless, too blue, almost unreal, and she wondered briefly if she’d ever seen anything like it in London. Certainly not—not this clarity, not this inescapable openness.

The ruins greeted her in silence. Stone pillars jutted skyward like broken fingers, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Caitlyn traced one with her hand, its coolness a relief against the heat of her palm. She stepped over fallen slabs, careful, reverent, as though walking through someone else’s memory.

Beneath the shelter of a fractured archway, she found what she’d been looking for: a patch of mosaic, half-buried in dust and overgrown with moss. She knelt, the dry earth staining her knees, and brushed at it with her fingers. Patterns emerged slowly, hesitant to reveal themselves—a vine, perhaps, or a river. It was hard to tell. Time had stolen so much.

The frescoes on the walls fared no better. Ghosts of figures remained, their outlines blurred, their expressions lost. Caitlyn tilted her head, studying one—a man, or maybe a god, his arm raised as though to protect, or to plead. It stirred something in her, this fragility, this reminder that beauty was never meant to last.

She pulled out her sketchbook, charcoal in hand, and began to trace the lines as she saw them. 

What would her mother think of this summer? Of this place? Of the way Caitlyn had spent the past few days moving between shaded corners and sunlit terraces, sketching what caught her eye but never committing to anything concrete? Not respectable, surely. Not enough. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the guilt creep in. 

The painting rose in her mind. She hadn’t meant to think of it again, but there it was—the roll of canvas her uncle had shown her that evening in the study, the scent of varnish mingling with the sharp tang of his aftershave. The woman’s bare skin, beautiful hair, eyes that seemed to meet Caitlyn’s and hold them. There had been something about the way she was posed, a sensuality that Caitlyn had tried, and failed, to dismiss as irrelevant. It wasn’t irrelevant. That was the problem.

Her stomach tightened at the memory. She’d looked at the painting too long, or perhaps not long enough, because she hadn’t allowed herself to feel anything but the rising sickness that followed. The unease. The questions she wouldn’t ask herself, let alone answer.

A shard of mosaic broke under her fingers, crumbling into dust. She stared at it for a moment, the fragments caught in the grooves of her palm, and thought of how easily things came apart. Time did not ask permission. It simply took .

Caitlyn felt a pang of something she couldn’t name. Longing, maybe. Desperation. Or envy. Perhaps all three.

The wind picked up, sweeping through the grasses and rattling the stones at her feet. She glanced at the horizon, where the cliffs dissolved into haze, the sun sinking lower, gilding the edges of everything. There was a brief pull—something sharp and wordless, something she felt at the base of her ribs. She turned toward it instinctively, as if she might catch sight of the thing she didn’t yet know she was searching for.

But the feeling passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her with the faintest hollow ache, like the ruins themselves had carved something out of her and taken it for safekeeping.

She shut her sketchbook and started back toward the villa, her footsteps soft against the ancient path. Behind her, the ruins remained, crumbling but steadfast. It struck her that they would be here long after she was gone. Longer than her sketches, than any judgments, or even the woman in the painting. 

The permanence of it was a relief. The fragility , she realized, was hers alone.

Chapter Text

Caitlyn sat on a weathered stone bench, its surface retaining a faint coolness even under the sun. Overhead, the sprawling arms of a fig tree cast mottled shadows across the cracked paving stones. 

A fountain murmured nearby, its water slipping over worn stone into a shallow basin, the sound threading itself through the drone of bees hovering lazily around the wisteria vines. She had been watching one for some time now, iridescent wings catching the light as they moved purposefully.

The villa was quiet. Her uncle had departed early, leaving only a folded note on the kitchen table and the faint smell of espresso hanging in the air. She had reread the note twice, even though its contents were unremarkable.

Still, the empty house unsettled her. The rooms, cavernous and dim, had a way of holding onto silence as if it were something tangible. Even here in the courtyard, the solitude pressed against her chest.

Her gaze drifted past the edge of the villa, across the sun-soaked fields that spilled down toward the village. From this vantage point, she could just make out the terracotta rooftops clustered like an uneven mosaic, the occasional gleam of white stucco catching the light. 

She had been told, more than once, how beautiful it all was. And it was—undeniably so. The kind of beauty that settled into the bones of a place, indifferent to the passage of time or the whims of its inhabitants. She traced her fingers absently along the cracked surface of the bench, the roughness of the stone grounding her. 

The villa carried the past like a second skin. It reminded her, in some ways, of the sprawling estates back in England, though here the effect was less polished, more visceral. 

And yet, she felt suspended. While her uncle moved through this world with an ease that bordered on obliviousness, Caitlyn found herself caught between fascination and unease. The countryside called to her, but she did not know how to answer. 

Perhaps it was her upbringing, the careful molding of expectations and propriety, that left her feeling so unmoored here.

The morning stretched ahead. Her uncle’s list sat beside her on the bench, a neat scrawl outlining the day’s tasks: get bread, olive oil, and wine. The errands were simple, inconsequential, but the thought of venturing out alone filled her with a quiet dread.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but the unease of stepping into a world that didn’t quite belong to her. Her Italian was serviceable, but not fluid. Conversations here unfurled with a kind of warmth and chaos she struggled to follow.

Still, the thought of remaining in the villa all day seemed intolerable. She folded the note and slipped it into her pocket, smoothing the pleats of her skirt as she stood. The wrought-iron gate creaked faintly as she pushed it open.

She stepped carefully, aware of the uneven terrain, the faint grit beneath her soles mingling with the cool dampness. The air carried a peculiar freshness, heavy with earth and stone, yet spiced by the mingling scents of ripe fruit and sun-warmed wood. The air clung to her skin, making her conscious of the thin fabric of her blouse sticking to her back.

The village unfolded before her in uneven rows, each building rendered in soft pastel hues that seemed almost too perfect against the green-and-gold blur of the countryside. From afar, it had looked serene, a painting brought to life. Up close, it pulsed with motion—vendors shouting over one another in quick, lyrical bursts of Italian; children darting between stalls, their laughter trailing behind like ribbon streamers; a stray dog nosing at the refuse near a butcher’s shop.

Caitlyn hovered at the edge of it all, caught between curiosity and apprehension. She adjusted her grip on the basket she carried, as though grounding herself through the weight of it. The list was still folded neatly in her pocket, though she didn’t need to look at it yet. Her uncle’s instructions had been simple, his scrawl a testament to his belief in her competence. But what did he know of her—truly? Would he still believe in her capability if he knew how even the act of entering this scene felt monumental, as though the village might swallow her whole?

She inhaled deeply, pulling herself toward motion. One step forward, then another, until she stood amidst the swirl of color and sound.

A nearby vendor caught her eye—a man with sun-darkened skin and a broad, easy smile, arranging lemons into an improbably perfect pyramid. The fruit glowed in the sunlight, impossibly yellow, their dimpled skins still bearing traces of the grove’s soil.

“Signorina!” His voice carried across the narrow gap between them, bright and insistent. Caitlyn froze, unsure if the greeting was meant for her. When he waved, beckoning her closer, she forced a polite smile and moved toward the stall.

“Buongiorno,” she murmured, careful with her accent. She gestured vaguely toward the lemons, not entirely certain what to say next. Before she could form the words, the man was already reaching for one of the fruits, pressing it into her hand.

“Per te,” he insisted, waving away her attempts to refuse. “Un regalo!”

Caitlyn faltered, her English instincts warring with her tentative grasp of Italian etiquette. A gift? For no reason? The concept seemed absurd. She tried to offer a few coins in return, but the vendor laughed, his expression one of exaggerated offense. “No, no, no,” he scolded gently, as though humoring a child.

Flustered, Caitlyn managed a halting “Grazie,” and tucked the lemon into her basket. The exchange left her oddly disoriented, as if the small act of generosity had momentarily upended the delicate balance of her day.

She moved on, weaving through the crowd. The villagers seemed to flow around her with an ease she envied, their voices a symphony of warmth and familiarity. She watched as two women paused near a stall selling lavender sachets, their conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. A little further on, a group of children dashed past, their feet slapping against the damp cobblestones. 

One of them—a boy with a shock of unruly hair—turned his head briefly, grinning as he called something over his shoulder. Caitlyn didn’t catch the words, but the lightness in his voice lingered, stirring something deep within her.

She stopped at the edge of the flower market, her attention caught by the blooms spilling over their wooden crates—bright crimson geraniums, delicate sprigs of rosemary, wild daisies gathered into untidy bundles. The colors were dizzying, their vibrancy almost too much to take in at once. She reached out instinctively, brushing her fingertips against the soft petals of a white camellia.

“Bella, no?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see an older woman seated on a low stool just outside her doorway, her weathered hands resting on her knees. The woman’s eyes crinkled at the corners, her expression equal parts curiosity and amusement.

“Si,” Caitlyn replied after a beat, fumbling for the right words. “Molto bella.”

The woman nodded approvingly, then reached for a ceramic jug at her side, pouring a stream of water into a small cup. She held it out with a questioning tilt of her head.

Caitlyn hesitated before stepping forward to accept the offering. “Grazie,” she murmured, her voice softer now. The water was cool against her lips, and she drank slowly, savoring the brief reprieve from the heat.

“You stay here?” the woman asked in halting English, her words stitched together with effort. “For summer?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn answered, switching back to Italian. “With my uncle. The villa.” She gestured vaguely toward the direction she had come from, though she doubted the explanation would mean much to a stranger.

The woman nodded again, as if she understood more than Caitlyn had said. “Ah,” she said simply. Then she smiled—a small, knowing curve of her lips—and waved her off with a motion that managed to feel both dismissive and affectionate.

Caitlyn lingered for a moment longer before turning back to the road. Her earlier apprehension hadn’t disappeared, but something else had taken its place—a faint, inexplicable pull, like the first stirrings of a melody she didn’t yet know how to follow.

As she walked, her thoughts turned inward, slipping past the edges of her surroundings like shadows in the corners of her vision. The villagers moved with such ease, their gestures unspoken yet understood. There was no hesitation in the way they greeted one another, no second-guessing in the kindness they shared. She envied that closeness, even as she told herself she didn’t need it. 

These people lived simple lives, bound by routine and rooted in tradition. She had been raised to strive for something more—a future shaped by ambition and intellect, unmarred by the chaos of such unstructured existence.

