“You think we’re on the clock, counting down to mutually assured destruction?”
“Not exactly. But if we’re talking odds, us making it past the next six months feels about as likely as me ever sleeping a full eight hours.” I try for a smile, but anxiety prickles at the corners of my eyes.
“I don’t care about statistics,” he says. “You’re not a statistic. And we don’t have to jump into a relationship right now. We’re just rekindling, reconnecting. It’d feel inauthentic to rush it. I don’t want you to confuse great sex with what could be between us. As much as I love the sex, and believe me, I do, the part I can’t get out of my head is when you relax, when you stop being a lawyer and just exist here. With me.”
I turn to the window, watching the world blur by. “It’s easier for you. You manufacture hope for a living.”
He laughs, not mocking. “I manufactureescapismfor a living. People read my books because their lives are messy. Sometimes, I even forget what’s real and what’s just plot. You know what’s always missing? The morning after. The days wheneveryone’s hungover, insecure, and unsure if admitting fear makes them weak or strong.”
I draw in a shaky breath. “I’m terrified,” I murmur. “Even now, I feel like one wrong word will expose the anxious, tangled mess I really am.”
“You said it yourself, Minji.” He half-smiles, maybe out of relief, maybe nerves. “A decade ago, you tore my heart out and handed it back. I survived.”
“That’s not exactly an endorsement for trying again.”
“No, but it’s proof we’ll survive, even if we mess this up.” He shrugs, palms up. “Besides, I now know where you live and work. I will stop at nothing to make you mine.”
The world is always more than it seems. Every moment, even this one, is tangled with risk and the constant pull of ‘What if?’But right now, sitting here, I want to try it his way. For once, hope flickers brighter than doubt, kindling something warm inside me.
“Okay.” The word feels like a dare, the bravest thing I can manage. “But if I torch your life again, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” He grins, all wild sunshine and dimples, the sort of smile that could light up a city.
“I’m flame resistant,” he promises, and for a moment, I almost believe him.
We lie there for a long time, side by side on the rumpled comforter, not touching but not quite apart. The TV murmurs in the background—some Netflix documentary with penguins and soothing narration—but I can’t recall a single fact. I’m too busy memorizing this new kind of quiet, the way it settles around us.
Eventually, the clock nudges us back to reality: we can’t show up to the tasting in pajamas and bedhead. Aaron is up first, stretching with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he looks good in any light. He pulls on black jeans, a blue Oxford with the collar open showing his gold chain, sleeves rolled, anda watch so understated it takes me a moment to spot its quiet luxury. He doesn’t flaunt his wealth, but I know for a fact that Aaron gets paid handsomely for his books.
I choose a pink knit dress that signals laid-back sophistication from a distance, but up close, it’s all soft lines and clever tailoring. The label is forgettable, but I love how it makes my arms look strong. I add a navy blazer and low boots.
The elevator ride is a private event, just us and the lingering echo of our conversation. I lean against the mirrored wall, watching us reflected in triplicate, and wonder which version of me Aaron prefers: the smiling one, the anxious one, the one who sometimes forgets to breathe when she’s happy. He doesn’t say anything, just offers his hand in that small but deliberate way, and I take it. For the first time, the gesture isn’t just a means of steadying myself—it’s something I want.
Downstairs, the concierge has a car waiting—nothing flashy, just quietly luxurious, with black-tinted windows and an interior that swallows up the world outside. I half-expect Aaron to crack a joke about being chauffeured, but he just slides in next to me, gaze fixed on the skyline. He has a way of turning even a car ride into the start of something, and I catch his mood. By the time we’re halfway to the winery, my pulse has steadied, and my mind has stopped interrogating itself.
We glide past rolling fields and neat suburban houses, each one placed with the precision of a meticulous, design-obsessed deity. The car is so quiet I can hear Aaron’s breathing, and for a moment, I match mine to his, an accidental meditation.
As the car slows at the entrance to Napa Valley Reserve, I brace for showy architecture, but the estate is quietly elegant. Manicured, but not cold: gravel paths winding past low stone buildings draped in vines, everything bathed in late-afternoon gold. The fountain is more whisper than showpiece, waterslipping over mossy stone into a lavender-ringed pool. I notice I’m gripping my clutch with both hands and will myself to relax.
“This place is gorgeous.” I exhale, and it comes out more honest than intended. Aaron glances over, smiling. “Right? Wait until you see the inside. It’s like being inside a wine bottle, but in a good way.”
A valet opens my door, and we step inside, greeted by a hostess with the posture of a sommelier or maybe a retired ballerina—her posture is that good. She takes Aaron’s name, her face brightening with a mix of recognition and secret delight. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s brought someone else here before, but the thought dissolves when he threads his fingers through mine and lets me lead.
Inside, the centerpiece is a glass-walled atrium with a sweeping view of the vineyard. The light is golden and diffuse, softening every edge like a film set. Our table for two is dressed in white linen and delicate china, special enough to be a little daunting. I let Aaron have the seat with the view—not just because he’ll love it, but because I like watching him take it all in.
The hostess—Linda—asks if we’re celebrating. I almost say no, but Aaron jumps in, “Yes, absolutely.” Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. I shoot him a look, but he just grins, shameless and bright.
When Linda finally departs, he lowers his voice. “I hope that’s not too much. You just look like someone who deserves to be celebrated today.”
I snort, but it’s not mean. “You don’t even know what I did.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s enough.”
The waiter sets down a tiny amuse-bouche—something that looks like futuristic bruschetta and tastes like a brief escape from my own mind. The sommelier arrives, sleeves rolled, voice smooth as velvet, describing wine like its poetry. Aaron keeps pace, tossing out tasting notes and technical terms, and I realizehe’s not showing off—he’s just genuinely lit up by this, the same way he is about his writing. My phone buzzes on the table, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I sneak a glance.
Demi
You haven’t called in hours, so it seems like everything is going well. Checked your location, and you are at a winery. Bring me back a bottle or three. And if Aaron is paying, get the good stuff.
Me
