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5 YEARS SINCE TAYLOR SWIFT DISAPPEARED

by Margot Vance, Teen Vogue. 13 June 2030.

-

It's been five years since Taylor Swift - singer, songwriter, business mogul, mastermind - was last seen in public. Not photographed, not overheard, not quietly spotted in a Rhode Island trip or ducking into Electric Lady Studios in New York. Not seen, in any sense of the word.

Amidst a digital age where visibility is often conflated with existence, Swift's vanishing act has taken on an almost mythic quality. No social media updates, no surprise releases, no appearances at award shows or high-profile gatherings. Her last public statement was a May 2025 post celebrating her successful re-acquisition of her original masters, a victory years in the making. 

In retrospect, it read almost like a farewell.

Later that year, People confirmed her breakup with Kansas City Chiefs tight end Travis Kelce. The article was notably sparse on details, quoting anonymous sources who described the split as "amicable" and "quiet." 

That December, Swift was reportedly expected at several industry events but cancelled, or simply didn't appear.

Since then, silence. 

Even her closest collaborators - such as Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner - have offered no comment, though industry chatter suggests many haven't heard from her in years.

It's easy to forget how present she once was. For nearly two decades, Taylor Swift not only dominated charts and headlines, but reshaped the music industry's relationship to power, ownership, and storytelling. From country ingénue to pop behemoth to indie-folk darling, her artistic transformations were milestones in their own right. She filled stadiums, shattered streaming records, and, with 2024's The Tortured Poets Department, penned what many believed to be her final "breakup album", one that, in hindsight, felt steeped in something deeper than heartbreak.

So where did she go?

Some speculate she's living abroad - Paris, Florence, Tokyo. Others believe she's in hiding stateside, possibly upstate New York or back in Nashville. Conspiracy theories abound, as they always do, ranging from the plausible (a long sabbatical from fame) to the far-fetched (secret marriage, private island, silent retreat). Reddit threads dissect her lyrics with religious fervour, and dedicated TikTok accounts trace supposed sightings that vanish as quickly as they appear.

But beyond the noise, a quieter question lingers: Why did she disappear?

Was it the culmination of burnout? The inevitable toll of being a woman and a brand under a magnifying glass for twenty years? Or was it a final act of agency from someone who, having fought so publicly for control over her art, finally achieved control over her narrative?

We don't know.

And maybe we're not meant to.

Perhaps the most Swiftian twist of all is this: after years of dissecting her every move, the biggest statement Taylor Swift ever made may have been her decision to stop making any.

-

You're, objectively, not a stupid person. Being who you are, leading the life you lead, the life you used to lead, does require basic intelligence. Which is precisely why you feel so... dumbfounded, baffled, gobsmacked, what-in-the-actual-fuck-ed, by it all.

It's been a fairly long time since you even considered going back to the time-old art of compiling evidence. It is an art, you consider, that pertains to the much younger, fickle craft of being a journalist.

It's been much longer since you last cared to consider yourself a journalist.

Retired. At thirty-six. The thought makes you snort into your coffee cup - the good stuff, beans you grew yourself on the small patch of land you now call home. Retired. As if you'd spent decades climbing some corporate ladder instead of... risking your life on a dead-end road. As if you'd earned a pension instead of burning every professional bridge behind you and progressively every penny in your thinner-by-the-day savings account.

The coffee is exceptional this morning, which almost makes up for the fact that your mysterious pain-in-the-ass fucking neighbour has apparently decided your shared water access needs "discussion" again. The note came via the usual route: handed to you by Marco, that stone-faced military type dude who speaks for his employer like some kind of human shield. Always Marco, never the actual landowner. Never a direct conversation.

"My employer believes the recent modifications to your irrigation system may be affecting water pressure on the adjacent property," Marco had recited yesterday, standing rigid in your doorway like he was delivering a formal military briefing instead of yet another petty complaint about farming logistics.

You'd wanted to ask what kind of person sends a handler to discuss water rights instead of walking the barely one kilometre between properties to have an actual conversation. But Marco's presence always makes it clear that questions about his employer are unwelcome.

Three months of this nonsense. Three months of Marco appearing at your door with complaints about noise levels, property line disputes, and now water pressure. Your neighbour might own ten times the land you do (probably more, it's not like you're a very mathematical person), but apparently lacks the basic social skills to introduce themselves.

It's ironic, really. You used to make a living getting people to talk. Now you can't even get your neighbour to acknowledge your existence beyond formal complaints delivered by proxy.

The drive into Boquete later that afternoon feels like a small liberation. Joanna is waiting at the usual café, her laptop spread across the table amid scattered paper charts showing rainfall patterns and soil compositions. She's a local agronomist who took pity on the obviously clueless gringa who showed up with big dreams and a bigger checkbook, asking pointed questions about altitude and processing methods. Within weeks she turned into a friend. Joanna has the kind of practical expertise that makes your coffee operation actually marginally profitable, which is why you pretend not to notice when she charges you roughly half what she charges her other clients. And why, as a gesture of gratitude, you make yourself available for any proofreading, writing, translating or interpreting tasks she needs help with.

"You look like hell," she says without looking up from her screen.

"Charming as always."

"I'm serious. When's the last time you did something that wasn't farm-related?"

You consider this while Joanna closes her laptop and fixes you with that look, the one that says she's about to meddle in your life whether you want her to or not.

"Tonight," she announces, and for a very brief moment your mind goes to that Despicable Me scene with Gru addressing the minions. "We're going out."

"Jo-"

"Not negotiable. There's a new bar downtown, decent music, actual people who shower regularly. You need to remember what civilisation looks like."

Which is how you find yourself five hours later, three drinks in, watching the social dynamics of a Boquete nightspot with the analytical detachment that never quite leaves you, in spite of the very focused daily efforts to get rid of it. The pub, if it can generously be called that, is clearly an expat spot. English seems to be the standard spoken language within those 200 square meters. Joanna disappeared an hour ago to charm some local artist, leaving you nursing your fourth whiskey and wondering why you thought this was a good idea to begin with.

The bar is busier than you expected, filled with a mix of locals and mostly expats, all of them seeming to know each other in that small-town way. Everyone except the blonde in the corner booth who's been sitting alone since you arrived, nursing what looks like the same drink throughout the night.

She's beautiful in an almost aggressive way, the kind of polished perfection that suggests money, lots of it, with designer clothes and jewellery that probably costs more than your monthly farm expenses. But there's something else there, something in the way she holds herself that catches your attention. She looks like someone who doesn't want to be noticed, which, of course, makes her the most interesting person in the room.

The smart thing would be to finish your drink and find Joanna. Go home. Tend to your plants and your careful, quiet life.

Instead, you find yourself standing, the whiskey making the decision before your brain can interfere. 

The walk across the bar feels longer than it should, like you're moving through water. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the way she looks up as you approach - not startled, exactly, more curious.

When you reach her table, you start with an "Hola," that is met with only a confused tilt of her head to the side, so you decide to course-correct back to English. "Mind if I sit?" you ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from her small table.

She considers this for a moment, tilting her head slightly. There's something almost amused in her expression, like she's surprised by the interruption but not entirely displeased. Her eyes are an eerie vivid shade of blue, you notice, and there's a sharpness there that makes you think she's been watching the room just like you have. Her hair is shoulder-length, curled, as if she had left it to dry naturally. For a second, you wonder if you've seen her before. She's got... one of those faces. Maybe that's simply a white, blonde, blue-eyed American thing.

"I don't usually..." she starts, but stops herself mid-sentence. Her accent is definitely American. Shrugs. "Go ahead."

You settle into the chair, immediately aware that you're probably swaying slightly. The smart thing would be to order water. Instead, you catch the bartender's eye and hold up two fingers, then point to whatever she's drinking. It seems like some sort of liquor, also, so you feel optimistic.

"I don't think I've seen you here before," you say, which is true enough. Boquete isn't exactly a metropolis, you'd remember someone who looks like this.

"I could say the same about you." Her voice has an interesting quality to it, and she seems confident in her words, if only a little like she's trying to dose them. "Though I get the feeling you're more of a regular than I am."

"Define regular." You lean back in your chair, studying her face. For what feels like the hundredth time within the couple of minutes you spent looking at her, you note how... gorgeous she is. "I come in maybe once a month when my friend decides I'm becoming too antisocial for my own good."

"And are you? Antisocial, I mean."

"Depends who's asking." The drinks arrive, something amber and strong that burns pleasantly on the way down. Feels like high-quality whisky. You wonder for a second if your wallet will weep when you eventually have to pay for that particular decision. It's good enough to make you feel confident a small crater in your finances will be born from those simple two glasses. "What about you? You seem like you're working pretty hard at the whole mysterious stranger thing."

She laughs at that. "Is it that obvious?"

"Body language." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "Phone face-down, back to the room, haven't made eye contact with anyone. Either you're avoiding someone specific or you're just really committed to the enigmatic loner aesthetic."

"Maybe I'm just not very social."

"No, that's not it." The alcohol is making you bolder than usual, but she doesn't seem to mind the attention. If anything, she's leaning forward slightly, engaged. Her eyes drift to somewhere far in the room, making eye contact with some khaki-wearing guy that seems to be some military type, like Marco. You think briefly about Marco, about his fucking boss, wince internally and get back to the blonde, who already has her attention back at you. "Social anxiety looks different. This is more like... trying to blend in, or disappear."

Her eyebrows raise. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Maybe I do." You take another sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. "Though I'm obviously failing at it tonight."

"Lucky for me."

The words hang in the air between you, and you realise she's flirting back. When was the last time you flirted with anyone? Months, at least. Maybe longer. The farm doesn't exactly provide a thriving social scene, and before that... well, before that, you weren't exactly in the headspace for romance.

"So what brings you to our little mountain paradise?" you ask, having one more sip of the decidedly expensive whisky. "Work? Vacation? Running away from something?"

"Isn't everyone running away from something?"

"Touché." You study her over the rim of your glass. "Though some people run toward things too. New adventures, fresh starts, that stuff..."

"Is that what you did? Run toward new adventures and fresh starts?"

"Among other things." You're being deliberately vague, but so is she. It feels like a game, how much can you learn about each other without actually giving anything away? "What about you? What are you running toward?"

"Peace and quiet, mostly." She swirls her drink, ice clinking against glass. "Turns out it's harder to find than you'd think."

"Depends where you look for it." You lean forward, matching her posture. "Some places are better than others."

"Any recommendations?"

There's something in the way she asks that makes your pulse quicken. You're definitely reading into this, but the alcohol has made you optimistic about your interpretive skills. "I might know a few spots. Though I should warn you, I'm probably not the most reliable tour guide these days."

"Why's that?"

"Well, for starters, I'm drunk." You gesture at your glass with a self-deprecating smile. "And I have been considerably grumpy these past few days. Have had a few less-than-pleasant encounters with my next door neighbour."

That is definitely a generous description for it. Firstly, because "less-than-pleasant" is definitely an understatement. Secondly, because "encounters" is probably not the best word to describe getting some thinly-veiled threats from some terrifyingly tall dude speaking on behalf of his manchild of an employer. You decide that your asshole neighbour is definitely a man. Only men can be that annoying.

"Less-than-pleasant encounters?" She sounds genuinely curious now, not just politely engaged.

"Riveting stuff, really. Property law, the thrilling world of agricultural litigation." You wave a hand dismissively. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow's hangover."

She's watching you carefully now, like she's trying to figure something out. You make an effort to break through the haze for a split second in order to try and figure out via some telepathic connection what, exactly, she is thinking. But then she smiles, and the moment passes.

"You're interesting," she says finally.

"I'm drunk and rambling. That's not usually what passes for interesting."

"Maybe I have low standards."

"Or maybe you're just as drunk as I am."

"I'm not, actually." She lifts her glass, still mostly full. "I'm just enjoying the company."

The admission makes something warm unfurl in your chest, separate from the alcohol. When was the last time someone enjoyed your company? Joanna doesn't count, she's paid to tolerate you, more or less. Before tonight, you'd started to wonder if you'd forgotten how to have a normal conversation with another human being.

"Good," you say, then immediately feel heat rise in your cheeks. "I mean- that's good. The enjoying part. Not that you're not drunk. Though that's probably also good, considering-"

"You're cute."

The words stop your rambling mid-sentence. She's looking at you with something that might be, at very least, genuine interest.

"I should probably get going soon," you say, though you make no move to leave. "Early morning tomorrow."

"Should you?"

"Probably." You don't break eye contact. "But I'm not sure I want to."

"Then don't."

"What would you suggest instead?"

"Walk me to my car?"

When the check comes, you reach for your wallet as an automatic reflex. You have half a mind to order a water bottle with the bill, which, you soon find out, is a wise choice. Your fingers fumble slightly with the leather - definitely drunker than you thought - but before you can extract any cash, she's already placed a crisp bill on the table. 

"I've got it," she says simply.

"No, come on, I invited myself over-"

"And I'm inviting you to walk me to my car." There's something final in her tone, confident. "Consider it even."

You want to argue but something in her expression stops you. Maybe it's the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth, or the way she's already standing, clearly ready to leave. Instead, you mutter something about getting the next round, which makes her laugh.

"Optimistic of you to assume there'll be a next round."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe."

The night air hits you like a wall when you step outside, cooler than you expected. The crisp mountain winds and the change of temperature are enough to help clear your mind a bit.

"Which one's yours?" you ask, scanning the small parking area behind the bar.