A part of her wanted to reject it outright, to dismiss the longing as foolish romanticism. But another part, deeper and more insistent, wondered if perhaps she had been wrong all along.

She shook her head slightly, as if to clear the thought from her mind. The errands were still waiting, and she had no time for such indulgences. 

The streets narrowed as Caitlyn ventured further. The scents here shifted with every step—basil crushed underfoot, charred wood from a baker’s oven, the occasional tang of fermenting fruit. Her basket grew heavier with each stop: a loaf of bread wrapped tightly in brown paper, a small tin of olive oil that had taken three attempts to procure thanks to her halting Italian.

The wine shop sat on the edge of a shaded piazza, its wooden door slightly ajar as though inviting in the heat. Caitlyn hesitated outside, adjusting the folds of her skirt and dabbing at her brow with the back of her hand. A pair of men lounged nearby on a low stone wall, arguing in fast, overlapping bursts about something she couldn’t decipher. One glanced her way briefly, not unkindly, before returning to the debate.

She pushed the door open, and the bell above it gave a subdued jingle. Inside, the shop was cooler, its dim light filtered through green and amber glass. Shelves lined every wall, each bowing slightly under the weight of dusty bottles, their labels written in an elegant but imprecise hand. 

The air smelled rich and sharp, a mix of oak barrels and the faint tang of vinegar. Behind the counter, a man in his sixties sat hunched over a newspaper, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

Caitlyn lingered near the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. The man—Benzo, according to the brass nameplate on the counter—barely glanced up, his pencil scratching against the paper as he worked through what appeared to be a crossword. She cleared her throat softly, and his head tilted, though his gaze didn’t yet meet hers.

“Un momento,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. He circled a word on the page, finally looking up. His eyes swept over her, pausing just briefly—a flicker of recognition, or perhaps calculation. Then he gestured toward the shelves. “You’re looking for something?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn began, stepping forward. “A bottle of local wine, if you—”

The bell jingled again, cutting her off, and the energy in the shop shifted. A girl strode in with a kind of loose, almost theatrical confidence, her steps firm but unhurried. She was younger than Caitlyn by at least a few years, her dark hair twisted into a messy braid that fell over one shoulder. Her outfit was eccentric, to say the least—a cropped vest that revealed a sliver of midriff, paired with loose trousers rolled at the cuffs. A string of mismatched beads hung around her neck, clinking faintly as she moved.

“Benzo,” she called in Italian, her voice carrying more familiarity than deference. “I’m here for my bottle. Don’t make me wait.”

Benzo’s eyes narrowed, though not in a way that suggested real irritation. “Powder,” he muttered, returning to his crossword. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re predictable,” Powder shot back, planting her elbows on the counter. Her tone was light, but Caitlyn caught the edge of mischief in her grin.

For a moment, Caitlyn debated whether to speak or wait, but Powder turned to her before she could decide.

“You’re new,” she said, her gaze sweeping Caitlyn from head to toe. “What’s your deal?”

“I—excuse me?” Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard by the directness.

“Your deal,” Powder repeated, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to ask a complete stranger. “You’re not from around here. English, right?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn replied cautiously. “I’m here for the summer.”

Powder’s smile widened, her eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “Ah, a villa girl. That tracks.”

Caitlyn felt a flicker of annoyance but kept her tone even. “I’m just here to pick up some wine for my uncle.”

“Benzo’s got plenty,” Powder said, leaning back against the counter. “But if you want the good stuff, you should probably let me pick. I know this place better than anyone.”

Benzo let out a low chuckle, folding his newspaper and standing. “Better than anyone, she says. And yet she still hasn’t paid me in months.”

“I’m good for it,” Powder said breezily, waving a hand. “Besides, you like me too much to ban me.”

Benzo didn’t respond, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. He turned to Caitlyn instead, gesturing for her to follow him toward one of the shelves. “Ignore her,” he said gruffly. “She’s all talk.”

Caitlyn couldn’t help but glance back at her as she followed Benzo to the shelf. Powder was now inspecting a row of bottles with exaggerated scrutiny, lifting one to examine its label before setting it down with an overly critical shake of her head. 

“Here,” Benzo said, pulling a bottle from the middle shelf and handing it to Caitlyn. “This one’s good. Not too dry. Your uncle’ll like it.”

“Thank you,” Caitlyn murmured, her hands brushing the rough glass as she took it. Powder had wandered closer now, standing just within earshot.

“Not a bad choice,” she remarked, tilting her head. “Though I’d go for the Chianti, personally. Unless your uncle’s boring.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “I think he’d prefer something local.”

“Suit yourself,” Powder said with a shrug, stepping back toward the counter. “But don’t blame me if he complains.”

Benzo rolled his eyes as he rang up Caitlyn’s purchase, muttering something about teenagers under his breath. Powder didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care. She spun one of the bottles on the counter, catching it deftly before it could fall.

As Caitlyn handed over her coins, Powder called out again, her voice playful. “See you around, villa girl.”

Caitlyn ignored her, though she could feel the faintest flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. She stepped out into the sunlight, her basket now heavier with the addition of the wine. The faint murmur of Powder’s cackle followed her as the door swung shut behind her.

The path out of the village was quieter now, though the hum of activity still echoed faintly behind her. Caitlyn adjusted the basket on her arm, its weight pulling against her wrist. The wine bottle knocked gently against the olive oil tin with each step, an oddly rhythmic counterpoint to her thoughts.

That girl—Powder, what sort of name was that?—had a way of unsettling her without saying anything particularly cutting. It was her tone, and the casual way she had looked at her, as though she could see straight through her neatly pressed façade. Caitlyn had met plenty of sharp-tongued girls in London, but this was different. There was no cruelty in Powder’s remarks, only irreverence , and that made them harder to brush off.

The sun was lower now, its golden light spilling across the cobblestones in uneven pools. Caitlyn quickened her pace, wanting to be back at the villa before it dipped too far below the hills. Her uncle would likely not return until dinner, but she had promised herself a quiet hour before then to sketch.

The roads twisted unpredictably as she moved further from the village. Tall cypress trees lined the path, their dark silhouettes casting elongated shadows that flickered with the wind. Caitlyn kept her focus on the dirt track beneath her feet, but the turns came faster than she expected, each fork leading to another stretch of unfamiliar road. Her confidence faltered. She paused, glancing behind her as though expecting the way back to make itself clear.

It didn’t.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, tightening her grip on the basket. She tried retracing her steps, but the path she had chosen moments ago now seemed unrecognizable. Her frustration grew with every wrong turn, the landscape blurring into a tangle of groves and dry stone walls. She cursed herself for not paying closer attention earlier, for her lack of foresight—what kind of person wandered this aimlessly?

The air shifted around her, carrying a new scent—sharp and clean, with a brightness that cut through her thoughts. She followed it instinctively, her steps slowing as the landscape began to change. The rows of cypress trees gave way to something softer: citrus trees, their branches heavy with fruit that seemed to glow in the late afternoon light.

Caitlyn stopped at the edge of the grove. It was beautiful in a way that felt almost otherworldly. The lemon trees stood in perfect rows, their leaves a vibrant green that shimmered as the breeze passed through them. The ground beneath them was dappled with light and shadow, an intricate pattern that seemed to shift with every movement of the branches. She stepped closer, the scent growing stronger, enveloping her in its sweetness.

Her frustration ebbed, replaced by a quiet awe. She hadn’t expected to find this. The grove was alive in a way the rest of the countryside hadn’t been, its beauty unforced and wholly its own. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the smooth rind of a lemon hanging low on a branch. It was cool to the touch, the skin slightly rough, like the texture of old parchment.

Caitlyn felt the urge to draw it, to capture the light filtering through the leaves, the way the shadows fell unevenly across the fruit. But her sketchbook was back at the villa, and even if she had it, would she be able to do this place justice? She doubted it. Her hand could only mimic what she saw; it couldn’t translate the way the grove made her feel.

A sudden rustling broke the quiet, startling her. Caitlyn froze, her pulse quickening as she scanned the trees. The sound had come from somewhere ahead, deeper in the grove.

A figure perched casually on a ladder, half-hidden by the branches of a tree. The woman was dressed simply, her shirt rolled to the elbows and her trousers stained with dirt and sap. In one hand, she held a pair of shears, their blades catching the light as she snipped a wayward branch. 

Caitlyn felt a sudden wave of discomfort, as though she had stumbled into something private, something she wasn’t meant to see. The woman—broad-shouldered, with hair the color of burnt copper—seemed entirely at home here, a part of the grove as much as the trees themselves.

The ladder creaked as she shifted her weight, and her eyes flicked downward, meeting Caitlyn’s. The woman’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in her gaze—assessing, yet faintly amused—that made Caitlyn feel exposed.

“I—” Caitlyn began, though she had no idea what she intended to say. The woman raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“You’re lost,” the woman said finally, her voice low and even. It wasn’t a question.

Caitlyn hesitated, her cheeks warming. “Yes, I... I must have taken a wrong turn.”

The woman’s mouth curved into a faint smirk, though it didn’t feel unkind. “Happens. These roads are tricky if you don’t know them.”

Caitlyn nodded, unsure how to respond. She glanced toward the ladder, where the shears hung loosely in the woman’s hand. The gesture was casual, but there was a certain confidence in the way she held herself, as though she could end the conversation—or Caitlyn’s presence—at any moment if she wished.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Caitlyn said finally. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—too formal, too careful.

The woman shrugged, turning back to the branch she had been pruning. “You’re not intruding. Just passing through, right?”

“Right,” Caitlyn echoed, though the word felt inadequate. She lingered for a moment longer, unsure whether to stay or go.

The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves overhead. Caitlyn’s instinct told her to retreat, to apologize again and leave this woman to her work. And yet, she found herself rooted in place. 

“Not many people wander this far.” The woman’s voice cut through Caitlyn’s thoughts, smooth and edged with a teasing lilt. She didn’t look down this time, her focus still on the branch she was trimming. “You lost your map?”

“I don’t have a map,” she replied, more sharply than she intended. Then, catching herself, she added, “And I didn’t wander.” 

The woman glanced over her shoulder, chuckling, “If you say so.”

