A pale dawn glazed the wildflower fields with shivering gold as Daxelin Herroth stood just outside the old barn, breath visible in the cool morning air. He gripped the handle of his duffel, every muscle tense, as if the memory of last summer still lived in his bones. The inn rose in the distance, its white eaves bright against the tangled garden. Dax looked at it, jaw set, willing the tightness in his chest to ease. He was here to start again, even if the land remembered him.

He stepped onto the porch, boots scuffing warped wood. Inside, the silence was heavy—except for the soft, humming sound from the kitchen. He almost turned away, but the thought of running brought a bitter taste to his mouth. This time, he would stay until he healed, even if it meant facing the ghosts.

Ellira Wint arrived with the sun at her back, hair bright as copper wire and hands full of boxes labeled in careful, looping script: “Glassware—fragile.” She wore her smile like armor, banishing nerves with cheerful greetings to the empty hallway. But as she set her suitcase down, her phone chimed again—a text from her fiancé: Hope you’re remembering your duties, dearest. See you soon.

Ellira’s laugh was a breath too high and tight. She squared her shoulders and ducked into the kitchen, where sunlight pooled across counters dusted with flour. She flicked on the kettle, trying not to think about London or promises she was expected to keep.

Dax’s entrance was almost silent, save for the scuff of boots. Their eyes met—his, stormy and guarded; hers, vivid, seeking. For a fraction of an instant, time warped, as if the world held its breath.

She tried a smile. “You must be Dax. I’m Ellira—the new… everything, I suppose. If you’re hungry, I’m apparently contractually obligated to feed you.”

Dax’s lips quirked despite himself, but all he said was, “I’m fine. I’ll fix the fence this morning.”

Ellira, warming to the unfamiliar challenge of this gruff stranger, reached for the flour tin just as Dax did. Their hands collided, fingertips brushing. Flour burst into the air, catching light on skin, and a laugh slipped out of her, unplanned, unguarded. Dax stared at her—at the smudge of white at her jawline, at the boldness in her gaze—and for a moment, the years of guilt thinned.

“You missed a spot,” she murmured, reaching up to brush her thumb gently across his cheek. He froze, breath stalling, the softness of her touch undoing him in ways he didn’t understand.

He stepped back first, clearing his throat as the air sizzled around them. “I should get to work.” But Ellira’s pulse was hammering in her wrists; she bit her lip, watching him vanish down the hallway, and wondered why her chest ached with impossible hope.

By afternoon, the inn was bright with nervous energy. A traveling novelist—Neryth Fayl, dark-eyed, luminous—arrived with a battered suitcase and a peal of laughter. “Sorry to barge in. I’m hopeless with reservations,” she confessed, catching Ellira’s relieved smile and straightening the hem of her faded shirt, deliberately flirtatious.

Dax lingered outside, pruning roses, sweat glistening on his collarbones. He watched Ellira from the shadowed path as she fluttered between rooms, arranging wildflowers in small, hopeful bouquets. When she passed the window, she paused, catching sight of him. Even from a distance, the look between them was sharp enough to cut: curiosity, longing, and dread tangled and exposed.

The kitchen swelled with afternoon warmth as Ellira found herself alone with Neryth. The scent of lavender and yeast filled the air. “So you’re the planner,” Neryth teased, her gaze lingering too long to be polite. “You look more like you plan escapes.”

Ellira snorted, ears turning pink. “Maybe just borrowed escapes, for now.”

Outside, Dax pressed his palm flat to the fence rail, gaze drifting back to the kitchen window, haunted by need he thought he’d buried.

That night, the inn was quiet but alive, humming with old secrets and new desire. Ellira wandered to the back garden, unable to sleep. She found Dax there, half-shadow, staring at the overgrown beds. Scars crossed his forearms, pale against the night.

She spoke softly. “Doesn’t it ever get easier?”

He shook his head, voice low. “Not yet.”

They stood together under the hush of gathering darkness, eyes locked—an invitation and a warning in one breath. When Ellira finally tore herself away, her heart was a wild, reckless thing, refusing to be tamed.

Neither noticed Neryth watching through the window, candlelight flickering across her knowing smile.

Inside, Ellira’s phone glowed. Another message from her fiancé: Don’t forget why you’re there.

She let it ring, something breaking free inside her as she pressed her forehead to the cool glass and let herself imagine what it would mean to stay, to choose herself, to choose Dax.

A door creaked somewhere in the dark. Shadows slipped between rooms. Secrets waited in the walls, breathless as the night.

To be continued…