She nods toward a dark SUV parked near the back, away from the streetlight. It's the kind of vehicle that's expensive enough to be reliable, generic enough to blend in anywhere. You're about to make some joke about mysterious strangers and their mysterious cars when you notice her posture change slightly.

She's looking past you, toward the bar's entrance, and there's something in her expression that makes you want to turn around, even if you do your best to suppress that particular instinct. Instead, you follow her lead and keep walking.

"Everything okay?" you ask quietly.

"Fine. Just thought I saw someone I knew."

You resist the urge to look back. If there's one thing years of investigative work taught you, it's how to read a situation, and right now every instinct is telling you that whoever she saw, it wasn't a pleasant surprise. But you're drunk, and she's beautiful, and for once in your life you decide to let someone else's secrets be their own problem.

You reach her car, a newer model Toyota, you think, though in the dim light it's hard to tell. She stops next to the driver's side door and turns to face you, and suddenly the space between you feels denser.

"So," you say, and realise you have no idea how to finish that sentence.

"So," she echoes, and steps closer.

You can smell her perfume now, a subtle vanilla fragrance that makes your head spin more than the alcohol did. She's looking at you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

"Can I-" you start to ask, but she's already moving, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

"Yes," she says against your lips, and then you're kissing her.

It's been so long since you kissed anyone that you almost forgot how good it could be. She tastes like that expensive whisky of hers you both were drinking and something almost overly sweet, her lips are soft and insistent. You find yourself pressing her back against the car, hands finding her waist. Her tongue, you very soon figure, is talented beyond measure. She's deliberate, letting you lead for a brief minute before taking back control. She sucks on your tongue, plants small, soft pecks on your lips when the need for oxygen makes itself known, pulls your bottom lip between her teeth with a maddening gentleness, then goes back to letting her tongue wander against yours. 

Throughout, she lets out these breathy little moans, free hand moving to caress one of your breasts over your t-shirt. There's a minor, almost insignificant height difference favouring her, enough so that her hand on your neck at some point moves to your jaw, slightly tilting your head back. Her right knee moves between your legs, and you get a full, body-wide jolt of electricity when her thigh puts in some real pressure against you, a small honest-to-god whimper leaving your lips.

When you left your house earlier today, the last thing on your mind was any possibility of hooking up with someone, and you suddenly regret choosing the soft, faded jeans you always favoured. The blonde, apparently, has had that forethought, or at the very least isn't someone who felt the chilly weather at night in Panama, as she's wearing a short leather skirt to die for under her long coat, something for which you're suddenly very grateful.

Tentatively, your left hand moves from her waist down to her thigh, the one she isn't currently pressing against you. Your hips move against her almost as a physical, uncontrollable response, chasing some immediate relief even with the layers of clothing between you. 

You're not sure how long you stay like that, trading kisses that grow progressively less innocent, but eventually she pulls back, and you're both flushed and breathing hard.

"Okay?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.

"Very okay," you manage, and she laughs.

"Good." Her thumb traces along your jawline, and you have to resist the urge to turn your face into her palm. "Because I was thinking..."

"Yeah?"

"My place isn't far from here." She's watching your face carefully, looking for your reaction. "If you want to continue this conversation somewhere more private."

The offer hangs in the air between you. You should probably say no. You should definitely say no. You're drunk, she's a stranger, and you have that meeting with the lawyer in the morning. This is the kind of impulsive decision that usually leads to complications you don't need.

"I want to," you say instead, because apparently your self-preservation instincts have taken the night off.

Her smile is radiant. "Follow me?"

"I probably shouldn't drive right now."

"Leave your car. I'll bring you back for it tomorrow." She's already pulling her keys from her bag, and you realise she's thought this through more than you have. "Unless you'd rather I drop you off at home tonight?"

"No." The word comes out in a rush. "I mean, yes, I'll come with you. If that's okay."

"It's very okay."

She unlocks the car, and you're about to get in when she pauses, her hand on the driver's side door. For a moment, she scans the parking lot again, and you catch a glimpse of something almost worried in her expression.

"Really, everything all right?" you ask.

"Perfect," she says, but there's something strained about her smile now. "Just habit. Get in."

You slide into the passenger seat, noting the pristine interior and the scent of leather and that same subtle perfume. The car is definitely newer and more expensive than anything you've driven lately, although not flashy. Practical luxury, if that's even a thing.

She starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, turning toward the mountain roads that lead up into the hills above the city. You settle back in your seat, watching her, and try not to think about how this is exactly the kind of spontaneous decision your old self would have talked you out of.

The motion of the car is helping to clear your head, though not as much as you'd like. You're still pleasantly buzzed, floating on the memory of her mouth against yours and the way her hand rests casually on the gear shift between you. The radio is playing something soft and jazzy, just loud enough to fill the silence without demanding attention.

You should probably make conversation, but you're distracted by the way the dashboard lights catch her profile. There's something maddeningly familiar about her face. It's like trying to remember a word that's right on the tip of your tongue, except instead of a word, it's an entire person.

You keep stealing glances at her profile as she drives, trying to pinpoint what's so familiar about her face. It's not just that she's beautiful - though she definitely is - it's something more specific. The curve of her jaw, maybe, or the way she tilts her head when she's concentrating on the winding mountain road.

"You okay over there?" she asks, catching you staring.

"Fine." You turn toward the window, embarrassed. "Just... have we met before? You look really familiar."

She's quiet for a moment, hands tightening almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "I don't think so. I'd remember."

"Yeah, probably." You shake your head, trying to dismiss the feeling. "You just have one of those faces, I guess. Classic features."

"One of those faces," she repeats, and there's something odd in her tone. Amused, maybe, or resigned.

You let yourself get distracted by the way the headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating coffee plants and the occasional glimpse of other farms tucked into the mountainside. The alcohol is still making everything feel slightly dreamlike, softening the edges of your usual hyper-awareness. For once, you're not cataloguing every detail of your surroundings, not automatically noting landmarks or potential escape routes.

Instead, you're focused entirely on her - the way she hums quietly along to the music, how she takes the curves with practiced ease like she's driven this route a hundred times before. There's something soothing about being a passenger for once, about letting someone else navigate while you just exist in the moment.

The alcohol is starting to wear off, replaced by something much more immediate and demanding. It's been so long since you've felt this kind of want - this acute awareness of another person's presence, the way her hand looks on the steering wheel, how she keeps glancing over at you like she's checking to make sure you're still there.

You're, in plain words, crass as they might be, horny as fuck. It's been months since you've so much as thought about sex, and now it's like every nerve ending has suddenly remembered what it's supposed to be doing. When she reaches over to adjust the air conditioning and her fingers accidentally brush your knee, you have to bite back a sound that would definitely be embarrassing to make in a moving vehicle alongside a virtual stranger.

"How far is your place?" you ask, entirely proud of how normal your voice sounds.

"Not far." There's amusement in her tone, like she knows exactly what you're thinking. "Maybe ten minutes."

Ten minutes feels like an eternity when you're this keyed up, but you force yourself to lean back and watch the scenery roll by. Panama at night is peaceful in a way that still surprises you - so different from the places you used to call home. Here, the mountains swallow up the light pollution, leaving just scattered house lights and the stars.

You're so focused on not focusing on the woman beside you that you almost miss it when the car slows.

You blink, suddenly more alert, and find yourself staring at a familiar wrought-iron gate. Your stomach drops.

"What-" you start, but the words die in your throat as she reaches for what must be a remote control.

No. No, this can't be right.

You know this gate. You've stared at it plenty of times over the past three months, usually while fantasising about ramming it with your truck. It's the entrance to the property that borders yours to the east, the property belonging to your mysterious, pain-in-the-ass neighbour who's been making your life hell with their water rights bullshit. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter as she punches a code into the security keypad. "Wait, this is-"

The gates swing open, revealing the long driveway you've only glimpsed from a distance. Your neighbour's driveway. Your fucking neighbour's driveway.

The alcohol-induced haze evaporates instantly, replaced by a clarity so sharp it makes your head spin. This woman, this beautiful, mysterious woman you've been flirting with and kissing and with whom you were planning to sleep with, lives here. With your neighbour. Your neighbour who's been making your life hell for three months.

The car moves forward through the gate, and you catch glimpses of the sprawling property beyond - carefully maintained grounds, expensive landscaping. You've only seen it from your side of the property line, but there's no mistaking it.

"Stop the car."

Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, cutting through whatever song was playing on the stereo. She glances over, confused. 

"What?"

"Stop the fucking car."

She pulls over just inside the gates, putting the SUV in park and turning to face you. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" You're fully sober now, and furious. "What's wrong is that you live with the jerk who's been trying to steal my water rights for the past three months. Amongst other shit."

Her expression shifts, confusion giving way to something that might be recognition. "Water rights?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about. The spring that runs between our properties? The one your boyfriend or husband or whatever has been claiming belongs to him through that military asshole he keeps sending to my door?"

"My-" She blinks, then her face goes pale. "Oh, shit."

"Oh shit is right." You're beyond angry now, feeling like the universe's biggest idiot. Of course. Of course the one person you're attracted to in this godforsaken place would turn out to be connected to your biggest headache. "Let me guess, you knew who I was the whole time, right? This was all some kind of game?"

"No, I-"

"What, you and your partner thought it would be fun to mess with the crazy girl who bought the farm next door? See how far you could string me along before-"

"There is no partner."

The words cut through your rant, delivered with such focused quietness that you actually stop talking, surprising as might be even to yourself.

"What?"

"There is no partner. No boyfriend, no husband. It's just me." She's gripping the steering wheel now, knuckles white in the dashboard light. "The property is mine. The water dispute is my thing. The, uh, the 'military asshole' works for me."

You stare at her, processing this information. She's your neighbour. She's the mysterious landowner who's been making your life miserable. She's the person you've been at cursing every morning when you check your water pressure.

"You," you say slowly, "are Asshole Neighbour."

"I prefer to think of myself as 'misunderstood property owner,'" she says weakly, but the joke falls flat.

"Let me out."

"What?"

"Let me out of the car. I'm walking home." You're already reaching for the door handle, but she hits the locks before you can open it.

"You can't walk home from here. It's over a kilometre to your gate, it's dark, and you're still drunk."

"Watch me." You struggle with the door, but the locks won't budge. "Let me out of this fucking car right now."

"Just listen-"

"Let me out!"

"Fine!" She hits the unlock button, and you practically fall out of the passenger seat in your haste to escape. "But I'm not letting you walk home in the dark when you've been drinking."

"Oh, now you're concerned about my wellbeing?" You slam the door harder than necessary. "That's rich, coming from the one responsible for my high blood pressure levels lately."

She gets out of the car too, facing you across the hood. In the harsh glare of the security lights, she looks different; still beautiful, but somehow smaller, more vulnerable. And, unfortunately, all the beauty now gives way to the maddening knowledge that just this morning you swore to your empty house that you'd murder this fucking jerk with your own hands if the opportunity ever presented itself.

"I can explain," she says.

"I'm sure you can." You start walking toward the gates, which are already swinging closed again. Fucking asshole. "I'm sure you have a great explanation for why you've been harassing me for months and then decided to pick me up at a bar like some kind of-"

"I didn't know it was you!" The desperation in her voice makes you stop walking, though you don't turn around. "I swear to god, I had no idea who you were until just now. I don't even know your name."

Despite yourself, you believe her. The shock on her face when you mentioned the water rights had seemed genuine, not like someone who'd been caught in a lie. But that almost makes it worse, because it means this whole evening was just some sort of cosmic joke at your expense, which feels even more cruel than being intentionally targeted.

"Well," you say, finally turning to face her. "Now you know."

"Let me drive you home," she says, taking a step toward you. "Please. We can talk-"

"Absolutely not." You hold up a hand to stop her from coming any closer. "I'm not getting back in that car with you."

"Then let me pay for a cab." She's already reaching for her phone. "I can have someone here in-"

"I don't want your dirty money."

She flinches like you've slapped her. "It's not dirty money, it's just-"

"Couldn't care less." You pull out your own phone, grateful that you at least have Joanna's cab driver's number saved. It'll be barely be a two-minute drive, but still. Your hands are shaking with anger as you dial.

She watches you make the call, hovering nearby like she wants to say something else but doesn't know what. When you hang up, she tries again.

"The cab will take at least twenty minutes to get out here. You don't have to wait alone-"

"I'd rather wait alone than stand here with someone who's been trying to steal from me for months."

"I wasn't trying to steal-"

"Save it." You cross your arms and deliberately turn your back to her. "Just go back to your fancy house and leave me alone."

You hear her sigh, then footsteps on gravel. For a moment, you think she's actually going to leave you standing here, but then you realise she's just moving to lean against her car. Keeping her distance, but not abandoning you entirely.

The twenty minutes stretch like hours. You stand near the gate, refusing to acknowledge her presence, while she stays by her SUV like some kind of beautiful, guilty sentinel. Neither of you speaks.

When the cab finally arrives, its headlights cutting through the darkness, you've never been so grateful to see anything in your life. As you climb into the backseat, she pushes off from her car.

"Wait," she calls out. "Can we at least-"

You roll down the window just long enough to flip her off with both hands.

"Go fuck yourself," you say with feeling, then tell the driver to hit the gas.

-

You're lying in bed at nearly four in the morning, staring at the ceiling fan that's been making that annoying clicking sound for weeks now, when it hits you like a freight train carrying a cargo hold full of platinum albums.