Her gaze lingered for a moment, and Caitlyn felt a flush creep up the back of her neck. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the nearest tree. The lemons hung low on its branches, their bright yellow skins catching the light in a way that felt almost purposeful, as if nature itself had arranged them to be noticed.

“Nice basket.” The woman’s voice came again, light and faintly amused. “Looks heavy.”

“It’s manageable,” Caitlyn said, though her fingers had begun to ache from gripping the handle so tightly.

“Uh-huh.” The woman stepped down from the ladder, her boots crunching softly against the dry earth. She turned fully toward Caitlyn now, the shears dangling loosely in her hand. Her presence was larger up close, not in a physical sense but in the way she seemed to command the space around her. Caitlyn felt her pulse quicken, though she couldn’t say why.

“What’s in it?” the woman asked, nodding toward the basket.

“Just some things for my uncle,” Caitlyn said carefully. “Bread, olive oil, a bottle of wine.”

The woman tilted her head, her smirk widening. “And a lemon?”

Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“A lemon,” the woman repeated, gesturing toward the fruit tucked snugly among the other items. “Looks like you helped yourself to one. Didn’t think anyone would notice?”

“I—I didn’t take it,” Caitlyn stammered, the words rushing out before she could stop them.  “A man in the market gave it to me. He insisted .”

Vi’s grin widened, a flash of white against the golden backdrop of the grove. “That so? Did you charm it out of him?”

“ No! ” Caitlyn felt her cheeks heat, flustered by the accusation, however playful it was. “I—I tried to refuse, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Relax, princess. I’m messing with you.” The woman laughed, the sound low and rich, and Caitlyn found herself resenting how easily it filled the space between them.

“It’s not funny,” Caitlyn muttered, though her tone lacked the bite she intended.

“Sure it is.” The woman leaned casually against the tree, her arms crossing over her chest. “You should’ve seen your face.”

Caitlyn opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t used to this—to being the target of someone else’s humor, let alone someone who seemed to enjoy it so much. The woman’s grin didn’t waver, though her gaze softened slightly, as if to reassure Caitlyn that the teasing was harmless.

“What’s your name?” The question came abruptly, the shift in tone catching Caitlyn off guard.

“Caitlyn.”

“ Caitlyn, ” the woman repeated, as if testing the name. “Sounds fancy.”

“It’s not,” Caitlyn said, more defensively than she intended. “It’s just a name.”

The woman chuckled again. She shifted her weight, standing straighter now. “I’m Vi.”

Caitlyn hesitated. “Short for something?”

“Violet. Viola, if you’re feeling formal,” Vi said, waving a hand dismissively. “But nobody calls me that unless they’re trying to scold me.”

“And are you often in need of scolding?” Caitlyn asked, the words slipping out before she could think better of them.

“Depends who you ask.”

Caitlyn wasn’t sure what to make of that, but she found herself unable to look away. There was a spark in Vi’s expression, something playful but also challenging, as if daring Caitlyn to respond. She felt the pull of it, the way it both intimidated and intrigued her, and hated how unsteady it made her feel.

Vi casually stepped closer. Caitlyn could see the faint streaks of dirt on her hands now, the slight fray at the edges of her rolled sleeves. She smelled faintly of lemons and earth, a scent that felt oddly grounding despite her own rising tension.

“You’re different,” she said simply, her tone soft but without pretense. “From the ones I usually see around here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Caitlyn replied stiffly. “I’ve only been here a short while.”

“Long enough to get lost.” Vi tilted her head, her smirk softening into something closer to a smile. “You need help finding your way back?”

Caitlyn’s pride flared, sharp and instinctive. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

“You sure?” Vi leaned against the tree again, her posture easy but her gaze still fixed on Caitlyn. “It’s a maze out here. One wrong turn and you’ll be wandering for hours.”

“I’ll be fine,” Caitlyn said, her tone firmer now. “But thank you for the concern.”

Vi shrugged, lifting the shears again as though to signal the conversation was over. “Sure. Just try not to steal any more lemons on your way out.”

“I didn’t—”

Vi chuckled. “I’m kidding. Again .”

Caitlyn’s cheeks burned, though she managed to keep her voice steady. “You should really work on your humor.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Vi replied easily, her grin widening. She turned to the basket sitting at the base of the tree, half-filled with lemons. With a quick, fluid motion, she crouched and grabbed a smaller burlap bag, tossing a few of the bright fruits inside. When she straightened, she held the bag out toward Caitlyn.

“Here,” she said, her tone shifting just enough to feel genuine. “Take these.”

Caitlyn stared at the bag, her brows furrowing. “I don’t need them.”

“They’re not for you,” Vi replied as she gave the bag a small shake. “They’re for your uncle. You know, to replace the one you stole.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Caitlyn snapped, though the warmth in her face betrayed her indignation.

“Sure you didn’t,” Vi said, still grinning. “Call it a peace offering, then. Or a bribe, if that helps.”

Caitlyn hesitated before reaching for the bag. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she pretended not to notice the slight jolt it sent through her. The burlap was rough against her palm, heavier than it looked.

“Thank you,” she said, though the words felt stiff, formal. “I’ll be sure to tell him they were a gift.”

“Generous of you.” Vi’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement, but she didn’t push further. She stepped back, watching as Caitlyn adjusted the weight of her basket.

“Try not to get lost again,” she added as Caitlyn turned toward the path. “And if you do, maybe don’t look so guilty next time. Someone might actually believe you’re up to something.”

Caitlyn paused, gripping the bag of lemons tighter than necessary. She glanced over her shoulder, unsure whether she wanted to retort or simply leave. 

“You’ve got a funny way of being helpful,” Caitlyn said at last.

“Gets the job done,” Vi replied with a small shrug.

Caitlyn had no response to that. She turned again, her footsteps crunching softly against the earth as she walked away. The bag swung gently at her side, its faint scent mingling with the late afternoon air. 

She didn’t look back. Not exactly. But as she reached the edge of the trees, Caitlyn slowed, her gaze catching on the golden light filtering through the branches. Her thoughts were too full, a jumble of sharp observations and unformed questions, all orbiting around the woman she had just met.

Violet.

It wasn’t a name she would forget anytime soon.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint hum of cicadas beyond the open window. Evening crept in slowly, the air thick with the lingering warmth of the day. Caitlyn stood at the counter, her hands brushing over the six lemons she had gathered, their bright skins cool and slightly waxy to the touch. She had placed them in a neat line at first, but their symmetry felt forced, unnatural. Now they sat scattered across the countertop, their imperfections catching in the fading light.

She reached for the window, pushing it open wider with a creak. A faint breeze stirred the edges of the linen curtains, but it wasn’t enough to cool her off.

She sighed, turning her attention back to the lemons. Her uncle had suggested a drink—something refreshing, light. A way to ease into the evening, he had said with his usual nonchalance. Caitlyn had agreed, though now, standing here, she wasn’t entirely sure why. The thought of the drink seemed less important than the act itself, the need to occupy her hands.

The knife felt steady in her grasp as she sliced through the first lemon. Juice trickled onto the cutting board, bright and clean. She paused, her fingers brushing against the pulp, her mind drifting back—unbidden—to the grove.

Vi.

It’d felt strange in her thoughts, as though it didn’t quite belong there. Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. She hadn’t been able to shake the memory of her—of her rolled sleeves and dirt-streaked hands.

It wasn’t admiration. Caitlyn told herself this firmly, though the thought came too quickly, too defensively. It wasn’t admiration; it was irritation. Irritation at Vi’s teasing, at her boldness, at the way she had made Caitlyn feel—off-balance, uncertain.

Her biceps, Caitlyn thought suddenly, and the knife in her hand hesitated. That was what had caught her off guard, she decided. The way Vi’s muscles had flexed beneath her rolled sleeves, a testament to her strength, her familiarity with the physical world in a way Caitlyn had never been. It was natural, of course, for someone who worked in a grove. Practical. There was nothing more to it than that.

She resumed slicing, though her movements felt more rigid now, her grip on the knife tighter than necessary. The citrus scent grew stronger, filling the small kitchen. Caitlyn inhaled deeply, trying to let it steady her, but her thoughts continued to circle back, restless and relentless.

Why had Vi unsettled her so much? Caitlyn prided herself on composure, on her ability to navigate situations with grace and restraint. But in the grove, Caitlyn had felt something slip. She had faltered, and the realization gnawed at her now, a quiet frustration building in her chest.

She set the knife down and reached for another lemon. Her fingers pressed into its skin, the faint roughness grounding her for a moment. The grove had been beautiful, she thought suddenly. That was what had stayed with her, more than anything else. The rows of trees, their leaves casting shifting patterns of light and shadow. It was a place that felt entirely itself, unburdened by the need for approval or perfection.

It wasn’t the grove, a quieter voice in her mind suggested. Caitlyn shook her head, her fingers tightening around the lemon. It was the grove, she insisted. The way it had stirred something in her, something she hadn’t felt in years.

She glanced down at the lemon in her hand, startled to realize how tightly she had been holding it. The fruit was misshapen now, its bright skin split, juice trickling down her fingers and pooling onto the counter. Caitlyn stared at it, the sticky wetness clinging to her hand as a wave of irritation rose within her.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, reaching for a cloth to wipe her hands. The tang of lemon lingered on her skin, a scent that felt both familiar and foreign all at once.

For a moment, she stood there, staring at the squashed fruit in her palm. The frustration in her chest churned, though she wasn’t entirely sure what—or who—it was directed at. Herself, perhaps. Or Vi. 

She exhaled slowly, setting the lemon aside and turning to the sink. The cool water soothed her hands, though the stickiness didn’t fade entirely. As she dried her fingers, her gaze drifted to the open window. The breeze had strengthened slightly, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender from the garden below. It mingled with the citrus in the air.

Caitlyn leaned against the counter, her hands resting lightly on the edge. The villa felt too quiet now. She thought of her sketchbook upstairs, of the blank pages waiting for her. She should draw the grove, she decided. She should capture its light, its beauty, its flaws.

But even as she thought this, doubt crept in. Would her hand betray her again, reducing something vibrant and alive to a flat, lifeless rendering? 

The lemons sat in their scattered arrangement on the countertop. Caitlyn watched them for a moment longer, her mind drifting once again to the grove—and to Vi, with her smirk and her unflinching gaze.

It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t.

