The Summer Storm
656 Words
The storm did not pass quickly.
It lingered, loud and relentless, soaking the vineyard in silver and silence. By dusk, the paths had turned to mud, and the hills were shrouded in fog. Workers had long since disappeared. The estate lights glowed faintly in the distance.
But neither of them made it back to the villa.
They had taken shelter in the old cottage near the western slope—the one once used for barrel storage. Stone walls. A wood stove. Dusty windows too small to see the sky. The door creaked when closed. The air inside smelled of cedar and time.
Maximilian lit the single oil lamp.
Anindya stood near the window, her arms crossed, her dress clinging to her.
They did not speak. Not at first.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged.
He placed the lamp on the center table. Its light softened his features, catching in his wet hair and casting shadows across his cheekbones.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” she said at last.
He didn’t look at her. “I didn’t. You ran toward the storm. I just… didn’t want to be far from you when it broke.”
She scoffed, turning away. “Is that supposed to be romantic?”
“No,” he said. “It’s the truth.”
She exhaled. Her anger was still there, coiled and quiet—but beneath it, something else had begun to stir. Confusion. Curiosity. Wanting.
He finally turned to face her.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said.
She blinked. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
“But I don’t regret it.”
That stopped her.
“You want to own everything you touch,” she said. “You walk through this world as if it belongs to you.”
His jaw tightened. “Maybe. But when I touched you… it felt like the first thing I’ve ever reached for that could ruin me.”
The words hung in the air between them. Raw. Unfiltered.
Anindya swallowed.
“I don’t want to be ruined,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, slowly, carefully. “Neither do I.”
They were a breath apart now. The air crackled.
“But I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “And I don’t mean your beauty. That would be too easy. It’s… the way you move. The way you don’t flinch. The way you make silence feel like a storm.”
Her breath caught. “You barely know me.”
He nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Because I want to.”
⸻
The storm raged on outside, thunder low and steady. Inside, time seemed to slow.
She walked to the fireplace and sat on the floor. He joined her, their shoulders almost touching but not quite. Neither reached for the other. Not yet.
“Tell me something true,” she said suddenly.
He looked at her.
“I don’t sleep well,” he said. “I never have. Not since I was twelve.”
“Why?”
“My father told me that love was weakness. That softness was a liability. So I trained myself to feel nothing. And it worked. Until you.”
She held his gaze for a long time.
“My mother used to say love was a seed,” Anindya said quietly. “You plant it with faith, you water it with patience, and one day, it grows—even if no one else sees it blooming.”
He looked at her then like he was seeing her for the first time.
They sat there, on the cold floor of the vineyard cottage, as the world wept around them. No kisses. No touch. Just warmth between them now—fragile, growing, undeniable.
He didn’t try to seduce her.
She didn’t try to run.
They just… stayed.
And for the first time, the fire and the frost did not fight.
They simply shared the storm.
- Writer
