Three summers ago, he had kissed her here, between the rows of Malvasia, whispering that she was more intoxicating than any wine. But then he had left—for Milan, for another woman, for a life that had no room for a village girl who dreamed in poetry.

The rain had not yet reached the Istrian hills, but Ana could feel the storm coming—both in the sky and in her heart. She stood at the edge of the vineyard, her fingers brushing the wet leaves, and thought of him. Mateo.

He stepped closer, rain beginning to fall, darkening his linen shirt. “Then let me earn the right to stay.”

Now, he was back.

“A mistake. A shadow. You are the only sun I have ever known.”