Chapter Text

The table felt like it belonged to another life—one more patient. The sort of life where the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional clink of ceramic could fill the space between words and no one would rush to break it. A bowl of olives rested at the center, their glossy surfaces catching the fading light from the open window. Caitlyn let her gaze linger there, at the olives, at the way the gold softened and stretched across the tiled floor. 

Her uncle sliced the bread with a care that felt almost reverent. She watched the knife glide through the crust, the faint crackle of it filling the silence before he spoke. “The workers unearthed an old basin today,” he said, as though it were a passing thought. “Buried beneath the courtyard stones, filled with rainwater from God knows how long ago.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. His voice settled around her like the evening heat, thick and unrelenting, impossible to ignore. “How old do you think it is?” she asked finally, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Centuries,” he replied, his knife pausing mid-slice. “The stones are weathered, and the carvings are almost gone. But the basin still does what it was made to do.”

There was a pause, one that should have been comfortable but wasn’t. Caitlyn felt it press against her, the quiet urging her to fill it. She reached for the bread instead, tearing off a small piece and crumbling it between her fingers. Her uncle didn’t press her; he rarely did.

“You’re distracted,” he said after a moment. “Your mind’s somewhere else, isn’t it?”

Caitlyn blinked, her focus snapping back to him. “I’m just tired,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but it felt inadequate as soon as it left her mouth.

“Tired,” he echoed, swirling the wine in his glass. “The body or the mind?”

She hesitated, unsure whether he meant it as a question or a challenge. “Both, I think.”

He let out a soft hum, taking a sip from his wine glass. “This place has that effect. Too much space, too little noise.”

Her uncle leaned back in his chair, the wine glass balanced delicately between his fingers. “When I first started this project,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost introspective, “I thought I’d restore the villa to its former glory. Bring it back to what it was.” He paused, looking past her to the window where the light was already beginning to fade. “But the more I strip away, the more I wonder if it was ever whole to begin with.”

Caitlyn glanced at him, startled by the shift in his tone. He didn’t meet her gaze, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the olive trees.

“I think I understand,” she said, though the words felt fragile in her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she meant them or if she wanted to mean them.

Her uncle’s lips quirked faintly, a smile more for himself than for her. “Understanding’s overrated,” he said. “It’s enough to sit with the question. You’d be surprised what answers find you when you’re not looking for them.”

Caitlyn turned her attention back to the bread, tearing another piece without eating it. She felt the villa around her, its age, its imperfections, its quiet insistence that she notice every crack and flaw. And for a moment, she wondered if her uncle was right—if there was something in the questions she was too afraid to ask herself.

The olives were almost gone now, their brine streaking the ceramic like faint veins. Caitlyn’s uncle reached for the last one, his fingers deft, unhurried. “And what of your studies?” he asked, a faint curiosity lacing his tone. “Have you made any progress on that paper? The one about…” He paused, searching his memory. “The Renaissance and its obsession with ruin, wasn’t it?”

Caitlyn swallowed a sip of wine, its sharpness catching in her throat. “I’ve been reading,” she said evenly, her voice careful. “Thinking through ideas. I’ll start writing soon.”

Her uncle gave a small nod, as though her answer confirmed something he already suspected. “Good. And the paints your mother sent? Have you put them to use yet?”

The air seemed to grow warmer at the mention of her mother, though the breeze from the window hadn’t faltered. Caitlyn reached for the bread again, breaking off a piece she had no intention of eating. “Not yet,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could soften them. “I haven’t had the time.”

Her uncle raised an eyebrow, not unkindly. “Haven’t had the time? Or haven’t made it?”

The question landed lightly, like a drop of water into a still pool, but its ripples reached farther than Caitlyn wanted to admit. She set the bread down and pressed her palms into her lap, hiding the way her fingers had begun to curl against each other. “I’ve been focused on other things,” she said finally, her tone thin, evasive.

He didn’t press her, instead letting the weight of his silence settle into the space between them. His gaze lingered briefly on her, thoughtful, before he spoke again.

“You remind me of your mother sometimes,” her uncle said. “She was always exacting in her work. She used to say that if something wasn’t done thoroughly, it wasn’t worth doing at all.”

Thoroughness. She’d heard that word so many times, repeated like a mantra. It wasn’t enough to do well; things had to be done perfectly, as if the world would crumble otherwise. And Caitlyn had done her best to live by that, hadn’t she? But lately, she couldn’t tell if it was discipline or inertia that kept her moving forward, step after careful step.

“Of course,” he continued, “she also knew when to let things rest. To step back and trust the process. I think that’s something you could learn from her.”

Caitlyn nodded faintly, her throat too tight to form a proper response. She didn’t trust herself to speak—not yet. Instead, she glanced toward the window again, watching the light soften into amber. 

The truth was, she didn’t know what to do with the space she’d been given here—the slow days, the open hours. It was supposed to be freeing, wasn’t it? A chance to grow, to finally listen to herself without the world’s noise pulling her in every direction. But instead, the silence had turned inward, filling her mind with questions she couldn’t answer. What was she doing here, really? Was it for her mother’s approval? For her uncle’s guidance? For the faint, flickering hope that she might finally feel whole, as though Italy could piece together what London had broken?

“You’ve been here for three weeks now, haven’t you?” he said, though it wasn’t really a question. He had the exact count in his head—she could tell by the way he said it. “Met anyone in the village yet?”

Her fingers grazed the edge of her plate, picking at the crumbs there. She could feel him watching her, waiting, and the question irritated her in a way. “I’m not a child,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. “I don’t need friends.”

Her uncle’s mouth curved into a faint smile, though his eyes didn’t waver. “Of course you don’t,” he said easily. “But that wasn’t the question.”

She hated how easily he could unsettle her, how he seemed to know exactly which threads to pull to unspool her thoughts. She looked down at the bread on her plate, at the small, torn pieces she’d been absentmindedly shredding. “I’ve been busy,” she said finally. “I don’t exactly have the time to chat with strangers.”

His smile deepened, though it held no malice, just a kind of quiet amusement. “Too busy for strangers but not for old books, is that it?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer, didn’t look up. She pressed her thumb into the soft center of the bread and felt it give beneath her skin.

“What about at university?” he continued, his tone light but with that same disarming precision. “Did you have anyone there? Besides that… what was her name again? Mel?”

The sound of Mel’s name sent a faint jolt through her, though she wasn’t sure why. There was nothing remarkable about it—no sting, no weight—but hearing it aloud here, in this room, felt out of place somehow. Mel had been her friend, one of the only people at university who hadn’t been put off by Caitlyn’s quietness or the way she sometimes seemed to drift mid-conversation. Mel had always been there, pulling Caitlyn into her orbit with an ease that had felt both natural and slightly overwhelming. She’d been funny and loud in a way that made people lean in closer when she spoke.

“She was nice,” Caitlyn muttered. “But we weren’t particularly close.”

Her uncle tilted his head slightly, studying her. “No? Funny, you spoke about her enough last summer. She seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t let you drift too far into yourself.”

The comment landed softly, but Caitlyn still felt it settle in her chest. Mel had been like that, hadn’t she? Always teasing her out of her silences, always pushing just enough to make Caitlyn feel seen but not exposed. “She was…” Caitlyn paused, searching for the right word. “Persistent.”

 “Sounds like she was a good influence, then.”

Caitlyn shrugged, though the memory of Mel remained longer than she wanted it to. It wasn’t that she missed her exactly, but there was something about the way Mel had fit into her life—briefly but undeniably—that made Caitlyn feel strangely unmoored now. Mel had always seemed so certain of herself, so at ease in her skin, while Caitlyn had spent most of her time at university trying to blend into the background, unnoticed. She didn’t envy Mel, exactly, but she couldn’t quite shake the thought that Mel had figured something out that Caitlyn was still fumbling toward in the dark.

“You shouldn’t dismiss people so easily, Caitlyn,” he chuckled. “Sometimes they surprise you.”

“I’m fine on my own,” she said quickly. Caitlyn reached for her glass, though it was already empty, and set it back down just as quickly. “I always have been.”

Her uncle gave her a long. Then he smiled, faint but warm, and leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But I don’t think that means you have to be.”

She didn’t want to think about what he meant, didn’t want to let the truth of it settle too deeply. The air in the room felt heavier now, and the low hum of the cicadas outside seemed louder, almost grating. She pushed her chair back slightly, the sound of its legs scraping against the tile cutting through the quiet.

“I think I’ll step out for a bit,” she said, standing before he could respond. “I need some air.”

Her uncle didn’t question her. He only nodded, his expression softening as he reached for the bread. “Don’t stray too far,” he said lightly. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“I won’t,” she replied, already moving toward the door.

The night air kissed her skin with a coolness that was almost startling, slipping beneath the cotton of her shirt and carrying with it the faint brine of the sea. It caught her off guard, though she welcomed it, like a quiet hand on her shoulder after hours of tension. The relief felt undeserved, but she took it anyway.

She loved her uncle. Truly, she did. She admired his drive, his precision, his ability to hold an entire room in his grasp with nothing but measured words and an unwavering gaze. She loved that he made her feel seen—when he wasn’t overwhelming her with questions that felt like small, well-meaning interrogations. The way he prodded at her life, her friends, her studies, her thoughts, as if mapping her out would somehow bring her closer to him.

It grated sometimes, yes, but she could tolerate it more easily than her mother’s distant smiles or her father’s polite, contained silence. At least her uncle looked at her like she mattered. Like her thoughts, however tangled and frayed, might be worth untangling.

Perhaps that’s why she clung to the comparison when others made it—Caitlyn and her uncle, cut from the same cloth, sharp but understated, intelligent in ways that made the rest of the family frown. It comforted her in its way, made her feel less like she was spinning out into some private madness. Less like she was simply… wrong.

Her steps slowed as she passed under the curve of an archway, its stones pale and worn, holding a warmth that even the coolness of night couldn’t entirely steal. Flower boxes hung low from windows, spilling red and pink over the crumbling edges. She let her fingers graze the rough wall, feeling the faint grittiness cling to her skin.

Her mother would have hated this. She had always preferred things polished, orderly. Caitlyn thought of her mother’s endless criticisms, her attempts to tidy Caitlyn’s thoughts as though they could be swept into neat little piles. Don’t be so dramatic. You think too much. Her uncle never said those things. He would listen, and even if she couldn’t explain herself properly, he never made her feel ridiculous for trying.