The shape of her mouth when she smiled, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the quality of her voice, those blue eyes. The expensive car, the compound, the security gates and the military-looking guys who work for her.

Five years.

Five years since Taylor Swift disappeared from the public eye following her last world tour. Five years of speculation, conspiracy theories, and increasingly desperate attempts by paparazzi to track down the most famous woman in the world.

Five years, and she's been living next door to you.

You sit up in bed so fast you get dizzy.

"Holy shit," you whisper to the empty room. "Holy fucking shit."

The evidence clicks into place with the ruthless efficiency your journalistic brain hasn't employed in months. The over-the-top security makes sense now, as does the fact that she conducts all her business through intermediaries.

She's been hiding in plain sight in the mountains of Panama, and you have been screaming at her about irrigation systems for whole three months.

You grab your phone from the nightstand, fingers shaking as you open Google. You haven't searched for celebrity news in years, haven't cared enough to keep up with pop culture since you left journalism behind (didn't even when you did still work in it). But muscle memory kicks in as you type: "Taylor Swift disappearance 2025."

The results are exactly what you expected. Thousands of articles speculating about her whereabouts, fan theories ranging from reasonable to completely unhinged, grainy photos that claim to show her in various locations around the world, none of them Panama. The most recent credible sighting was over four years ago at a private airport in Nashville.

And tonight, you made out with her against her car.

You drop the phone and put your head in your hands.

This is insane. This is absolutely, completely insane. You've spent three months engaged in a petty property dispute with one of the most famous people on the planet, and you had no idea. She's been sending lawyers and security guys to your door while you stood there in your muddy boots trying not to personally commit half a dozen hate crimes.

The worst part is that it makes perfect sense. Of course she bought a massive property in the middle of nowhere. Of course she hired security and conducts all her business through intermediaries. Of course she looked like she was working very hard to be invisible at the bar tonight.

She wasn't being mysterious for the sake of it, she was trying not to be recognised. And you, in your alcohol-fuelled state, completely missed it.

"Fuck," you mutter, falling back against your pillows.

Chapter Text

The first thing that cuts through the drowsy haze of unconsciousness in the morning is the fairly objective fact that you feel like fucking hell. That very telltale migraine seems to have overtaken and claimed ownership of every small corner of your skull. You feel nauseous and can’t decide whether you need to get up and rush to the bathroom, or if that would be too much movement and only make it worse. Your mouth tastes terrible, your eyes are bleary, you can’t think straight.

It’s been a real long time since you had that much of a hangover, which is saying something. As someone who spent most of her adulthood outdrinking veterans and war correspondents (and generally people who had little to lose and absolutely no fear of the bite of a glass of liquor), being hungover at all is in itself somewhat a surprise.

But surprise or even the irritating way of your body letting you know that “hey pal, you fucked up this time!” are much more brittle and much less painful than the crushing weight of memory.

You lie there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut against the morning light filtering through your bedroom curtains, hoping that maybe, just maybe, last night was some kind of elaborate alcohol-induced nightmare. That you didn't actually spend a long while flirting with your mysterious neighbour. That you didn't make out with said neighbour against her car like some kind of horny teenager. That your mysterious neighbour isn't actually Taylor fucking Swift.

But no. The universe isn't that kind.

Your phone buzzes on the night stand, and you crack one eye open to see a text from Joanna: How did it go with the blonde? You disappeared without saying goodbye, you terrible friend. Hope you got some.

You stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: It's complicated.

Good complicated or bad complicated?

You don't even know how to begin answering that question, so you don't. Instead, you drag yourself out of bed, moving like you're ninety years old with not a singular functional joint in your body.

The routine of making coffee is usually meditative for you - the grinding of beans you grew yourself, the careful measurement of water temperature, the slow pour that creates the perfect bloom. Today, it feels like hell. Just like everything else. Your hands shake as you measure the coffee, and you nearly drop the ceramic dripper twice.

But you need this. You need the ritual, the familiarity, the connection to something that makes sense. Because everything else in your life has apparently been flipped upside down and shaken like a fucking snow globe.

The beans are from your latest harvest, a small batch of geisha variety that you've been particularly proud of. Bright, floral notes with a clean finish that usually makes you feel like maybe you haven't completely fucked up your life with your personal choices. Today, even your own excellent coffee tastes bitter.

You take your mug out to the small porch that faces west, toward the property line you share with your neighbour. With Taylor Swift. With the woman who's been the subject of your most creative cursing for three months, who you kissed and dry-humped in public last night like your life depended on it.

The view is exactly the same as it's been every morning for the past year - rolling hills covered in plantations, the occasional glimpse of her property through the trees, the mountains rising in the distance. But knowing who lives behind that screen of vegetation changes everything, doesn’t it? It's like finding out the annoying dog next door is actually a wolf.

Your phone buzzes again. This time it's a reminder about your 10 AM appointment with Robert, the lawyer you hired to deal with the water rights situation. You stare at the notification, thumb hovering over the screen.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? "Actually, Robert, turns out my neighbour isn't just some rich asshole with zero knowledge of law fucking with me - she's a rich famous asshole worth approximately one billion dollars who's been hiding from the entire world in Panama, and I accidentally made out with her last night. Think that changes our legal strategy?"

You cancel the appointment.

The coffee isn't helping much with the hangover, but you keep drinking it anyway, hoping the caffeine will somehow organise your thoughts into something resembling coherence. Instead, it just makes your heart race while your brain continues to spin in circles.

Three months. Three months of increasingly hostile exchanges conducted through intermediaries. Three months of you standing in your doorway in your work clothes, explaining basic agricultural principles to Marco like he's a particularly dense child, while he delivered complaints from his mysterious employer. Three months of you fantasising about giving your asshole neighbour a piece of your mind and maybe a couple punches so they actually have a justifiable reason not to go outside.

And all that time, she was Taylor Swift.

The woman who revolutionised the music industry. Who's worth more money than some small countries' GDP. Who has literal armies of lawyers at her disposal and could probably buy your entire farm as a rounding error on her quarterly budget.

That's what makes this so much worse, you realise. It's not just that you've been fighting with a celebrity; it's that you've been fighting with someone for whom this entire dispute is probably pocket change, a fickle, passing thought. The water rights you've been so desperately trying to protect, the property that represents everything you have left in the world, your entire livelihood - to her, it's probably just a minor inconvenience.

You've been losing sleep over legal fees you can barely afford, stressing about water access that could make the difference between a profitable harvest and financial ruin, while she's been conducting this whole thing through lawyers who probably cost more per hour than you make in a month.

The thought makes your coffee taste even more bitter.

You remember the way she laughed in the bar, easy and unguarded. The way she kissed you, like she had all the time in the world. The expensive whisky that she bought without even checking the price. Everything about her screamed money and privilege, but you'd been too drunk and too horny to pay attention to the warning signs.

Your anger is building now, a slow burn that starts in your chest and spreads outward. You've been played. Not intentionally, maybe, but played nonetheless. While you've been treating this like a matter of survival, she's been treating it like... what? A game? An amusing diversion from her life of luxury and seclusion?

The rational part of your brain knows this isn't entirely fair. She seemed as shocked as you were when she realised who you were. Her reaction had been genuine, you're almost certain of that. But the rational part of your brain is currently being drowned out by the part that's hungover and humiliated and absolutely furious.

-

By noon, you've made three more cups of coffee and started eyeing the bottle of whisky you keep in the kitchen cabinet for emergencies. This definitely qualifies as an emergency, you decide. Maybe not a medical emergency, but certainly a psychological one.

You pour two fingers of Jameson into your coffee mug, just enough to take the edge off, you tell yourself, just enough to stop your hands from shaking every time you think about last night, just enough to give you the courage to do what you're already planning to do.

The whiskey burns going down, mixing with the coffee in a way that would probably horrify any self-respecting barista, but it works. The constant buzzing in your head quiets to a manageable hum, and the knot of anxiety in your chest loosens just enough to let you breathe properly.

You need your truck back from the city. More importantly, you need your truck back without having to explain to Joanna why you left it at the bar.

"I need a favour," you say when she picks up your call on the second ring.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. You sound like hell."

"Feel like it too. Can you give me a ride into town? I need to get my truck."

There's a pause. "Why is your truck in town?"

"Long story."

"I've got time."

"It's really not that interesting." You take another sip of your Irish coffee, hoping the alcohol will make lying easier. "Just had a few too many drinks and made the responsible choice not to drive."

"Uh huh." Joanna's voice is dripping with skepticism. "And this has nothing to do with the mysterious blonde you disappeared with?"

"Not everything revolves around girls, Jo."

"Everything does revolve around girls if my friend suddenly starts acting weird right after being spotted with one for the first time in probably years." You can hear her moving around, probably getting ready to interrogate you in person. "What happened? Did you sleep with her? Was she not a good lay? Did she break your heart? Did she turn out to be married?"

If only it were that simple. "Can you just give me a ride? I'll buy you lunch."

"You'll buy me lunch and tell me everything that happened."

"I'll buy you lunch and tell you some things that happened."

"Deal."

Twenty minutes later, Joanna pulls into your driveway in her beat-up Honda, music blaring from the speakers. She takes one look at your face and whistles low.

"Jesus, you also do look like hell."

"Thanks. Very helpful." You climb into the passenger seat, immediately assaulted by the scent of her air freshener and the sound of what might be the most aggressively cheerful merengue ever recorded.

"So," she says, pulling out of your driveway with the kind of reckless abandon that always makes you grateful for your seatbelt. "Scale of one to ten, how badly did this mysterious blonde mess with your head?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So like a thirteen, then." Ha. How very ironic.

The drive into the city takes twenty minutes, during which Joanna attempts to extract information through increasingly creative questions while you deflect with the skill of someone who spent years doing it for a livnig. By the time you reach the bar's parking lot, she's given up on subtle interrogation and moved on to wild speculation.

"My theory," she announces as you spot your truck exactly where you left it, "is that she's either a drug lord's wife or a witness protection situation. Those are the only reasons someone would be that secretive in a place like this."

You nearly choke on the irony. Seems like the universe is really doing a lot of it lately. "Your imagination is really something else."

"I prefer to think of it as investigative intuition." She pulls up next to your truck, studying your face. "You're not telling me something important."

"I'm not telling you lots of things. That's what makes me interesting."

"That's what makes you exhausting." She's smiling when she says it. "Lunch tomorrow? And I want details."

"We'll see."

You climb out of her car and into your own truck, grateful for the familiar smell of old worn-out leather and the engine that starts on the first try. Joanna waves as she drives off, still blasting merengue loud enough for the entiry city to hear.

The drive back to your place takes longer than it should because you keep having to pull over to will your hands to stop shaking. The whisky has worn off, leaving you with nothing but determination and a growing anger.

By the time you reach your property, you've talked yourself into what you're about to do at least three times and talked yourself out of it twice. But the sight of your modest little farmhouse, with its practical furniture and secondhand everything, compared to the glimpse you got of Taylor's sprawling estate last night, tips the scales decisively toward confrontation.

You don't even go inside. Instead, you turn your truck around and drive straight to the imposing iron gates that mark the entrance to your neighbour's property. To Taylor Swift's property.

The gates are closed, of course, with a keypad and intercom system. You park directly in front of them, close enough that anyone trying to enter or leave would have to ask you to move.

Then you lean on your horn.

The sound echoes off the mountains, a sustained blast that goes on for a full ten seconds before you let up. Then you do it again.

"Hello?" The intercom crackles to life, and you recognise Marco's voice immediately.

"I want to talk to your boss," you say, rolling down your window so you can speak directly into the intercom without getting out of your truck.

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to move your vehicle-"

"I'm not moving shit until she comes out here and talks to me like an adult."

There's a pause, during which you can practically hear him trying to figure out how to handle this situation. You lean on the horn again, longer this time.

"Ma'am-"

"Don't fucking 'ma'am' me. I'm the owner of the property directly to the west of this one, and I have been dealing with your employer's lawyers and complaints for three months. The least she can do is have a conversation with me face to face."

Another pause. You're about to hit the horn again when a different voice comes through the intercom.

"It's okay, Marco." Taylor's voice is quieter than it was in the bar, more cautious. "Let me talk to her."

"Are you sure that's-"

"It's fine."

The intercom goes quiet for a moment, then Taylor's voice returns. "Hi."

"Hi? Are you joking?" You're practically shouting at the keypad now, months of frustration finally finding a target. "You want to explain what the hell last night was about?"

"I tried to explain last night, but you wouldn't listen."

"Oh, I'm listening now. So talk."

"Not like this." Her voice is clearer now, like she's moved closer to whatever microphone she's using. "Not with you sitting in your truck screaming at my front gate."

"Then come out here."

"I can't do that."

"Why? Because you're too important to set foot outside your goddamn Avengers compound? Because us common folk might contaminate your precious privacy?"

"Because I'm trying to protect both of us." There's an edge to her voice now, matching your anger. "You think this is easy for me?"

"I think you enjoy the power trip." You lean forward toward the intercom, as if getting physically closer will somehow make your words hit harder. "I think you get off on making people jump through hoops while you sit in your fancy house counting your money."

"That's not-"

"Three months!" You're shouting now, and, to be perfectly honest, you couldn't care less who hears you. "Three months of your lawyers and your security team and your bullshit property disputes, and the whole time you've been treating this like some kind of game!"

"It's not a game!"

"Then what is it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a bored billionaire fucking with the local farmers for entertainment!"