But there were times—like tonight, at dinner—when his attentiveness felt too… attentive. As if he were trying to crack her open and see what she was made of. She hated that. Hated the feeling of being scrutinized, of someone trying to reach inside her and sit beneath her ribs, learning the rhythm of her heart until there was no part of her left untouched. Being known, truly known, was dangerous. It broke people. It broke trust, broke the delicate balance of what held everything together. She had seen it happen to others. She wasn’t about to let it happen to her.

A shadow passed over her, cast by the hanging lamp above, swaying faintly in the breeze. She paused beneath it, tilting her head to watch the way the light flickered and stretched, creating ripples of gold on the uneven stones. It was strange, she thought, how the village felt alive in its imperfections. The sagging shutters, the way some streets ended abruptly or narrowed into barely passable staircases. None of it tried to hide what it was. And then there she was, with all her edges hidden carefully, smoothed out for the world to see.

Her arms crossed in front of her as she walked on, the night folding around her like a loose cloak. Her thoughts circled back to the reason she’d come here in the first place. The escape. That was what she’d told herself: escape from the tight corridors of her family’s expectations, escape from the unrelenting pressure of her studies, from the murmurs at university, from… herself, if she were being honest. But the noise in her head hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had grown louder, more insistent, like waves crashing against a shore with no intention of retreating.

She exhaled sharply, the sound too loud against the quiet of the street. Above, the stars were scattered and faint, barely visible through the haze of artificial light and the low-hanging clouds. She felt smaller here, but not in a way that frightened her. It was a kind of smallness she could lean into, like blending into the backdrop of a painting. She didn’t need to be anything here. She didn’t need to answer.

But the questions persisted anyway, pricking at her like burrs caught in the fabric of her thoughts. Was she running toward something, or away? Was this place supposed to fix her, or had she come here hoping to simply stop the spinning for a while? And if the spinning never stopped, if she was as tangled as the streets she walked—then what?

She let her gaze wander, let her mind slip to other things. To Violet though not intentionally. Violet, whose name Caitlyn had no business pondering on. She shook her head slightly, her hair brushing her cheeks, her steps quickening as if she could outrun the thought.

For whatever reason, her mind slipped back to the woman in the grove. That sharp figure carved against the haze of sunlight a few days ago—how many now? Two? Three? Caitlyn couldn’t keep track. The days here bled into one another, a slow, seamless churn of sameness. Wake, sketch, breakfast. Sketch again. Force herself to study, as if that might justify her being here at all, turning her stay into something respectable. The word made her mouth tighten: respectable.

She moved through each day as though under water, her thoughts drifting, sluggish and too heavy. The paper she’d promised to write for her professor remained a blank, looming thing, but she still sat in front of it, letting her pen tap idly against its surface, pretending the intent mattered more than the outcome. If she could only distract herself long enough—sketch a lemon tree, study an urn, sit in the garden—then maybe the restlessness would untangle itself.

But even the garden had its traps. Maria was always there, bustling, humming, her presence filling the space in a way Caitlyn found both familiar and unbearable. That pit in her stomach would form the moment she saw her: Maria walking through the world with an ease Caitlyn couldn’t fathom. A woman who had been a part of her life for years, practically family with how long she’d worked for her uncle, and yet—she unsettled Caitlyn, every single time.

It was what Maria represented. That effortless freedom. That unapologetic existence. It pricked at Caitlyn, needling her with an awareness she didn’t want. The longing it stirred. The shame that came trailing behind it like a shadow she could never quite shake. She would try to tell herself it was nothing—just an awkwardness, a faint admiration for something she lacked. She would repeat it until the words lost meaning, until she could almost believe it.

Caitlyn quickened her steps as if the physical motion might silence the voices within. The edges of the street pressed around her, the rough walls and their hanging blooms closing in just enough to keep her moving forward, even as her mind circled back.

And then there was Vi.

Vi didn’t fit into any of Caitlyn’s practiced categories. Vi wasn’t Maria, whose familiarity had turned into a dull ache Caitlyn could name and bury and carry on. Vi was wilder, entirely unfamiliar. She didn’t settle into the safe boundaries Caitlyn had built around herself; she cut right through them.

Caitlyn hadn’t meant to dwell on her. She rarely let herself dwell on anyone, not like this. But that meeting in the grove had stayed with her, unspooling in her mind in quiet, inescapable moments. The way Vi had stood, solid and careless, her hands tucked into her pockets as though the grove belonged to her. The way her gaze had settled on Caitlyn, sharp and unwavering, and the way Caitlyn’s chest had tightened in response. Not fear. No, not that. Something else entirely. Something dangerous .

Caitlyn shook her head, trying to will the thought away. It didn’t help that Vi’s name had taken on a shape now, a texture that Caitlyn felt under her skin when she let herself feel it for too long. Not after that first glance, that first word, that first presence.

Because Vi wasn’t just another woman, not like Maria or the women at university Caitlyn could ignore with an awkward laugh or a polite wave of her hand. Vi wasn’t someone Caitlyn could dismiss, not easily. There was something about her—something Caitlyn couldn’t explain but couldn’t turn away from, either.

It was as if Vi stood there with the world shifting around her rather than the other way around. And Caitlyn could only stare, feeling, for the first time in a long time, entirely out of her depth.

And there it was again: that twist in her chest, immediate, impossible to ignore. It was the idea of her. That’s all it was. Vi was no different than Maria in that sense, just another fleeting reflection of what Caitlyn wasn’t and would never be.

But the thought rang hollow even as it formed. Vi wasn’t a reflection. She was something else entirely, and Caitlyn hated that she couldn’t put it to rest.

Her steps slowed as the street narrowed, curving into shadows that clung thick to the stones. She exhaled sharply, the sound more like a sigh. That was enough. Enough of Vi, enough of Maria, enough of the questions she couldn’t bring herself to answer.

She focused instead on the scrape of her shoes against the uneven ground, the faint hum of conversation spilling from a nearby window, the rustle of the breeze through the trees above. Anything but her own thoughts. Anything but that. 

Caitlyn paused just inside the doorway, her fingers brushing the frame as though testing its solidity, as though deciding whether she’d stepped over some unseen threshold. The bar unfolded before her in pieces—movement first, then light, then sound. A murmur of voices layered with the clink of glass, the scrape of chairs against wood. No one looked at her. Not really. A few fleeting glances drifted her way, light as leaves, before falling back to their drinks, their laughter, their lives. She felt strangely suspended in that moment, caught between the comfort of invisibility and the unease of being utterly irrelevant. It was easier, she decided, not to think about which one it was.

Tables stood at haphazard angles, scarred with scratches and stains that seemed too permanent to scrub away, as if the wood itself had memorized every careless moment. The light sputtered unevenly from low-hanging fixtures, pooling on the tops of bottles and casting the corners into a soft, forgiving blur. There was a haze—not smoke, not entirely, but something intangible that made the space feel smaller, closer. She wasn’t sure if it comforted her or made her want to leave.

She stepped further in, the door creaking softly behind her, shutting out the cool rush of night air. Her eyes moved across the room in no particular order, skimming faces and objects alike, until it stopped. Froze, really.

Standing behind the bar in a short-sleeved, brown button-up, the fabric stretched taut over her shoulders, loose along the waist. Her collar hung open just enough to show the faint curve of her throat, and the worn fabric seemed to absorb the dim light, softening it. She leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, the other brushing the wood in restless, easy motions. The sight wasn’t unexpected—if anyone fit this space, it was her—but still, it knocked something loose in Caitlyn, like she’d been caught off guard in her own mind.

Turning back now felt absurd. It was too late for that. She couldn’t walk back out now; that would mean something. But staying unsettled her too, knotting her stomach in a way she didn’t care to untangle. She caught herself shifting her weight as if movement might smooth the edges of her discomfort, but it didn’t matter.

She only realized Vi had noticed her when she caught the faintest change in her posture, a slight tilt of her head that made it clear the moment for indecision had already passed.

Caitlyn turned her head sharply, too fast to think better of it, cutting off any chance for a reaction just as Vi’s eyes had widened in recognition. It was a small thing, fleeting, but it struck harder than she expected, a sting sharper than she was willing to admit. Her gaze followed Vi out of reflex, catching her as she leaned toward a patron—a woman with long, dark curls. Caitlyn couldn’t hear the words Vi had spoken, but the sound of her laugh rippling outward, softening the spaces it touched, was enough. 

When Vi moved on, Caitlyn exhaled, but the reprieve was short-lived. She tracked Vi’s path along the bar as she checked on the other patrons, her movements seamless, assured. Caitlyn told herself she wasn’t waiting for anything. And yet, when Vi reached the far end and their eyes met, it hit like a match flaring to life, quick and searing. Caitlyn felt her composure fray at the edges, heat rising in a way she didn’t know how to temper. She stiffened instinctively, her chin lifting just slightly, as if she could brace herself against whatever this was.

Vi’s expression shifted—so quick Caitlyn wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it—the faint narrowing of her gaze, a spark of recognition. Her smile followed, curving at one corner like it knew more than it should.

Caitlyn didn’t know what snapped inside her. Maybe it was the sense of not belonging, standing in the middle of the bar as bodies brushed past her like she was barely there. Maybe it was the weight of Vi’s eyes still on her, or the certainty that in another moment, Vi would turn away, busy herself with the next drink, the next person, and that fragile thread of attention would snap. Whatever it was, Caitlyn moved before she could think, her foot crossing the distance like it had a will of its own.

By the time she realized what she was doing, she was sitting at the bar, directly in front of Vi. Vi slid a drink across the counter to someone further down, her hands moving with unhurried ease. Her hair shifted as she bent to wipe the counter in front of Caitlyn, loose strands falling just above her lashes. Caitlyn found herself staring, unmoored by how soft it looked, like the kind of detail that shouldn’t matter but suddenly did.

Did girls notice these things about each other? Caitlyn’s thoughts stumbled over themselves, and she hated how obvious it felt, sitting there with no real reason, caught between the question and its answer, unsure which one she feared more.

Vi glanced up from the counter as Caitlyn approached, like she’d already known Caitlyn would end up there. A slow smile curved across her lips, uneven and distinctly knowing.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” She leaned forward just slightly, enough to close the space between them without making it obvious.

Caitlyn’s posture stiffened, her hands clasping the edge of the bar as if to anchor herself. “I wasn’t aware I’d left such an impression,” she said, her tone clipped, though the faintest waver betrayed her.

“Not sure you did,” she grinned, teasing. “But you’re here now, so I guess that counts for something.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately, her mind sifting through responses as though there were a correct one hidden somewhere. She hated how unbalanced she felt, like Vi had written the rules to a game Caitlyn didn’t even know she was playing.

“I needed a drink,” she said, her gaze flicking to the row of bottles behind Vi before settling back on her. “This seemed like the only reasonable option.”

Vi shook her head as she grabbed a glass from the shelf. “Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of running a reasonable bar before.”

The casualness in her tone made Caitlyn hesitate, her brows knitting as she studied her. “Do you… run this place?”

“Nah,” Vi said, spinning the glass between her hands. “I just help out here sometimes. Keeps me busy.”

There was something in the way she said it—too breezy, too dismissive—that made Caitlyn’s curiosity flicker. “And what keeps you busy the rest of the time?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Vi’s hand paused mid-spin, though her expression didn’t shift. “Other things,” she said, setting the glass down with a faint clink. “Like,  lemon grove work, mostly.”

“So, two jobs?” Caitlyn’s brow arched, the faintest note of skepticism slipping through. “That’s… ambitious.”

Vi shrugged, her eyes flicking down to the counter as she wiped at a spot that didn’t seem to need cleaning. “Not really. Just means I’m restless, I guess.” She glanced back at Caitlyn, her smile creeping back, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You don’t strike me as the restless type.”

Caitlyn shifted in her seat, the comment catching her off guard. “And what type do I strike you as?” 

Vi leaned in slightly. “Careful,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “You probably don’t do much of anything without thinking it through first.”

Caitlyn held her gaze, her throat tightening. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends on whether I’m right.”

For a moment, Caitlyn didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to. Her grip on the edge of the bar tightened as her thoughts spiraled, brushing against feelings she wasn’t ready to name. “I think you’d find that I’m full of surprises.”

Vi’s laugh came again, quieter this time but no less disarming. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, stepping back and picking up the glass she’d set down earlier. “What can I get you?”

Caitlyn blinked, startled by the abrupt shift, and she almost asked Vi to repeat herself before realizing she was asking about the drink. “Oh,” she said, her voice faltering. “Anything will do.”

Vi smirked at that but didn’t comment, turning to grab a bottle. Caitlyn watched her, caught somewhere between relief and something else she couldn’t quite pin down.

When Vi slid the glass across the counter, her fingers lingered on its rim, just briefly, before letting go. Caitlyn’s hand reached for it automatically, her fingers brushing against Vi’s. The touch was fleeting, barely there, but it sparked a jolt that raced up her arm, sharp and electric. She froze for half a second, her breath catching as she pulled the glass closer.

She focused on the cool surface of the drink, the condensation slick against her palm, grounding herself against the sensation that still lingered in her fingertips.

“You gonna drink that, or just admire it?” Vi asked. She leaned her weight onto the bar, her forearms brushing the worn wood, the faintest tilt to her head as she looked at Caitlyn like she was something to be figured out.

Caitlyn took a careful sip, if only to avoid giving Vi the satisfaction of her hesitation. The burn was immediate, chasing its way down her throat, and she winced slightly before she could stop herself.

Vi’s smile deepened. “Not much of a drinker, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Caitlyn said as she set the glass down. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not saying much.” Vi’s hand moved, tracing a faint scratch along the counter, her fingers tapping lightly as she spoke. “So, tell me. What brings you back here? Can’t just be the top-shelf liquor.”

Caitlyn hesitated, the directness of the question catching her off guard. She searched for an answer that wouldn’t feel too revealing, though she suspected Vi would pick it apart either way. “As I said, it was the most reasonable option.”

“You’ve got a way of making things sound so formal. Even this.”

Caitlyn’s lips pressed together briefly, her mind racing to find a footing she didn’t seem to have. “What do you mean by ‘even this’?”

Vi’s grin tugged wider. “Just that you’re sitting in a bar, drinking like you’ve got something to prove. Makes me wonder what kind of stakes you’re playing with.”

The words hit sharper than Caitlyn expected, cutting through her carefully laid defenses. She stiffened, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass. “I’m not playing at anything.”

“Sure you’re not.” Vi’s voice softened, but the teasing edge stayed, brushing against Caitlyn’s nerves like a deliberate push. “It’s fine, you know. Everyone’s running from something. Or toward something. Sometimes both.”

The statement hung there, a little too open, a little too raw, before Vi leaned back slightly, breaking the tension like it was nothing. Caitlyn caught the flicker in her expression, though—brief, fleeting, like the words had cost her something to say.

Caitlyn didn’t know what made her speak next, only that she hated the silence more than whatever clumsy thing might come out of her mouth. “And which are you doing? Running toward or away?”

Vi paused, her hand stopping mid-motion, and for a split second, Caitlyn thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, Vi smirked, but it didn’t carry the same weight as before. “Depends on the day,” she said lightly, brushing the question off like it didn’t matter. “What about you?”

Caitlyn’s breath caught, her mind flitting too quickly to pin down a single thought. She shook her head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible motion. “I don’t know,” she admitted, the words quieter than she’d intended. “Maybe neither.”

Vi’s gaze lingered—steady, searching—but she didn’t press. Instead, she straightened and reached for a nearby glass, busying herself with wiping it clean. “Guess that’s fair,” she said after a moment, her voice softer now, though the playfulness hadn’t entirely faded. “Not everyone has to know where they’re going.”

Caitlyn watched her for a moment longer, something twisting in her chest that she didn’t have the language to name. The noise of the bar swelled around them again, grounding her just enough to pull herself back together.

She reached for her drink, taking another sip despite the lingering burn, and when Vi glanced back at her, there was a flicker of something—recognition, maybe?—that Caitlyn felt all the way to her core.

She traced the rim with her finger, her movements small and precise, as though the act required her full concentration. But her mind wasn’t on the glass—it hadn’t been for some time. 

Why had she stayed? It would have been easy to leave, to slip out quietly the way she’d come in. Vi wouldn’t have noticed. Or if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. That much was clear—or at least Caitlyn told herself it was. And yet, she stayed. Sitting here at this scratched bar top, surrounded by strangers who didn’t know her name and wouldn’t have cared if they did, felt oddly freeing. It made her small in a way that she almost liked, as though the edges of her carefully composed self could blur, just a little, without consequence.

She glanced sideways at Vi, watching from the corner of her eye as she moved easily from patron to patron. There was a rhythm to her motions, a confidence in the way she leaned against the counter to speak or slid a drink across the bar with a practiced flick of her wrist. Caitlyn told herself she was simply observing, taking in the details of this unfamiliar world for the sake of novelty. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true. Her gaze lingered too long on the curve of Vi’s grin, the way it seemed to hang there even when her face turned serious, as though she carried some secret joke she refused to share.

Caitlyn looked down at her hands, chastising herself. The low murmur of voices around her swelled for a moment, a wave of laughter breaking from the far side of the bar, and Caitlyn realized she’d been sitting there too long, unmoving. She reached for her glass, lifting it to her lips and letting the drink burn slightly as it went down. She set it back on the bar, feeling the faint warmth in her chest settle into something more bearable.

“You’ve barely touched that.”

The voice broke through her thoughts, and Caitlyn looked up swiftly. Vi stood on the other side of the bar, one hand braced against the counter, the other resting lightly on her hip. Her head tilted just slightly as she looked at Caitlyn, her grin widening at the clear surprise in her expression.

“I’m pacing myself,” Caitlyn replied,  though her heart was still catching up.

“Right,” Vi said, drawing the word out like she didn’t quite believe it. “Wouldn’t want to get carried away.”

The way she said it, low and teasing, sent a prickle of something Caitlyn didn’t care to name down her spine. She straightened, forcing herself to meet Vi’s gaze with what she hoped was composure. “Some of us have restraint,” she said, and even as the words left her mouth, she regretted the sharpness of them. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t true—not really.

Vi didn’t seem fazed. If anything, her grin only widened. “That what you call sitting in the same spot for an hour, staring at a drink like it’s about to solve all your problems?”

Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down quickly, her grip tightening on the glass. She hated how easily Vi could unnerve her, how every word seemed to land just a little closer than she was prepared for. “I wasn’t—” She stopped herself, exhaling sharply. “It’s called thinking.”

Vi laughed, the sound soft but full of amusement. “You should try just… being . Might do you some good.”

Caitlyn frowned, her gaze flicking back to Vi. “And you don’t think enough,” she retorted, though there was no real bite to it. If anything, her words felt like a reflex, an attempt to regain some footing in a conversation that seemed to move too quickly for her to keep up.

Vi’s expression shifted, just for a moment—her grin faltered, replaced by something quieter. But it was gone almost as quickly as it came, and Vi straightened, tossing the rag in her hand over her shoulder. “Maybe,” she said, her tone light again. “But I’d rather do too much than nothing at all.”

Before Caitlyn could reply, Vi reached for the strings of her apron, tugging them loose with a practiced motion and pulling it over her head. She tossed it onto the bar with a casualness that Caitlyn couldn’t imagine replicating, the sound of the fabric landing punctuating the moment.

“That’s it for me,” Vi called to the man behind the counter, who waved her off without looking up. She turned back to Caitlyn, one brow raised. “You coming, or what?”

Caitlyn blinked. “Coming where?”

Vi shrugged, stepping out from behind the bar and motioning toward the door. “Out. Somewhere better than here.”

The path Vi led her down was barely visible in the dim light of the stars. The faint outline of the village hung behind them, quiet now except for the occasional bark of a distant dog or the murmur of music carried by the wind. Caitlyn followed in silence, her steps unsteady on the uneven dirt. The wine buzzed faintly in her veins, softening her edges, making her thoughts less manageable and more insistent.