The intercom goes quiet. For a moment, you think she's hung up on you, but then her voice comes back, colder than before.

"Move your truck."

"Make me."

"I'm asking you nicely to move your truck and leave my property."

"And I'm asking you not-so-nicely to come out here and have a conversation like a normal human being instead of hiding behind your security team like a coward."

The silence stretches long enough that you start to wonder if she really has disconnected this time. Then, just as you're about to lay on the horn again, you hear the mechanical whir of the gates beginning to open.

Oh. You hadn't actually expected that to work.

The gates swing wide, revealing the long driveway you caught a glimpse of last night. But instead of an invitation to drive through, a figure appears walking down the driveway toward you.

Her. Even at a distance, even in daylight, even without the dim bar lighting and alcohol haze, you recognise her immediately. She's wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking like a common suburban mom if you ignore the fact that she's walking out of what looks like a small fortress.

She stops about five metres from your truck, close enough to talk without shouting but far enough away to run if she needs to. Smart.

"There," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm out here. Now what?"

You stare at each other for a long moment. In daylight, without the forgiving shadows of the bar, she looks older than she did last night. There are lines around her eyes that the dim lighting had hidden. She's still beautiful, annoyingly so, but there's something harder about her expression now.

"Well?" she asks when you don't immediately launch into another tirade. "You wanted to talk. So talk."

"What I want," you say, not bothering to get out of your truck, "is an explanation. What the hell was last night about?"

"I told you-"

"You told me bullshit." You lean your elbow on the window frame. "You expect me to believe that Taylor fucking Swift just happened to be sitting alone in a dive bar in Boquete, Chiriquí, Panama, and it was all some big coincidence?"

Her jaw tightens. "It wasn't a dive bar."

"Oh, I'm sorry. A nice bar. My mistake." The sarcasm drips from your voice like honey from a spoon. "That makes this whole situation so much less fucked up."

"Look, I understand you're angry-"

"Angry?" You laugh. "Honey, angry doesn't even begin to cover what I am right now."

She winces at the endearment. Good.

"I didn't know who you were," she says again, more firmly this time. "I swear to you, I had no idea you were my neighbour until we were at my gate."

"Right. And I'm supposed to believe that the woman who's been making my life hell for three months just happened to be in the mood for a little slumming with the locals?"

"It wasn't slumming."

"No? Then what was it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you were bored and decided to see how far you could string along the woman who's been stupid enough to go up against your legal team."

Her hands clench into fists at her sides. "That's not what happened."

"Then what did happen? Enlighten me."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her weighing her words carefully. Everything about her screams media training and careful public image management, even now when she's supposedly been out of the spotlight for years.

"I go to that bar sometimes," she says finally. "When I need to get out of the house. When I need to be around people without..." She gestures vaguely at herself, at the gates, at the whole situation.

"Without people knowing who you are."

"Yes."

"And last night?"

"Last night you approached me. You were drunk and confident and you didn't look like you knew me." Her voice gets quieter. "You looked at me like I was just... a person."

Despite yourself, something in your chest twitches at the admission. But you squash it down ruthlessly. It's a fucking pain to be empathetic.

"Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished. I had no fucking clue who you were." You shift in your seat, the leather hot against your back. "Must have been a real ego boost, having someone treat you like a normal human being for once."

"It wasn't about ego."

"No? Then what was it about?"

She doesn't answer, just stares at you with those unsettlingly blue eyes that you now realise you've seen on magazine covers and album artwork for the better part of two decades.

"You know what pisses me off the most about this?" you continue when it becomes clear she's not going to respond. "It's not even that you lied to me. It's that this whole goddamn property dispute probably means less to you than what you spend on coffee in a week."

"That's not-"

"Isn't it?" You lean forward, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that your knuckles go white. "You're worth what, a billion dollars? More? And you've been dragging me through legal hell over petty property law that you could afford to resolve with your fucking pocket change."

"It's not about the money."

"Everything's about money in your case."

She takes a step closer to your truck, and you can see the anger building in her expression to match your own.

"You don't know anything about my situation."

"I know enough. I know you disappeared from public life five years ago and decided to hide out in Panama like some kind of recluse billionaire. I know you bought enough land to house a small village and then decided to make your neighbours' lives miserable for shits and giggles."

"That's not why I-" She stops herself, jaw clenching. "You know what? Fine. You want to have this conversation? Let's have it properly. Inside."

"I'm perfectly comfortable here, thanks."

"Well, I'm not. I'm not having a screaming match in my driveway where anyone with a telephoto lens could-" She cuts herself off again, but you catch the slip.

"Could what? Take pictures? Record you? God forbid the world should know that Taylor Swift is capable of having human emotions."

"You don't understand-"

"Then make me understand!" You're shouting again. "Stop hiding behind your security team and your lawyers and your carefully constructed mystery and just tell me what the fuck is going on!"

For a moment, she looks like she's going to do exactly that. Her mouth opens, and there's something raw and unguarded in her expression. But then she seems to remember herself, and the walls slam back up.

"Inside," she says firmly. "If you want answers, you'll get them inside."

You consider this for a long moment. Every instinct you have is telling you not to trust her, not to follow her onto her territory where she has all the advantages. But your curiosity - that damned journalistic curiosity that you've never been able to fully suppress - is stronger than your caution.

"Fine," you say, turning off the truck's engine. "But I'm not staying long."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

You follow her through the gates and up the long driveway, taking in details you'd missed in the darkness last night. The landscaping is immaculate without being showy, native plants and natural stone that blend into the mountainside like they've always been there. It's the kind of thoughtful, expensive design that, once you put your mind to it for a moment, really fits her.

The house itself is larger than yours, obviously, but not as ostentatious as you'd expected. It's modern but not aggressively so, with large windows and clean lines that complement the natural setting.

"Nice place," you say, and it comes out just as bitter as you'd intended it. "Very... fortress-like."

She doesn't respond, just leads you through a side entrance into what appears to be a kitchen. It's beautiful in that way that only really comes with an unlimited budget - granite countertops, professional-grade appliances, custom cabinetry.

"Coffee?" she asks, already moving toward a gigantic, ultra-sleek espresso machine.

"Sure." You settle onto one of the bar stools, watching her with the critical eye of someone who's spent the last year perfecting their own coffee ritual. "Let's see what a billion dollars can buy you in the caffeine world, shall we?"

She shoots you a look but doesn't comment, focusing instead on grinding beans and adjusting settings on the machine. You can tell immediately that she has no idea what she's doing.

"You're grinding those too fine," you observe as she dumps what looks like a full day's worth of beans into the grinder.

"I've got it."

"No, you really don't. That's going to over-extract and taste like shit."

She pauses, fingers hovering over the controls. "Do you want to do it?"

"Nope. You offered, you're making it. It's your fucking house and your expensive machine."

Her jaw tightens, but she continues with her process, which involves entirely too much button-pushing and entirely too little attention to timing. You watch in fascination as she manages to turn what are probably excellent beans into what will undoubtedly be terrible coffee.

"The water's too hot," you mention as she starts the brewing process.

"It's fine."

"It's going to burn the coffee."

"Are you going to critique every step of this process?"

"Probably. It's not every day I get to watch someone with unlimited resources completely fuck up something as simple as making coffee."

She turns to face you, one hand on her hip. "You know, for someone who claims to want answers, you're doing a lot of talking and not much listening."

"I'm listening. I'm just not hearing anything worth my time yet."

The espresso machine hisses and gurgles, producing something that looks more like mud than coffee. She pours it into two cups and slides one across the counter to you.

You take a sip and immediately regret it. It's exactly as terrible as you'd expected: bitter, over-extracted, with an aftertaste that suggests the machine hasn't been properly cleaned in weeks.

"This is fucking awful," you say, pushing the cup away.

"Then don't drink it."

"How do you screw up coffee this badly when you have that machine?"

"Maybe because I don't spend my entire day obsessing over it."

"Or maybe because you're so used to having other people do everything for you that you've forgotten how to perform basic human tasks."

She slams her own cup down on the counter hard enough that coffee sloshes over the rim. "You know what? Fuck this. You want to barge into my house and insult me? Fine. But if you think I'm going to stand here and take your self-righteous bullshit about how terrible it is to have money, you're out of your goddamn mind."

"Self-righteous?" You laugh, incredulous. "Lady, you've been fucking with my livelihood for three months while sitting in your ivory tower counting your billions. If anyone's being self-righteous here, it's not me."

"I haven't been fucking with anything! I've been trying to resolve a legitimate property dispute through the proper legal channels!"

"Legitimate?" You stand up so fast the bar stool nearly tips over. "You call sending your military boy toy to threaten me legitimate?"

"Marco doesn't threaten anyone. He delivers messages."

"Oh, right. Messages like 'my employer believes you should reconsider your position on whatever petty childish matter she's been picking about this week.'"

"It's called negotiation!"

"It's called intimidation! You think I don't know the difference?" You're in her space now, standing close enough to see all the different shades of blue in her eyes. "You know, the rest of us working class still know how to recognise a power play when we see one."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Because it seems pretty fucking obvious to me. Rich celebrity buys massive property in remote location, decides the local farmers are inconvenient, starts legal proceedings to push them out. It's gentrification 101, sweetheart."

Her face goes white, then red. "That is not what this is."

"Then what is it? Because I'm still waiting for that explanation you promised me."

"It's complicated."

"Oh, it's complicated. How convenient." You cross your arms, staring her down. "You know what's not complicated? The fact that you've been hiding behind lawyers and security guards for months instead of having one honest conversation with your neighbour."

"I couldn't-"

"Couldn't what? Lower yourself to speak to a peasant? Risk someone finding out where the great Taylor Swift has been hiding?"

"It's not about that!"

"Then what is it about?" You're shouting again, and you don't care. "What could possibly be so important that you'd rather drag this out through legal channels than just knock on my door and talk to me like a human being?"

She stares at you for a long moment, breathing hard, and you can see her struggling with something. For a second, you think she might actually tell you the truth. But then her expression shuts down again, and you know you've lost her.

"You wouldn't understand," she says finally.

"Try me."

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because!" The word explodes out of her like she's been holding it back for months. "Because I can't! Because there are things about my life, about why I'm here, that I can't explain to anyone, let alone someone who's already decided I'm the villain in this story!"

"So you admit there's more to this."

"I admit nothing."

"Bullshit." You lean against the counter, studying her face. "You disappeared five years ago, and nobody knows why. You bought property in the middle of nowhere, surrounded yourself with security, and started a legal fight with your neighbour over something that would be pocket change for you. And you want me to believe it's all just a coincidence?"

"I want you to believe that maybe, just maybe, the world isn't as simple as you think it is."

"The world is exactly as simple as I think it is. Rich people do whatever they want, and everyone else has to deal with the consequences. The only thing that's complicated is the excuses you come up with to justify it."

She's quiet for a long moment, staring down at her hands.

"Is that really what you think of me?" she asks. "That I'm just some spoiled rich bitch who gets off on making other people miserable?"

The question catches you off guard. There's something vulnerable in the way she asks it, something that reminds you of the woman in the bar last night who laughed at your jokes and made you want to throw caution to the wind with just a few kisses.

But you're too angry to let that vulnerability soften you.

"I think you're someone who's forgotten what it's like to live in the real world," you say. "I think five years of hiding from your problems has made you lose sight of how your actions affect other people."

"You don't know anything about my problems."

"Then tell me about them."

"I can't."

"Won't."

"Can't."

"Same fucking difference."

She slams her hand down on the counter. "It's not the same difference! There are things in my life that I can't control, things that happened to me that I'm still dealing with, and I don't owe anyone, let alone yourself, an explanation for how I choose to handle them!"

The raw emotion in her voice stops you cold. For just a moment, the careful mask slips, and you see something that looks like real pain flickering across her features.

You're standing close enough to see the way her chest rises and falls with each angry breath, close enough to smell that same subtle vanilla perfume from last night.

"Fuck this," she says suddenly, and before you can react, she's kissing you again.

It's not gentle like last night. This is desperate and furious, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained violence, her right hand closing around your thoat even if she doesn't apply any real pressure. For a split second, you're too shocked to move, and then your body responds before your brain can catch up, kissing her back just as fiercely.

But eventually your brain does catch up.

You pull back and slap her. Hard enough that the sound echoes through the kitchen, hard enough that her head snaps to the side and a red mark blooms across her cheek.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you snarl.

She turns back to face you, touching her cheek, pupils still somehow, for whatever reason, impossibly blown. "Jesus, what is wrong with you?"

You should leave. You should walk out of this kitchen and never look back. Instead, you grab her face with both hands and kiss her again, harder this time, backing her against the granite counter until she gasps into your mouth.

Chapter Text

Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling hard enough to make you gasp, and you retaliate by biting her bottom lip until she makes a grunting sound. 

You push her harder against the counter, hands finding the hem of her t-shirt and yanking it up. Her skin is impossibly soft under your palms, warm in a way that makes your head spin. This morning you were fantasising about throttling her, and now... now you still think about doing it, if you're perfectly honest, but it's in an entirely different context.

"This is so fucking stupid," you mutter, but your hands are already moving higher, mapping the curve of her ribs, the soft underside of her breasts.

"Shut up," she pants, her own hands working at the buttons of the short sleeved button down you put on in the morning with shaking fingers. "Just shut up for once in your life."

Before you can reward that with a reply, she takes it herself to effectively shut you up, kissing you so hard it's almost violent, her tongue sliding against yours while her hands finally get your shirt open. Her palms are hot against your skin, and when her nails drag across your shoulders, you can't help the sound that escapes your throat.