The bottle dangled from Vi’s hand, swinging lightly with her steps. Caitlyn’s eyes kept flicking to it. She couldn’t stop thinking about the moment Vi had tilted it to her lips, the way her throat had moved as she swallowed. It felt absurd to notice. More absurd to care. But the thought planted itself firmly in her mind, and she couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Here,” Vi said, stopping abruptly. Caitlyn nearly bumped into her, catching herself just in time. Vi sank onto a patch of grass with a kind of careless grace, patting the space beside her. “This is good.”

Caitlyn hesitated, looking down at her. The stars seemed brighter here, the sky stretching open in a way that made her feel small. She lowered herself slowly, smoothing her skirt as she settled onto the cool grass.

Vi uncorked the bottle again with a casual twist, taking a quick swig before passing it to Caitlyn. The gesture was unceremonious, but Caitlyn hesitated all the same, her fingers brushing against the neck of the bottle. She stared at it for a moment, the faint sheen of condensation catching the starlight, before lifting it to her lips. The glass was cool, faintly damp, and the wine burned a little as it went down. The knowledge that Vi’s mouth had been there only moments ago stirred something inside her—something unsettling and thrilling all at once. She drank a little more than she intended, hoping it would chase the thought away.

“Easy there,” Vi teased, her voice light. “Trying to out-drink me already?”

Caitlyn lowered the bottle, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Hardly,” she muttered. “I just… wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Vi laughed, leaning back on her hands. “And?”

“It’s adequate,” Caitlyn replied, her lips curving faintly despite herself.

“Adequate,” Vi repeated, her grin widening. “I’m starting to think that’s your version of high praise.”

“It’s honest,” Caitlyn said, looking up at the stars to avoid the weight of Vi’s gaze. The sky seemed impossibly vast, the stars faint and scattered like dust. She wondered if Vi saw the same thing she did.

They sat in silence for a moment, the bottle passing between them. Caitlyn felt the wine loosen something in her, a thread she’d held tightly for so long that she didn’t know how to let it go. Her shoulders relaxed, her mind quieter now, though it still hummed faintly with the awareness of Vi beside her.

“Do you ever feel stuck?” Caitlyn asked suddenly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Vi glanced at her, one brow lifting slightly. “Stuck?”

Caitlyn hesitated, her fingers tracing the curve of the bottle. “Like you’re in a place that… doesn’t fit. Like you’re meant to be somewhere else, but you don’t know where that is.”

Vi didn’t answer right away. She tipped her head back, her gaze fixed on the sky. “All the time,” she said finally, her voice quieter than Caitlyn expected. “But it’s not like you can just… leave. Not when there’s people counting on you.”

Caitlyn turned to her, watching the way her profile softened in the starlight. “And what do you do with that feeling?” 

Vi’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You find moments like this,” she said, gesturing to the sky, to the space around them. “Little bits of freedom. They’re not much, but they keep you going.”

The words settled over Caitlyn, heavy and fragile at once. She looked down at the bottle in her hand, then back at Vi. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Vi said, turning to meet her gaze. “But sometimes simple’s all you’ve got.”

A faint melody reached them then, drifting on the breeze from somewhere beyond the hills. It was distant and half-formed, but Caitlyn could hear it clearly enough—a rhythm slow, like a heartbeat. Vi’s face lit up, and she shot to her feet, holding out a hand.

“Come on,” she slurred, her chuckle breaking the solemnity of the moment. “Dance with me.”

Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me.” Vi leaned down slightly, her hand still extended. “Up.”

“I don’t—” Caitlyn started, but Vi cut her off with a laugh.

“You don’t have to know how,” she teased. “Just move. It’s not that serious.”

Caitlyn hesitated, but something about the way Vi’s grin softened at the edges made her reach up, her fingers brushing Vi’s hand as she let herself be pulled to her feet.

The melody guided them, clumsy and uneven, their steps fumbling more often than not. Caitlyn found herself laughing—really laughing—at the absurdity of it, at the way Vi spun her too fast and nearly lost her balance, at the fact that she’d let herself get pulled into this at all. The grass was cool beneath her, and the wine made her movements looser, easier than they’d ever been.

Their hands met again and Caitlyn’s breath caught, her laughter fading as their eyes locked. For a moment, everything felt too exposed. Vi’s expression softened, her smile faltering just slightly, and Caitlyn thought—

But then Vi spun her again, the movement breaking the tension like water splashing over fire. The music drifted back into focus, and Vi’s laugh pulled Caitlyn back into the moment, leaving her thoughts spinning long after the dance had ended.

Chapter Text

Caitlyn didn’t hear her uncle’s question the first time. She was too busy tracing the sunlight bleeding through the trees, how it stained the floorboards of the study a honeyed gold. 

“Caitlyn?” her uncle repeated. 

She startled, a flicker of heat rising to her cheeks. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you’d mind documenting the grove for me,” he said, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His hands—broad and weathered from years of careful restoration work—gestured expansively. “For the project. It’ll be good for the workers, the community, and for my records, of course. And, who knows, it might inspire you.”

Inspire her. The word felt pointed, even if he hadn’t meant it that way. She glanced at the notebook sitting closed beside her, its edges crisp, the pages mocking her for their emptiness. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to sketch—she wanted it desperately, in the way one longs to breathe after holding their breath too long. 

Her uncle’s voice broke through her thoughts again. “You’ll do it, won’t you? You’re much better at capturing the spirit of things than I am. You have that artist’s eye.”

Caitlyn shifted in her seat, the leather sticking to the back of her legs. Her uncle always spoke about her like this, with an air of quiet faith she neither understood nor deserved. He seemed to believe in her talent more than she did, as if she had already arrived at some lofty, accomplished version of herself that existed only in his imagination.

“Of course,” she said, smiling faintly. The response felt automatic, drilled into her through years of polite compliance.

He grinned, satisfied, and stood, moving to the window. “It’s beautiful this time of year, you know. The grove. The lemons are at their fullest—ripe, golden, perfect. You’ll see.”

The thought made her stomach twist, but she nodded anyway.

The path to the grove felt longer today, though Caitlyn knew it wasn’t. She had walked it a handful of times since arriving at the villa, usually with a sketchpad tucked under her arm and a vague hope that maybe this time, something would click. Today, though, she carried her uncle’s camera, its weight foreign and awkward against her hip.

The sun pressed against her back, turning her skin sticky beneath her blouse. Each step stirred up dust that clung to her ankles, and the air smelled thick, almost sweet, like lemons left too long in the sun. She had tried to distract herself with the sensory details—counting the trees, following the patterns of light between the branches—but her mind kept circling back to Vi.

Her hand on Caitlyn’s waist. The low hum of her voice, something teasing and warm Caitlyn couldn’t quite remember but still felt. The faint scent of smoke that had clung to her jacket. Caitlyn had spent the morning convincing herself the details didn’t matter—that Vi didn’t matter. 

It was ridiculous, really. A moment, a kindness, a shared laugh—none of it should have meant anything. And yet, her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Vi again.

She paused at the edge of the grove, her fingers gripping the strap of the camera bag. From here, the lemon trees stretched out in orderly rows, their branches heavy with fruit. The grove seemed impossibly alive, buzzing with insects and rustling leaves that moved in the breeze like breaths drawn and released. Caitlyn scanned the trees, half-expecting to see Vi lounging against one of them, her easy grin cutting through the heat like a splash of cold water.

But the grove was empty.

Relief and disappointment warred within her, leaving her rooted in place. She wiped the back of her hand against her forehead, already sticky with sweat, and forced herself to take a step forward. She couldn’t stand here forever, waiting for something—or someone—that wasn’t coming.

Her footfalls crunched against the dirt, loud enough to draw her attention back to herself, her body, the moment. She let her fingers skim the edge of a tree trunk as she passed, its bark rough and jagged beneath her touch. The grove wasn’t like the villas and manicured gardens she’d seen in her uncle’s photographs; it was wild, imperfect, beautiful in a way that made her feel unsteady.

Caitlyn didn’t notice her at first. The grove buzzed with the chatter of insects, the rustle of leaves. Then, Powder’s voice cut through it like a jagged blade.

“Villa girl.”

Caitlyn spun, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t heard footsteps or even a crack of a branch, just her voice, low, amused, and vaguely mocking. Powder was leaning against one of the trees, her shoulder pressed lazily into the bark. In one hand, she held a cigarette, its embers glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight. The other arm balanced a precarious pile of snacks - crinkled bags of chips, a box of cookies, and a bottle of soda tucked against her ribs.

“You always sneak up on people like that?” Caitlyn managed, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her nerves.

Powder smirked, taking a long drag on the cigarette before letting the smoke curl lazily past her lips. “Only when it’s funny.” She tilted her head, looking Caitlyn up and down with a deliberate slowness that made Caitlyn’s skin prickle. “Didn’t expect to see you out here. Thought you’d be holed up in your fancy villa, counting wine bottles or whatever it is you people do.”

Caitlyn stiffened. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“Touchy.” Powder pushed off the tree with a careless shrug and began circling Caitlyn, the snacks in her arm rattling with each movement. “Don’t worry, Villa girl, I’m not here to fight you. Besides,” she added, flicking ash from her cigarette onto the ground, “I already know what you’re up to.”

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed. “Do you?”

“Sure.” Powder came to a stop a few steps in front of her, but close enough that Caitlyn could smell the cigarette smoke mingling with the sugary tang of the soda bottle. “You’re here to find my sister.”

The words hit like a slap. She blinked, caught somewhere between denial and indignation. “I’m not—”

Powder let out a puff of smoke, her gaze dropping to Caitlyn’s unbuttoned blouse and loose jeans, lingering just long enough to be mocking. “Sure, because everyone walks through a lemon grove dressed like that for no reason at all. Next you’ll tell me it’s for your health.”

Caitlyn’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t miss a beat. “It’s certainly better for me than chain-smoking on an empty stomach.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the precarious pile of snacks in Powder’s arm. “Though I suppose crisps count as a balanced diet to you.”

Powder’s laugh burst out, half-surprised, half-delighted. “Alright, fair enough.” She shifted the snacks with a shrug, cigarette still dangling from her lips. “So, what is it then? Your uncle send you? Some big important villa thing?”

Caitlyn hesitated, suddenly unsure if the truth would help or hurt her here. But Powder’s eyes were on her, waiting. “He asked me to document the grove,” Caitlyn said finally. “For his restoration project. He thought it might be… inspiring.”

Powder snorted. “Inspiring. Right.” She turned away, taking a few aimless steps deeper into the grove. “You’d think he’d have something better to do than send his niece out here with a camera. Or is this some kind of punishment?”

“It’s not a punishment,” Caitlyn said quickly.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Powder shot back. “You look miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” Caitlyn lied.

“Uh-huh.” Powder turned to face her again, walking backward with an easy rhythm that Caitlyn found oddly infuriating. “So, if you’re not here for Vi, and you’re not miserable, then what’s the deal? Channeling your inner tortured genius?”

“I don’t need your commentary.” 

“Right, because you’re clearly the expert,” Powder shot back, stopping abruptly. She spun on her heel, the cigarette pack swinging loosely in her hand as she grinned. “Face it, Villa girl—you’d be circling the same three trees for hours if I wasn’t here. Might even end up falling into a ditch or something. Not very posh, is it?”

Before she could respond, Powder turned and started walking again, cutting through the grove with a confidence that made it clear she expected Caitlyn to follow.

“Where are you going?” Caitlyn called after her.

“Taking you to her,” Powder said over her shoulder. “What, you thought I was just gonna leave you out here to flounder? My sister would kill me.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Caitlyn muttered, though she hurried to keep up, the camera bouncing awkwardly against her hip.

Powder glanced back, smirking. “No, but you clearly need it. Try to keep up, toots.”

The air between the lemon trees was dense with a sweetness that clung to Caitlyn’s skin. She followed Powder carefully through the uneven ground, though it was clear the younger girl wasn’t paying her much attention. Powder moved effortlessly, her cigarette dangling from her fingers, the snacks rattling under her arm with every step.

Caitlyn wasn’t sure if it was the heat, the haze of smoke, or the sound of Powder’s footsteps ahead, but her nerves began to fray. Powder had said nothing about where they were going, but Caitlyn could feel it—the pull, the inevitability of it. Powder was leading her to Vi.

Of course, she was. What had Caitlyn expected? That she’d somehow slip in and out unnoticed, like a ghost in the daylight? It was absurd. Vi wasn’t the kind of person you could avoid, not in this town, not in this grove. But still, Caitlyn had told herself this morning that it would be different. That she could come here, do what her uncle asked, and leave without incident.

And yet.

“You’re quiet,” Powder said suddenly, though softly, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to speak.

“I didn’t think you needed help filling the silence,” Caitlyn replied. 

Powder laughed, glancing back at her over her shoulder. “You always this fun, or is it just me?”

Caitlyn ignored the jab, her fingers tightening on the strap of her uncle’s camera. She focused on the ground instead, the dirt and roots that seemed determined to trip her up.

“I don’t know why you feel the need to comment on everything.”

“Because it’s fun.” Powder shrugged, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “And because you’re easy to read.”

Caitlyn’s head snapped toward her, heat crawling up the back of her neck. “I’m not—”

“Oh, relax.” Powder waved the cigarette in the air dismissively, cutting her off. “I’m not saying you’re spilling your life story or anything. But you’ve got a face for it. All tight and twitchy, like you’re waiting for me to say something that’ll set you off. I mean, I’m tempted now.”

Caitlyn forced herself to keep walking, even as her stomach twisted. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said tightly, though the words didn’t feel as steady as she wanted them to.

Powder didn’t seem to hear her—or maybe she just didn’t care. She slowed her pace, letting Caitlyn catch up until they were side by side. 

“Look, I get it,” Powder said after a beat, her tone casual. “Vi’s… intense.”

Caitlyn’s stomach flipped, though she couldn’t have said why. “I am not here for Vi,” she said. 

“Right.” Powder’s grin widened as she took another drag from her cigarette. “You just happened to wander into her grove. Total coincidence.”

“It’s not her grove,” Caitlyn muttered, her voice tightening.

Powder shrugged, smoke curling from her mouth. “Sure, but she’s the only reason you’re here.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m here because my uncle asked me to document it,” Caitlyn said sharply. She glanced ahead, hoping Powder would drop it, but she could feel the girl’s eyes on her. 

“Okay, fine,” Powder said after a moment. “But you can’t blame me for wondering. She’s my sister. And she doesn’t exactly bring people home. Especially not…”

She trailed off, but the implication hung in the air between them, too loud to ignore.

“Not what?” Caitlyn snapped before she could stop herself.

“Nothing.” Powder grinned again. “Forget I said anything.”

The heat prickled at the back of Caitlyn’s neck, her face burning as she forced herself to keep walking. She could hear her pulse in her ears now, could feel it in her chest like a drum. Powder didn’t know anything. She couldn’t.

“Anyway,” Powder continued, her voice sliding back into its usual teasing lilt, “you’re lucky you got her on a good day. Most of the time, she doesn’t even look twice at people like you.”

Caitlyn froze mid-step, her gaze snapping to Powder. “People like me?”

Powder raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. You know. Posh, proper, too clean for a place like this.”

Caitlyn swallowed the knot in her throat, forcing herself to look unaffected. “I didn’t realize I was being categorized.”

“Oh, you are,” Powder said with a laugh. “Vi puts people in categories all the time. You should hear what she calls the tourists.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond, her thoughts spinning too fast to hold on to any one thing. She didn’t want to be in any category of Vi’s. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what Vi might have said.

Ahead, the grove began to open up, the rows of trees giving way to a small clearing. Powder slowed her pace, her grin softening as she pointed with the hand holding her cigarette.

“There she is,” she said simply.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched as her eyes landed on Vi. She was seated at a makeshift table under the shade of the trees, her legs stretched out, one boot propped lazily against the edge. Her oversized shirt hung loose across her shoulders, slipping slightly as she leaned back, one hand holding a set of cards while the other gestured animatedly at the boys across from her as she laughed.

The two boys, polar opposites in build and energy, were in the middle of some wrestling match over a card. A broader man was holding a scrawnier one with a wild mustache, in a headlock, though it was unclear who was actually winning. A half-eaten sandwich sat precariously on the table between them, flanked by scattered cards, scraps of paper, and what looked like a bottle of homemade limoncello.

It was chaos, but there had been an ease Caitlyn couldn’t imagine ever feeling herself. She stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her chest. It felt like intruding. 

Powder didn’t hesitate. “Oi, Vi!” she called, tossing her cigarette pack toward the table with exaggerated flair.

Vi spun just in time to catch the pack one-handed, moving away from the tangle of limbs as one of the men nearly tackled her in his scramble to wrest the card from the other. Her gaze snapped to Caitlyn then, her light eyes flickering with surprise for only a fraction of a second before her expression shifted. Vi’s scarred lips curled into a faint, teasing smirk.

“Well, look who it is,” Vi said. She leaned back against the table now, her posture easy, but there was something in her eyes that made Caitlyn’s cheeks burn. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, princess.” 

Caitlyn stiffened at the nickname, though she wasn’t sure if it was the words themselves or the way Vi said them, like she was testing the weight of them on her tongue. She forced herself to step forward, painfully aware of the way all three pairs of eyes turned to her at once.

“Hi,” Caitlyn said, her voice tighter than she meant it to be. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thank you. For last night, I mean.”

Vi’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “No problem,” she chuckled. “You were a little… wobbly, but I’ve seen worse.”

The heat crept up Caitlyn’s neck, blooming across her face. “I don’t usually—” she began, but Vi cut her off with a soft laugh.

“You were fine. No karaoke or confessions of undying love, I promise.”

Caitlyn blinked. “I didn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t have—” she stammered, the words tumbling out faster than she could stop them. “God, did I say anything embarrassing?”

Vi tilted her head, considering. “Well…” she started, dragging out the word just long enough to make Caitlyn’s pulse quicken.

“Vi,” Powder cut in with a grin, sliding into the clearing beside her sister. “Don’t mess with her. She’s already wound tighter than Vander’s old tractor.”

Vi chuckled, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. No, Cait, you didn’t say anything embarrassing. Cross my heart.” She drew a quick X over her chest, the loose fabric of her oversized shirt shifting slightly against her torso as she moved. It hung comfortably on her frame, the material just loose enough to hint at the strength beneath. 

Caitlyn’s eyes darted away, focusing instead on the tattered laces of Vi’s boots.

She needed to stop. Stop thinking about the way the tattoo on Vi’s thigh peeked just beneath the hem of her shorts, or the way her voice seemed to settle in Caitlyn’s chest. Stop wondering why, despite her every effort, she felt like the air here was thinner when Vi was near.

There was an awkward beat of silence before both she and Vi spoke at the same time.

“I’m—” Caitlyn began.

“So—” 

Vi smiled, motioning for Caitlyn to go ahead. “Ladies first.”

Caitlyn hesitated, her fingers brushing over the strap of her camera bag. “My uncle asked me to… to document the grove,” she said finally, though her voice wavered slightly. “For his villa restoration project.”

Vi raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Document it how?”

“With photographs. Notes, I suppose,” Caitlyn said, watching as Powder deposited her snacks on the table. The two boys immediately dove into the bags, their card game forgotten in favor of chips and soda.

Vi hummed thoughtfully, her gaze flicking to Caitlyn’s camera bag. “Huh,” she said simply, as if she hadn’t expected such an answer. “Guess that makes sense. Not many people bother paying attention to this place.”

Caitlyn wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all.

Vi pushed off the table then, stuffing the cigarette pack into her pocket. “Alright,” she said, her tone shifting slightly. “Let’s get started.”

Caitlyn blinked. “You’re coming with me?”

Vi grinned, flashing her teeth. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get lost.” 

From behind her, the scrawnier man muttered something in Italian that made the other burst into laughter. Caitlyn didn’t catch all of it, but the word “escort” stood out enough to make her cheeks burn again.

Vi shot them a look over her shoulder, her voice sharp as she replied in rapidly. The tone was enough to make both boys quiet down—though their smirks remained firmly in place.

“Sorry about them,” Vi said, turning back to Caitlyn with a grin that was only half-apology. “They’re idiots, but mostly harmless.”

Caitlyn nodded, though her chest still felt tight. “Right.” 

Vi motioned for her to follow, stepping toward the far end of the grove. Caitlyn hesitated for a moment, her feet rooted to the spot. She wasn’t sure what she felt more of—relief that Vi wasn’t brushing her off, or panic that they’d be alone together again.