This is not how you planned for this confrontation to go. You came here to yell at her, to demand answers, to somehow reclaim some power in a situation where you've felt powerless for months. You didn't come here to let her fuck you against her goddamn kitchen island.

But there's something about the fury in her touch, the way she's holding you like she can't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away, that makes you feel more in control than you have in weeks. She wants this just as much as you do, maybe more, and that gives you power.

So you take it.

"This doesn't mean anything," you say as your hands map the smooth skin of her ribs, as she arches into your touch like she's starving for it.

"Obviously." Her voice is rough, breathless. "You're still a pain in my ass."

"And you're still a spoiled billionaire bitch."

"Fuck you."

"That's the idea."

You spin her around so she's facing the counter, pressing yourself against her back, one hand flying to wrap around her neck with a little more pressure than she put on yours. She pushes back against you immediately, grinding her ass against your hips in a way that makes your vision blur. You can see your reflection in the dark window above the sink, hair already dishevelled, lips swollen, looking like you've lost your goddamn mind.

She looks up and meets your eyes through the reflection. You open a smile.

Your hands slide around to cup her breasts through her bra, fingers twisting her nipples over the fabric, and she drops her head back against your shoulder with a sound that's more growl than moan. You can feel her pulse racing under your lips as you bite down on the curve of her neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

"You think you can just-" she starts, but you cut her off by sliding one hand down to palm her through her jeans.

"Think I can just what?" you murmur against her ear, pressing harder. "Take what I want? Yeah, I do."

She tries to turn around, but you hold her in place, one hand splayed across her stomach. 

"Stay put."

"You don't get to tell me what to do."

"Don't I?" You pop the button of her jeans with more force than necessary, dragging the zip down slowly. "Seems like I'm doing a pretty good job of it so far."

She's breathing hard now, hands braced against the granite worktop. When you slide your fingers inside her jeans, under the cotton of her underwear, she's already wet.

"Fuck."

"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, your fingers finding her clit and pressing it with just enough force to make her hips jerk. "Is this why you kissed me? Because you wanted to see if you could make me angry enough to finally put you in your place?"

"Shut up." Her voice is strained, and she's pushing back against your hand.

"Make me."

She tries to turn around again, and this time you let her, but only so you can back her against the counter and drop to your knees in front of her. Her jeans are already halfway down her thighs, and you yank them the rest of the way off along with the white cotton boyshorts she has on.

"What are you- oh, fuck."

You don't give her time to finish the question. Your mouth is on her before she can process what's happening, your tongue finding her clit and sucking hard enough to make her knees buckle. Her hands fly to your hair, gripping so tightly it's painful, but you don't care. You're too busy trying to prove a point that you can't even articulate to yourself.

Her taste is addictive, and the sounds she's making are completely at odds with the composed, controlled woman who's been hiding behind her careful constructed walls (or iron gate, you think to yourself) for months, or even the guarded, mysterious version of her you met yesterday. This version is raw, unguarded, falling apart under your mouth like she's never had anyone make her feel this way before.

Which is probably bullshit, but you like the fantasy anyway.

You slide two fingers inside her while your tongue works her clit, and she nearly comes off the counter. "Jesus Christ, I-"

"What?" you ask, pulling back just enough to speak. You look her in the eyes for half a second, just enough to see those blown wide dark pupils boring into yours, and then immediately drop back to her, swollen and pink and dripping like a full meal in front of you. "Can't handle a little honest conversation now?"

"I swear to god, if you stop-"

"You'll what? Sue me?"

She looks down at you, breathing hard, hair a mess.

"Please," she whispers, and you almost give in. Almost.

Instead, you pull your mouth away and stand up, stepping back just far enough to break contact.

"Please what?" you ask, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended.

Her eyes snap open, confusion and frustration warring in her expression. "What the fuck are you-"

"Please what?" you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest. "You want something from me, you're going to have to ask for it properly."

The confusion turns to anger, her cheeks flushing red. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Deadly serious." You lean back against the kitchen island, trying to look casual despite the fact that your heart is racing, your chin is still dripping with her, and every nerve in your body is screaming at you to close the distance between you again. "See, I've spent three months having to play by your rules and deal with your petty disputes. So if you want something from me now, you can damn well ask nicely."

She stares at you for a long moment, still trying to catch her breath, and you can see the exact moment she realises what you're doing.

"You're an asshole," she says finally.

"Yeah, well, I learned from the best." You shrug. You can feel your own wetness, pulsing and thoroughly uncomfortable, but decide to push past the lack of comfort for a moment. "So what's it going to be? You going to ask nicely, or are you going to stand there and pout like a spoiled child who didn't get her way?"

For a second, you think she might actually do it. Might swallow her pride and ask for what she wants. Her hands are shaking at her sides, and there's something desperate in her eyes that makes a small thread of satisfaction run through you.

But then her expression hardens, and you know you've pushed too far.

"Get out," she says quietly.

"What?"

"Get the fuck out of my house." Her voice is steady now, cold in a way that makes your stomach drop. "Right now."

You want to argue, want to push back, but something in her tone stops you. You've won this round, proven your point, but it feels a little bit hollow now. 

"Fine," you say, buttoning your shirt with unsteady hands. "Enjoy your shitty coffee and your empty house."

You make it to the door before she speaks again.

"This doesn't change anything," she calls after you. "The property dispute, the lawyers, none of it. This was just... This was just a mistake."

"Yeah. It was."

You walk back to your truck on unsteady legs, not trusting yourself to look back. Your hands are shaking as you start the engine, and you can taste her on your tongue still. You drive home in silence, windows down, trying to let the mountain air clear your head. But all you can think about is the look in her eyes when you pulled away, the way her breath hitched when you touched her, the sound she made when you stopped.

You're halfway home before you realise what you've done. You had her, right there, wanting you, needing you. You could have had everything you wanted, could have finally felt like you were winning for once.

Instead, you walked away. And now you're both still angry, both still unsatisfied, and the property dispute is still hanging over your head. Worse, you have this fucking annoying throb between your legs that makes you want to kill someone.

Fucking brilliant.

-

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee the next morning, still trying to convince yourself that yesterday's kitchen encounter was just some kind of fever dream, when someone knocks on your front door.

Through the window, you can see a black sedan parked in your driveway behind your truck. Not Marco's usual vehicle, you had that one memorised by now. This one is sleeker, more expensive, with tinted windows.

"Fuck," you mutter, setting down your coffee cup.

You already guess you know what this is before you open the door. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, though it's not usually this rushed about it.

The man standing on your porch is in his mid-forties, wearing a perfectly pressed charcoal suit, briefcase in one hand and what you're willing to bet is a very expensive legal document in the other. He looks like he stepped out of a corporate law firm's recruitment brochure.

"Good morning," he says, flashing a bleached-white teeth smile that probably worked wonders in law school but now just looks predatory. Though you're willing to bet that's simply a man thing. "Are you the owner of this property?"

"Depends who's asking."

"My name is David Callaway, I'm an attorney. I was hoping we could have a brief conversation about a matter of mutual interest for you and my client."

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "Let me guess. Your client lives in the big house with the fancy gates."

His smile doesn't waver. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my client's identity. However, I do have a document here that I believe would be beneficial for both parties if you were to review and sign."

"A document."

"A standard non-disclosure agreement. Very routine, I assure you."

You almost laugh. Of fucking course. Of course Taylor Swift's response to hooking up with you in her kitchen is to send a lawyer with an NDA. Because god forbid anyone should know that the great disappeared pop star is capable of human desires or, heaven forbid, poor decision-making.

"Standard," you repeat. "Right. And what exactly would I be agreeing not to disclose?"

"The document outlines the specific parameters, but in general terms, it would cover any interactions you may have had with my client, any knowledge of my client's current circumstances or location, and any... personal matters that may have come to light during the course of your acquaintance."

Personal matters. That's one way to put it. You sure did get personal with that fucker.

"And in exchange for my signature on this standard, routine document?"

"My client is prepared to offer a generous compensation package. Additionally, the ongoing property dispute between your respective parcels of land would be resolved in your favour, with all legal fees covered by my client."

The offer stops you cold. All your legal fees covered, the dispute resolved in your favour, plus whatever "generous compensation" means for Taylor Swift. It's probably more money than you'd see in years of coffee farming.

All you have to do is sign a piece of paper promising to keep your mouth shut about the fact that you know where she is and how she seems to melt in your fingers and tongue.

"How generous are we talking?" you ask, hating yourself for the question but needing to know.

Callaway reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a folder, flipping it open to reveal several pages and, paperclipped to the back, a single sheet with a number written on it.

Your eyes widen despite yourself. It's not fuck-you money, but it's definitely fuck-this-situation money. Enough to expand your farm, maybe buy some of the equipment you've been saving for, set yourself up properly for the next few years.

"This is a one-time offer," Callaway says, noting your reaction. "My client values privacy above all else and is willing to pay for your discretion."

"Your client," you say slowly, "can go fuck herself."

The lawyer's professional mask slips for just a second, surprise flickering across his features. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me." You straighten up, no longer leaning casually against the doorframe. "You can take your NDA and your generous compensation and tell your client to shove them both up her ass."

"Miss-"

"I'm not signing shit." The anger is building now, hot and fuming in your chest. "Your client thinks she can send her lawyers around with checkbooks every time she fucks up? She thinks money fixes everything?"

"I think there may be some misunderstanding-"

"Oh, there's no misunderstanding." You step forward, and Callaway actually takes a step back. "I understand perfectly. Your client screwed up, got caught being human for five minutes, and now she's trying to buy my silence."

"The offer is quite generous-"

"I don't give a shit how generous it is. You know what I want? I want your client to come over here herself and have an actual conversation with me like an adult. I want her to stop hiding behind lawyers and security guards and NDAs and that fucking gate of hers and just talk to me."

Callaway looks uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm afraid my client prefers to handle all communications through proper legal channels-"

"Of course she does. God forbid she should have to deal with the consequences of her actions directly."

"The offer stands until five o'clock today," he says, apparently deciding that reasoning with you is a lost cause. "I'd encourage you to consider it carefully. My client values her privacy, and she has the resources to protect it through... various means."

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. You smile, sharp and dangerous.

"Is that supposed to scare me? Because let me tell you something, David." You lean forward, close enough that he has to meet your eyes. "I spent ten years as an investigative journalist. I've been threatened by drug cartels, corrupt politicians, and generals with private armies. You think I'm going to be intimidated by a pop star with a couple billion dollars in her pocket?"

His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I'm simply conveying my client's position."

"Then convey this back to your client: if she wants my silence, she can ask for it herself. Face to face. Just her and me having an honest conversation about what she actually wants."

"That's... not how my client operates."

"Then I guess your client is shit out of luck, isn't she?"

You step back and start to close the door, but Callaway puts his hand out to stop it.

"The offer expires at five," he says again. "I'd strongly advise you to reconsider."

"Noted," you say, and slam the door in his face.

Through the window, you watch him walk back to his sedan, phone already pressed to his ear. Probably calling his fucking asshole client to report that the farmer is being unreasonable and refusing to play by the rules.

You pour yourself another cup of coffee and settle onto your couch, staring out at the mountains. Five o'clock. That gives Taylor about eight hours to decide whether her pride is worth more than her privacy.

You're betting on pride, but then again, you've been wrong about Taylor Swift before.

Chapter Text

The sun is barely up and you're already knee-deep in the coffee plants, hands moving with the efficiency that comes from three years of forcing yourself to care about something other than the gaping hole where your old life used to be. The geisha are finally showing the promise you'd hoped for when you first planted them - delicate, almost ethereal in the early morning light, cherries ripening to that perfect deep red that means everything in this business.

You'd researched geisha coffee obsessively in those first few months after moving here, partly because you genuinely wanted to understand what you were getting into, but mostly because diving headfirst into the technical minutiae of altitude and processing methods was easier than thinking about why you'd chosen coffee farming in the first place. Why you'd chosen this particular variety, with its complexity and its demanding growing requirements.

She would have loved this, you think, running your fingers over a particularly healthy branch. The thought comes without warning, the way it always does, and you push it down with the same practiced efficiency you use for everything else these days.

The sound of an engine coming up your driveway makes you look up from the plants. Joanna's beat-up 1997 Honda CR-V is kicking up dust as it navigates the ruts you keep meaning to fix, merengue already blasting from her speakers even though it's not even seven in the morning. 

Shit. You'd forgotten about lunch yesterday. And sort of neglected it the day before that, come to think of it.

She parks next to your truck and gets out, wearing the expression of someone who's been worried and is now oscillating between relief and irritation.

"So you're alive," she calls out, picking her way between the coffee plants toward you. "Good to know. I was starting to wonder if the mysterious hot blonde had murdered you and buried you somewhere in the mountains."

"Very funny." You don't look up from the plant you're examining, checking for signs of coffee berry borer. "Just been busy."

"Busy." Joanna stops a few feet away, hands on her hips. "So busy you couldn't answer your phone? So busy you stood me up for lunch yesterday?"

You wince. "Sorry. Lost track of time."

"Bullshit." She moves closer, studying your face with the kind of analytical attention that never fails to make you itchy. "When's the last time you slept?"

"I sleep."

"When's the last time you slept for more than three hours at a stretch?"

You don't answer, because the truth is you can't remember. The past few days have been a blur of work and angry pacing and checking your phone for something, though you're not exactly sure what. It's not like she had your number, right?

"Right." Joanna settles onto a fallen log that you've been meaning to clear for months, clearly prepared to wait you out. "So we're doing this the hard way. Start talking."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The hell there isn't. Three days ago you were practically vibrating with excitement about the farm and all and then you meet the blonde. Two days ago you needed a ride to get your truck and looked like you'd seen a ghost. Yesterday you disappeared entirely. Today you're out here at dawn working on your plants like you're trying to distract yourself from something."

She's not wrong. Working with your hands has always been your go-to coping mechanism, but lately you've been taking it to extremes. Yesterday you'd pruned half the farm, reorganised your entire drying setup, and cleaned equipment that was already clean. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

"It's complicated," you say finally, again, just like in your text messages two days ago, because it's easier than explaining that you've been waiting for a knock on your door that never came, and probably never would.

"Good complicated or bad complicated?" She echoes her own text, that never really got a response.

"Both." You move to the next plant, grateful for something to do with your hands. "She turned out to be... not who I thought she was."

"Meaning?"

You consider how much to tell her. The truth is too big, too unbelievable, too... dangerous? But some version of the truth might help.

"Remember how I've been dealing with that property dispute? The asshole neighbour with the lawyers and the security guy?"

"The one who's been making your life hell for months. Yeah, what about it?"

"Turns out the blonde from the bar... she's connected to that situation."

Joanna's eyebrows shoot up. "Connected how?"

"She lives there. On the property." You pause, then decide fuck it, might as well commit to this version of events. "She is the asshole neighbour."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I wish I was."

"So let me get this straight." Joanna stands up, pacing between the coffee plants. "You finally meet someone you're interested in for the first time since I've known you, and she turns out to be the person who's been threatening to sue you over whatever the hell she's threatening to sue you?"

"That's the general idea, yeah."

"Jesus Christ. What are the fucking odds?"

You laugh, but there's no humour in it, really. "Apparently pretty good in a place like this. Small town and all."

Joanna stops pacing, fixing you with that look that means she's putting pieces together. "So what happened? After you found out, I mean."

This is where it gets tricky. How do you explain that you left her as soon as you find out in spite of the fucking throbbing she caused between your legs with just a makeout session? How do explain that you went to her house the following day and nearly fucked her against her kitchen counter before walking away? How do you explain the lawyer with the NDA, the implicit threats, the way you've been staring at your gate for two days waiting for her to show up?

"We had a fight," you say finally. "A big one."

"About the property thing?"

"Among other things." You move to another plant, hoping the movement will hide the heat you can feel rising in your cheeks. "Turns out she's got some very strong opinions about how negotiations should work."

"And?"

"And I told her exactly what I thought of her negotiation tactics."

Joanna grins. "I bet you did. How'd she take it?"

"About as well as you'd expect from someone who's used to getting their way." You pause, remembering the feel of Taylor's mouth against yours, the way she'd tasted like expensive whisky and poorly brewed coffee, the little whimpering sounds she made as you licked inside her mouth. "Though she gave as good as she got."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it got... heated."

"Heated how?" Joanna's grin widens. "Screaming match heated?"

"I might have raised my voice a little."

"And?"

"And she raised hers back."

"What else?"

You feel your face getting warm. "What makes you think there's more?"

"Because you're blushing like a teenager and avoiding eye contact." Joanna settles back onto the log, clearly delighted. "Come on, spill. What exactly happened during this 'heated' argument?"

"We might have... kissed."

"Might have?"

You sigh. "We kissed."

"During the fight?"

"During the fight."

Joanna lets out a whoop of laughter. "Oh my god, you had angry sex with Asshole Neighbour!"

"We didn't have sex."

"But you wanted to."

You don't answer, which is apparently answer enough.

"Holy shit." Joanna is practically bouncing now. "Holy fucking shit."

"Please, don't. I already know how fucked up it sounds."

"It sounds like you're finally living again."

The words hit harder than they were probably intended to. You turn away, focusing intently on a coffee cherry that doesn't really need much more of your attention at this very moment.

"It's not that simple," you say quietly.

"Why not?"

"Because she's... because this isn't just about the property dispute. There are other complications."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that she's clearly got more money than God and I'm barely making ends meet with this place. Like the fact that she's spent months treating me like an inconvenience instead of a human being. Like the fact that I don't even know her."

That last part is technically true, even if it's not the whole truth.

"So ask her."

"Ask her what?"

"Her story. What she does. Why she's here. All the normal getting-to-know-you questions that people ask when they're interested in each other."

"It's not that easy."

"Why not?"

"Because she's made it clear that she doesn't want anything to do with me beyond our legal dispute." You move to another plant, needing the distraction. "After what happened, she basically told me it was a mistake and kicked me out."

"Wait." Joanna stands up again. "She kicked you out? After you fucked?"

"We didn't fuck. Again, it's complicated."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it is." You finally look at her, and she must see something in your expression because her teasing smile fades.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." You sink down onto the ground between the coffee plants, suddenly exhausted. "I just thought... for a minute there, I thought maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I could feel something again. Something other than just getting through each day."

The admission hangs in the air between you, it settles, thickens, steeps, brews. Joanna sits down beside you, her expression gentle now instead of teasing.

"You know it's okay to want that, right?" she says. "To want more than just your coffee plants and your quiet life?"

"I know."

"Do you? Because for the three years I've known you, you've been so focused on this place, on making it perfect, like if you just work hard enough at it..."

She trails off, but you know what she's not saying. Like if you work hard enough, you can somehow justify the choice to be here instead of wherever you were before. Like if you can make this dream work, it'll somehow make sense of whatever brought you to Panama in the first place.

"The coffee was important to someone I cared about," you say finally. "This whole thing, the farm, the geisha... it wasn't originally my dream."

Joanna nods, not pushing for more details. She's good that way, it seems. You're suddenly more grateful than ever for her.

"But it is now," she says. "Your dream, I mean."

"Yeah. I think it is."

"And the blonde?"

You pull up a handful of grass, shredding it between your fingers. "I don't think she's coming back."

"How do you know?"

"Because I gave her the chance, and she didn't take it."

"What kind of chance?"

You consider telling her about the lawyer, the NDA, the implicit threats. But that would require explaining why someone would go to those lengths to keep you quiet, and you're quite not ready for that conversation.

"Where you lay it all on the line and wait to see what happens," you say instead. "And what happened was nothing."

"Maybe she's scared."

"Of what?"

"Of the same thing you're scared of. Of feeling something real for the first time in a long time."

You want to argue with her, want to point out that Taylor Swift has probably felt plenty of real things with plenty of real people, that whatever happened between you was just a moment of weakness on her part. On both your parts. But you can't say any of that without giving away more than you're willing to share, or that you probably, honestly, should.

"Maybe," you say instead. "But it doesn't change anything. She made her choice."

"And what choice are you making?"

You look around at your coffee plants, at the farm you've built with your own hands, at the life you've constructed in the shadow of the mountains. It's a good life, a quiet life, a life that makes sense.

"I'm choosing this," you say finally. "The farm, the coffee, the simple life. It's what I came here for."

-

The first week passes in a blur, all routine. You wake before dawn, check the plants, process yesterday's harvest, brew your morning coffee with the methodical precision of someone who needs the ritual more than the caffeine. You work until your hands ache and your back protests, then force yourself through a punishing run up the mountain roads until your lungs burn and your legs shake.

Exhaustion, you've learned, is an excellent substitute for peace of mind.

By the second week, you've stopped checking your phone obsessively. Stopped pausing mid-task to listen for the sound of footsteps on your porch. The silence from Taylor's property is absolute - no more visits from Marco, no more formal complaints delivered through intermediaries, no more legal letters in your mailbox. It's like the entire dispute just... never happened.

You tell yourself this is what you wanted. Problem solved, crisis averted, life returned to its regularly scheduled programming.

The third week, you finally stop jumping every time a car drives past your gate. Stop wondering if every distant engine sound might be her SUV. Your daily news check - fifteen minutes each morning with your coffee, a habit left over from your old life - becomes routine again instead of a desperate search for any mention of Taylor Swift sightings or mysterious pop star activities in Panama. There's nothing, of course, there never is. The world has apparently accepted that she's gone, and that maybe that's for the best.

By the fourth week, you're almost convinced you imagined the whole thing. That the woman in the bar was just some rich expat with boundary issues, that the kitchen encounter was just a moment of mutual insanity brought on by too much alcohol and touch starvation, that the arguments never happened. That whatever strange spell had been cast over those few surreal days has finally, mercifully, been broken.

Week five brings what feels like healing, like moving on. You wake up without immediately thinking about her. You work in your plants without scanning the horizon for movement from her property. You have lunch with Joanna and manage to laugh at her stories about the latest drama in town without that constant underlying tension that's been living in your chest.

Week six, you realise you haven't thought about Taylor Swift in an entire day. Then you realise you just thought about her by realising you hadn't thought about her, which seems like the kind of circular logic that would have amused your old therapist, if you attended those sessions. Maybe it's time to go back to therapy, you think.

By the end of the second month, you've settled into something that might actually be called peace. The farm is thriving, your latest harvest is your best yet, and you've managed to save enough money to finally order some equipment upgrades you've been putting off. Life is good. Quiet, predictable, uncomplicated good.

Which is, of course, when the universe decides to remind you that peace is a temporary condition at best.

-

The trip to San José de David takes longer than usual because your truck decided to throw a minor tantrum about starting, and then you get stuck behind a tourist bus full of retirees. By the time you make it to the supply store, you're running late and the afternoon heat is making you cranky.

Still, you manage to get everything on your list: a few coffee processing chemicals, replacement parts for your drying tables, enough groceries to last another two weeks, and a bottle of good whisky because you've been having the kind of month that deserves a small celebration.

The drive home is peaceful, windows down, that golden afternoon light that makes the mountains look like they're glowing. You're mentally planning your evening - maybe a real dinner instead of whatever leftovers are lurking in your fridge, definitely a glass of that whisky on the porch while you watch the sunset - when you turn into your driveway and see it.

A package. Sitting on your front porch, brown paper wrapping and ribbon, definitely not something that arrived via the usual delivery routes to your remote corner of Panama.

You park the truck and sit there for a moment, staring at the package through your windshield. It's about the sise of a shoebox, professionally wrapped, pristine presentation.

Your journalist instincts kick in immediately, that old paranoia that kept you alive in Guatemala and Colombia flooding back like muscle memory. Unexpected packages delivered to remote locations are never good news. Could be anything inside - surveillance equipment, threats, or worse. You've seen what people do to reporters who ask the wrong questions.

No one knows you well enough to send you gifts. Joanna's more likely to show up with a six-pack and whatever gossip she's collected in town than to leave mysterious packages. Your family back home barely remembers to call on your birthday, let alone send care packages to Panama. More importantly, no one should know where you live well enough to have something hand-delivered to your front porch.

You grab your groceries and walk slowly to the porch, every instinct screaming at you to be careful. Up close, you can see there's no return address, no shipping label, nothing to indicate where it came from or how it got here. Just your name written in loopy script across cream-colored cardstock, tied to the ribbon like a gift tag.

Your hands are shaking slightly as you unlock your front door and dump your groceries inside. The package feels heavier than it looked. You hold it up to your ear first - old habit - listening for any ticking or electronic sounds. Nothing.

You set it on your kitchen table and stare at it for a long moment, trying to decide if opening it is a good idea. Every professional instinct you have is telling you this could be dangerous, but curiosity has always been your weakness, and a few years of alleged retirement hasn't changed that. You carefully peel back the tape, opening one end first to peer inside. No wires, no strange smells, just tissue paper.

The ribbon comes off easily. Underneath is a black box with a minimalist logo you don't recognise, the kind of understated branding that screams expensive.

The first thing you see when you open it is the coffee grinder. Not just any coffee grinder - this is the kind of equipment you've been drooling over in specialty catalogs for years, the kind of thing that costs more than most people spend on their entire kitchen setup. Hand-forged burrs, precision engineering, the sort of tool that serious coffee professionals consider essential and everyone else considers insane.

But there's more. Nestled alongside the grinder are three small bags of coffee beans, each in packaging you recognise from online research but have never had the guts to actually buy considering their very heavy price tags. Jamaican Blue Mountain, Hawaiian Kona Estate Reserve, Panama Geisha Esmeralda Special - the kind that sells for hundreds of dollars per pound.

And at the bottom, a small wooden box containing what looks like a complete cupping set - professional tasting spoons, temperature strips, pH testing equipment.

There's a card tucked beneath everything, the same cream-colored paper as the gift tag, that same loopy script.

Since you clearly know the difference between good coffee and great coffee, thought you mind find better use for those than I would. I'm sorry for the terrible espresso.

No signature. No name. Just those two lines in handwriting that you definitely don't recognise. For a moment, you just stare at the card, brain trying to process what you're seeing. Then it hits you like a freight train.

Taylor fucking Swift just sent you what amounts to a small fortune in coffee equipment.

The surprise gives way to confusion almost immediately. Why now? After two months of complete silence, after lawyers and NDAs and all the reasons this should be over, she decides to send gifts? Like some kind of peace offering?

But confusion quickly burns away, replaced by a familiar heat in your chest. Anger. Pure, crystalline anger.

She thinks she can buy you. That's what this is - another attempt to manage you, to smooth over the complications you represent in her carefully controlled life. When the legal threats didn't work, when the NDA didn't work, she's moved on to expensive bribes disguised as thoughtful gifts.

You grab a pen from the kitchen drawer and flip the card over, scribbling on the back in your own messy handwriting: I don't take bribes. But thanks for thinking of me, I'm flattered.

Then you start putting everything back in the box. The grinder, the precious coffee beans, the professional equipment - all of it goes back into that perfect tissue paper packaging. Your hands are shaking with rage now, not fear.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing at Taylor's gate with the rewrapped package in your arms. The intercom crackles to life before you even press the button.

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to-" Marco's voice, that same neutral-bored spectrum as ever.

"I'm returning something," you interrupt, setting the package down directly in front of the gate where it can't be missed. "Tell your boss her guilt money isn't welcome."

You turn on your heel and walk back to your truck without waiting for a response, leaving the expensive peace offering sitting there like a reproach.

Let her figure out what to do with it. You're done playing whatever game this is supposed to be.

Chapter Text

It's about a week after when you need to leave the comfort of your farm again for last-minute supplies in Boquete.

When you get back home, about three hours afterwards, the first thing you notice when you turn into your driveway is the figure pacing back and forth in front of your house. Even from a distance, even with her hair pulled back, with her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing denim overalls over a simple white tank top, you recognise her immediately.

Taylor Swift is having what appears to be a complete meltdown on your front porch.

"Fuck," you mutter, gripping the steering wheel harder. You'd hoped the returned coffee supplies would be the end of it, that she'd finally take the hint and leave you alone. For a woman universally known for her easter eggs, she, apparently, sure isn't very good at taking hints.

You consider just driving past, maybe circling around to Joanna's place until Taylor gets bored and leaves. But your groceries include frozen items, and, more importantly, running away from problems is for pussies.

You park next to your house and sit in the truck for a moment, watching her through the windscreen. She's agitated in a way you haven't seen before - not the controlled anger from your kitchen confrontation, something more frantic. Her movements are sharp, jerky, like she's been running on caffeine only for days.

When she spots your truck, she stops pacing and stands there staring, hands clenched at her sides. Even from here, you can see the tension in her shoulders.

You grab your grocery bags and get out, deliberately taking your time. If she wants to talk, she can wait while you unload your supplies.

"We need to talk," she calls out before you've even closed the truck door.

"No, we don't." You hoist two bags of groceries and head toward your front door, not bothering to look at her. "In fact, I'm pretty sure your lawyer made it clear that talking is the last thing you want to do."

"That wasn't-" She follows you to the door, hovering just close enough to be annoying but not close enough to be threatening. "That was a mistake."

"Yeah, well, you seem to make a lot of those." You fumble with your keys, awkward with the grocery bags in your arms. "What happened to handling everything through proper legal channels or whatever?"

"I told him to let it go."

That stops you cold, key halfway to the lock. "What?"

"Callaway. I told him to let it go." Her voice is strained, like she hasn't slept in days. "The NDA, the threats, all of it. I told him to back off."

You turn to look at her properly for the first time since getting out of the truck. She looks like shit, if you're being honest. Dark circles under those bright blue eyes, that perfectly put-together appearance from before replaced by something more desperate and human.

"Why?"

"Because-" She runs a hand through her hair, messing up the ponytail. "Because you were right. About the lawyers, about hiding behind other people. About all of it."

You study her face, looking for the lie, the angle, the manipulation. But all you see is exhaustion and what might be genuine regret.

"So you decided to show up on my doorstep uninvited instead?"

"I've been trying to work up the courage to come over here for over a week." The admission comes out in a rush, like she's been holding it back for too long. "I keep driving to your gate and then chickening out."

Despite yourself, you feel a small flicker of something that might be sympathy. 

You squash it ruthlessly.

"Well, you're here now. What do you want?"

"To apologise, to explain, to-" She gestures helplessly, as if whatever acrobacies she's trying to do with her hands will convey the apparent mess in her mind. "I don't know, honestly. I just know that the way I've been handling this is fucked up, and I need to fix it."

You consider this for a long moment, key still in your hand, groceries getting heavier by the second. Every instinct you have is telling you to tell her to fuck off, to send her away, to stick to your guns and refuse to engage until she's ready to be completely honest with you.

"Fine," you say finally, unlocking the door. "But I need to put these groceries away first. And if you want to have this conversation, you're going to help."

She nods eagerly, like she's grateful for any small task that keeps her hands busy. "Okay. Yes. Whatever you need."

You push the door open and she follows you inside, immediately scanning your living space.

"Kitchen's through there," you say, nodding toward the back of the house. "Bags on the counter."

She takes half the grocery bags, and you spend the next few minutes putting away supplies in surprisingly comfortable silence. She doesn't comment on your modest kitchen or the mismatched appliances, doesn't seem to judge the fact that your entire house could probably fit inside her living room, or at least, if she does, she never voices it out loud.

"You want coffee?" you ask when the last can of beans goes into the pantry. It's an automatic offer, the kind of hospitality your mother drilled into you over three and a half decades ago.

"I-" She pauses, a thread of hesitation flickering across her expression. "Actually, yes. That would be good."

You nod toward the small table by the window. "Sit. This'll take a few minutes."

But instead of sitting, she hovers near the counter, watching as you pull out your equipment. Your setup is modest compared to her expensive machine - a simple manual grinder, a ceramic pour-over dripper, a gooseneck kettle that's seen better days.

"You really know what you're doing," she observes as you measure out beans.

"Unlike some people." You can't resist the dig, though it, unfortunately, comes out much less harsh than you intended it.

She has the grace to look embarrassed. "That machine came with the house. I never figured out how to use it properly."

"Clearly." You start grinding beans, the familiar rhythm of the hand crank helping to settle your nerves. "Good coffee isn't about expensive equipment. It's about understanding the process. The beans you sent, those were good quality. Wasted on that machine of yours, but good."

"They were from some selection list. I read that single-origin beans were better than blends."

"Depends what you're going for. Single-origin showcases specific terroir - the soil, climate, processing methods. Blends are more about balance and consistency."

She moves closer. "What kind of beans are those?"

"Geisha variety. I grew them. Harvested about three weeks ago."

"You grew these yourself?"

"That's what farmers do." But you catch the genuine curiosity in her tone and soften slightly. "These are from my newest plants. Geisha is tricky to grow, but when you get it right..."

You trail off, focusing on the grind consistency. It's easier than looking at her, easier than acknowledging the way she's watching your hands move with something like fascination.

"Can I help?" she asks quietly.

You glance up, raise a brow. "With what?"

"The coffee. I mean, if you don't mind teaching someone who apparently doesn't know the first thing about making decent coffee."

It's a peace offering, you realise. A small gesture toward the kind of normal conversation you both seem to crave but can't quite manage.

"Water first," you say, nodding toward the kettle. "Fill it about three-quarters full."

She moves to the sink, and you try not to notice the way she bites her lower lip in concentration, like making coffee is the most important task in the world. Some days, you feel like it is, at least for you. This isn't exactly one feeling you held high hopes of sharing with Taylor Swift, though. When she brings the kettle back, you show her how to set it on the burner.

"Temperature is crucial," you explain, falling into the familiar rhythm of teaching. "Most people use water that's too hot. You want it just off the boil, around 200 degrees."

"How do you know when it's ready?"

"Experience. But if you don't have a thermometer, bring it to a boil and then let it sit for thirty seconds." You demonstrate with the pour-over setup, placing the dripper on top of a high glass. "While that's heating, we prep the filter."

You show her how to rinse the paper filter, explaining how it removes the papery taste and preheats the ceramic. 

"Now the important part," you say, spooning the ground coffee into the filter. "The bloom."

"The what?"

"When you add just enough water to wet the grounds, they release CO2 and expand. See?" You pour a small amount of water in a circular motion, watching as the coffee grounds bubble and rise. "Thirty seconds, then you continue the pour."

She leans closer to watch, close enough that you can smell that vanilla perfume again. "It's like they're breathing."

"Good coffee is alive," you say without thinking, then immediately feel embarrassed by how pretentious that sounds.

But she doesn't laugh or make fun of you. Instead, she nods like it makes perfect sense.

The coffee finishes dripping, and you divide it between two ceramic cups. You set one in front of Taylor and take the seat across from her, cradling your own mug.

She takes a sip and her eyebrows rise. "Holy shit."

"Told you, coffee burner."

"This is incredible. I can taste... is that jasmine?"

"Good palate. Most people miss the floral notes on first taste."

She takes another sip, pausing with her brows scrunched together as if in deep thought. "It's completely different from anything I've ever had. Even expensive coffee shops in New York never tasted like this."

"Because they're not using beans this fresh, and they're probably over-roasting to hide defects. Commercial coffee is about consistency and shelf life, not flavour."

"How long have you been doing this? Growing coffee, I mean."

The question catches you off guard. You'd been so focused on the technical aspects that you'd almost forgotten who you were talking to and why she was here.

"Almost three years," you say carefully. "Since I moved here."

"It's obviously more than just a hobby."

There's something in her tone that makes you look up from your coffee. She's studying your face with the same intensity she'd shown when listening to your brewing explanation, as if she's trying to decode and learn something. It's a startling feeling.

"It's a living," you say, which is true but not the whole truth.

"Is it what you always wanted to do?"

The question hits closer to home than you'd like. You think about Reneé, about the dreams you'd shared, about how this farm was supposed to be your retirement plan, your together-forever project.

"Not exactly," you admit.

Taylor waits, clearly hoping you'll elaborate. When you don't, she tries a different approach.

"You're good at it. The coffee, I mean. This is..." She takes another sip. "This is like art."

"It's agriculture."

"It can be both."

You're quiet for a moment, studying her over the rim of your mug. There's something different about her now, sitting in your kitchen drinking your coffee. Less guarded, more genuinely curious. 

"Your five minutes are up," you say finally.

She blinks, like she'd forgotten why she came here in the first place. "Right. I wanted to explain about the NDA."

"I'm listening."

She sets down her coffee cup and folds her hands in her lap again. "It wasn't supposed to be insulting, or threatening, or manipulative. It was supposed to be... protective."

"Protective of what?"

"Of both of us." She meets your eyes. "Do you have any idea what would happen if people found out where I am?"

"Enlighten me."

"Media circus. Paparazzi camping in the hills with telephoto lenses, reporters bribing you for information, fans showing up at all hours." Her voice gets tighter with each word. "My life, what's left of it, completely destroyed. And yours too, by extension."

You consider this. It's not like you hadn't thought about the implications of knowing her location, but you'd been too angry to consider the practical realities.

"So the NDA was to protect me?"

"Partly."

"And the money?"

She looks down at her hands. "Compensation for the inconvenience. For getting dragged into something that isn't your fault."

"And the property dispute being resolved in my favour?"

"That was always going to happen anyway." She glances up. "The whole thing was just... Marco being overzealous about security. He thought someone was surveilling the property from your side."

This stops you cold. "What?"

"The disputes, the complaints, all of it. Marco was convinced you were some kind of threat. He wanted to buy you out or force you to move, anything to create more distance between your property and mine."

"And you just... went along with it?"

"I didn't know." Her voice is quiet, almost ashamed. "I gave him broad authority to handle security concerns, and he interpreted that as dealing with you. I only found out the specifics after... after the other night."

You stare at her, processing this information. Three months of legal hell, thousands of dollars in attorney fees, sleepless nights worrying about losing your farm, and it was all because her security guy decided you were suspicious for having the audacity to live next door.

"You didn't know," you repeat slowly.

"I didn't know it was you specifically, or what the disputes were about. I just knew Marco was handling some kind of neighbour situation." She runs a hand through her hair again. "I don't... I don't usually get involved in the day-to-day stuff. I have people for that."

"You have people," you echo.

"I know how that sounds."

"Do you?"

She's quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee cup. "I know it sounds like I'm disconnected from reality. Like I'm so insulated by money and staff that I don't understand how my decisions affect other people."

"Aren't you?"

The question comes out harsher than you initially intended, which is in of itself saying something, but she doesn't flinch.

"Maybe," she says. "Probably. But I'm trying to understand now."

"Why? Because you got caught?"

"Because I hurt you."

The simple statement catches you completely off guard.

"And because," she continues, "you're the first person in five years who's treated me like a normal human being, and I fucked it up."

You don't know what to say to that. Part of you wants to stay angry, to hold onto the righteousness of being wronged. But there's something about the way she's sitting there, hands wrapped around your coffee cup, looking small and embarassed and like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, that makes it hard to maintain your fury.

"The coffee's getting cold," you say finally, because it's easier than addressing anything she just said.

She takes another sip, and her expression brightens slightly. "Still incredible, even cold."

"It's better hot."

"Most things are."

"Taylor."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you really here?"

She's quiet for so long you think she might not answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Because I don't want you to hate me."

The honesty of it hits you like a physical blow. Here's Taylor Swift, one of the most powerful women in entertainment, sitting in your modest kitchen drinking your coffee and admitting that your opinion of her matters.

"I don't hate you," you say, surprising yourself with the truth of it.

"You should."

"Maybe. But I don't think I do."

She looks up at you then, and there's something hopeful in her expression that makes your chest tight.

"Does that mean you'll consider signing the NDA?"

And just like that, the spell breaks.

"Fuck, Taylor." You set down your coffee cup harder than necessary, and immediately regrets it. It was one of the expensive set. "You were doing so well."

"What?"

"This whole conversation, this... whatever this was. I actually thought you were being genuine."

"I am being genuine."

"No, you're not. You're still trying to manage me. Still trying to get what you want." You stand up, needing distance. "The coffee lesson, the vulnerability, the admission about hurting me, it's all just another strategy, isn't it?"

"That's not-"

"Isn't it? Because we just had this whole conversation about how you don't understand how your actions affect people, and then you immediately try to manipulate me into signing away my rights."

She stands too, reaching toward you. "I'm not trying to manipulate-"

"Then what do you call this?" You gesture between the two of you. "The coffee compliments, the personal revelations, the doe-eyed vulnerability? You think if you make me feel sorry for you, I'll just roll over and do what you want?"

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Taylor? Because I'm having a really hard time telling the difference between genuine remorse and some very sophisticated damage control campaign."

She stares at you for a moment, and you can see her struggling with something. Finally, she sighs.

"You're right," she says quietly.

"What?"

"You're right. Part of me was hoping that if I explained things, if I made you understand my position, you'd be more willing to sign the NDA." She meets your eyes. "But that doesn't mean everything I said was calculated. It doesn't mean I don't actually feel bad about what happened."

The admission defuses some of your anger, but not all of it.

"How am I supposed to tell the difference?"

"I don't know," she says. "I've been... managing my image for so long that I'm not sure I know the difference anymore either."

It's another moment of startling honesty, and you're not sure what to do with it.

"The coffee," you say finally. "When you were asking about the brewing process, the beans, all of that. Was that part of the strategy too?"

She considers the question seriously. "No. That was just... curiosity. And maybe a little bit of envy."

"Envy?"

"You're passionate about something real. Something tangible. You create something beautiful and share it with people." She looks around your kitchen, wetting her lips. "When was the last time I created something that wasn't commodified or analysed or turned into content?"

The question hangs in the air, and you realise she's not really asking you.

"So what happens now?" you ask.

"I don't know." She picks up her coffee cup, realises it's empty, and sets it back down. "I'd still like you to consider the NDA, but I understand if you won't."

"And if I don't sign it?"

"Then I hope you'll be discreet anyway. Not for me, but for the both of us."

It's not a threat this time, just a request. Somehow that makes it harder to dismiss.

"I need to think about it."

"Okay."

She moves toward the door, then stops. "The coffee really was incredible. Thank you for... for teaching me. I'd like to learn more, if you'd be willing."

"Taylor."

"Yeah?"

"Next time you want to have a conversation with me, just ask. Don't send lawyers, don't send gifts, don't try to manage the situation. Just knock on my door and ask."

She nods. "Okay."

"And if you do really want to learn about coffee, you'll have to get rid of that ridiculous machine and start from scratch."

For the first time since she arrived, she smiles. It's small and tentative, but genuine.

"I think I can manage that."

Chapter Text

Three days later, you're in the middle of your early morning routine - checking moisture levels, pruning dead growth, cursing at the plants that seem determined to test your patience - when you hear the familiar sound of an engine coming up your driveway.

You don't look up immediately. Could be Joanna stopping by unannounced again as she tends to do, or maybe the supply delivery you're not expecting for another week. But when you finally glance toward the sound, you see Taylor's dark SUV (which you can now, with confidence, identify as a Toyota something. It's a wonder she can drive that thing around discreetly) parked next to your truck, and she's already walking toward you with that same brown-paper package tucked under her arm.

"Absolutely not," you call out before she's within normal conversation distance.

"Just hear me out," she says, not breaking stride.

"I told you I don't want your guilt presents."

"It's not a guilt present. Well, not anymore." She stops about five metres away, holding the package like a peace offering. "It's a practical solution to a practical problem."

You straighten up, brushing dirt from your hands. "What problem?"

"You make incredible coffee with mediocre equipment. I have incredible equipment that I clearly don't know how to use." She shrugs. "Seems like a waste all around."

"I'm not taking your expensive shit, Taylor."

"Then don't think of it as mine. Think of it as... shared resources. You teach me about coffee, I provide better tools for the teaching."

You stare at her for a long moment. She's wearing shorts and a faded t-shirt this time, face clean, hair pulled back in a messy bun. Once again you can the faint beginning of age marks.

"That's manipulative," you say finally.

"Probably. But it's also practical."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect that and take it back home where it'll continue collecting dust while I make terrible coffee with a twenty-thousand-dollar machine."

The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh.

"Fine," you say, going back to your plants. "Leave it on the porch."

"Awesome!"

She walks toward your house, and you try to ignore the way you can feel her presence even when she's behind you. When she comes back, she doesn't pivot back to her car immediately. Instead, she hovers near the edge of your coffee plants, watching you work.

"Can I ask what you're doing?"

"Checking for cherry rot. Too much moisture this week."

"Is that bad?"

"Can be. If it spreads, it'll ruin the whole harvest." You move to the next plant, hyperaware of her watching. "Coffee's fickle. Everything has to be just right."

"Sounds stressful."

"It's not. It's actually a good way to relax, take your mind off things."

She's quiet for a moment, and you think she might leave. Instead, she asks, "Mind if I watch? I promise not to get in the way."

You glance up at her, and to your utmost dread, she seems... actually curious. It's eerie, startling, honestly all-around weird. She seems like she's starving for any small piece of real, tangible work, for any crumb of knowledge she can get her hands on. And, to your own dismay, you just sigh and let her.

"Your funeral," you say, turning back to your work.

She settles onto the same fallen log Joanna had claimed weeks ago, close enough to observe but far enough to stay out of your way. And she does what she promised, she simply watches. Quietly, intently, like she's studying for an exam.

After about twenty minutes of being observed by Taylor, you realise you don't mind having her there.

-

The next time you see her is purely by accident, two weeks later in the Super Baru grocery store in Boquete. The afternoon light filters through the store's wide windows as you stand contemplating the eternal question of which olive oil won't break the bank. Extra virgin versus regular, Spanish versus Italian, the kind of mundane decision that somehow feels monumental when you're trying to stretch your budget. That's when you catch a flash of blonde hair in your peripheral vision, unmistakable even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

She's three aisles over, wearing a faded baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a loose cotton shirt over joggers, studying a display of local honey carefully, turning each jar to read the labels. Normal grocery shopping behaviour, except for the way her head keeps swivelling - quick, subtle glances sweeping the store like she's expecting someone to recognise her.

You finish deliberating over olive oil (the Spanish wins, barely) and make your way through the checkout line, watching her from the corner of your eye as she fills her cart with an impressive array of baking supplies. Bags of flour - bread flour, all-purpose, even some specialty whole wheat - salt, sugar, active dry yeast, a dozen eggs, butter. 

You're loading your modest haul into your truck when she emerges from the store, pushing a cart that looks like she's planning to feed a small village. The late afternoon sun catches the worry lines around her eyes as she spots you across the parking lot.

For a heartbeat, she freezes completely - shoulders tensing, cart handle gripped white-knuckled - like she's running calculations on whether to acknowledge you or pretend she never saw you. The moment stretches just long enough to feel awkward before you make the decision for both of you.

"Planning to open a bakery?" you call out, nodding toward her overflowing cart.

Relief washes across her face so visibly it's almost comical. Her shoulders drop, and something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. 

"Something like that," she says, wheeling the cart closer. "Though I should probably warn you, my coffee-making skills haven't improved much since our last encounter."

"At least you're honest about your limitations."

She laughs. "Limited to exactly one beverage, apparently."

"I don't know about that." You gesture toward her cart, taking in the professional-grade ingredients and fresh produce. "This doesn't look like the shopping list of someone who lives on takeout."

Her expression shifts, and for the first time since you've known her, there's something that might be pride flickering in her eyes. "Would you believe me if I said I'm actually an excellent cook? And baker?"

You raise an eyebrow. "After the coffee incident?"

"Coffee is apparently the one thing I can't master," she insists, and there's a confidence in her voice you haven't heard before. "But everything else? I can make a proper coq au vin, perfect risotto, a mean bread, even some great cookies." She pauses, then adds with a slight grin, "I just never really had to worry much about making my own coffee."

"So it's specifically coffee..."

"Specifically coffee." She still has that lopsided grin on and it's a bit irritating how disarming it can be. "I've been cooking and baking for years. My sourdough could convert carb-avoiders. Tell you what, I'll prove it. Fresh sourdough, delivered to your door within the week."

You study her face, looking for the catch, the polite deflection you've come to expect. Instead, you find something that looks suspiciously like genuine enthusiasm.

"Alright," you say, surprising yourself. "But if it's terrible, I'm telling everyone in town that you're a fraud."

"Deal." She's already pushing her cart toward her SUV, but there's a spring in her step that wasn't there before. "Fair warning though, once you taste my bread, you're going to have very high standards for every other bakery in Panama."

"We'll see about that."

She's loading bags into her vehicle when you call out, "If you want to practice the coffee thing, you know where to find me."

The offer surprises you as much as it seems to surprise her. She straightens up, a bag of flour still in her hands, eyebrows raised.

"Really?"

"Really. But you're bringing your own beans next time."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling as she closes her tailgate. "Alright, neighbour. You've got yourself a deal."

-

She shows up the following Saturday morning, just after sunrise, carrying a bag of coffee beans in one hand and a cloth-wrapped loaf in the other. There's something endearing about the way she balances both offerings while also managing what appears to be genuine nervousness.

"I wasn't sure what time counted as too early," she says as soon as you open the door, already dressed and halfway through your first cup of the day. The morning air carries the scent of fresh bread, warm and yeasty and completely at odds with her nervous energy.

"For a farmer? This is practically sleeping in." You step aside to let her in, taking in the warm, yeasty smell emanating from the wrapped bread. She hovers in the doorway for a split moment, before deciding to accept the silent invite, as if unsure whether it is a trap. "What did you bring?"

She holds up the bag like an offering. "Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. The guy at the coffee shop said it was good for pour-over." She lifts the wrapped loaf slightly. "And I promised you sourdough."

"He wasn't wrong about the coffee. And that-" you nod toward the bread, "-smells incredible."

Her face lights up with genuine pride. "Wait until you taste it."

You unwrap the loaf on your counter, and the sight stops you short. It's beautiful, deep golden crust with perfect scoring, and even a few small loaf drawings carved in the crust, the kind of bread you'd expect from a high-end bakery. When you cut into it, it is open and airy, with that distinctive sourdough tang hitting your senses immediately.

"This is..." You take a bite, and it's everything she promised. Complex, perfectly fermented, with a crust that gives way to soft, flavourful interior. "Okay, you weren't kidding about your baking skills. Fuck."

"Told you." There's satisfaction in her voice, as if the honest-to-god beaming on her face - lighting it up as if she were sunlight embodied - wasn't enough. "Coffee might defeat me, but bread? Bread and I understand each other."

You take one more piece and set up your equipment while she watches, noting the way she, once again, pays attention to your every move, as if cataloguing and filing everything in her own mind. When you hand her the grinder, she doesn't need to be told what to do.

"Better," you observe as she measures out the grounds with careful precision.

"I practiced. Went through about half a pound of beans figuring out your technique."

"My technique?"

"The circular pour, the timing, the way you hold the kettle." She demonstrates the motion without actually pouring, her wrist moving in the same controlled arc you'd shown her the last time she was in that exact same spot in your kitchen. "I watched you do it a dozen times that day in my head, trying to remember the details."

There's something scarily intimate about the admission - the idea that she's been replaying your movements, studying them, trying to recreate the careful choreography of your hands in her own kitchen. You're suddenly very aware of how close you're standing, how the morning light streams through your window and catches the gold in her hair.

"Practice is good," you manage, your voice out of a sudden much rougher than it was just ten seconds ago.

She starts the pour, and you can't help but guide her, stepping closer, your hand covering hers on the kettle handle to steady her movements. 

"Slower here," you murmur, and she nods, adjusting. 

Her hair brushes against your chin, and you catch the scent of her shampoo and once again the fragrance of that maddening vanilla perfume mixed with the rich aroma of blooming coffee grounds. You can no longer smell vanilla without being thrown back into the pond of memory, blue as her eyes, glowing golden like her hair, and then in the blink of an eye you're just as out of a breath as if you were drowning.

The coffee she makes isn't perfect. The bloom could be more even, and she rushes the final pour slightly, but it's drinkable. More than drinkable, actually.

"Not bad," you say, and mean it.

"High praise from an expert."

"I'm not an expert. I'm just someone who cares about doing it right."

She takes a sip of her own creation, considering. "That's probably the same thing, isn't it?"

You're standing closer than you should be, close enough to see the way her lips curve around the rim of the cup, the way her eyes close slightly as she tastes what she's made. When she opens them again, she's looking directly at you, and there's something in her expression that makes your breath catch.

"This is nice," she says quietly, but you have the feeling she's not talking about the coffee anymore.

"Yeah," you agree, and you're not talking about the coffee either.

The space between you seems to shrink without either of you moving. Her free hand comes up, fingertips barely grazing your forearm, and the touch sends electricity straight through you. 

"I told you I was good at everything except coffee," she says.

"You were right." You don't move away from the contact, don't break eye contact. "You're full of surprises."

Her eyes drop to your mouth for just a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, and there's a question there, an invitation that makes your pulse quicken.

"Am I?"

You're leaning closer, she's leaning closer, and the morning light is warm on your skin, and the scent of fresh bread and perfectly brewed coffee fills the air between you. Her hand is still on the table, inches from yours. You're breathless

That's when you both seem to realise simultaneously what's happening.

Her cup clatters as she sets it down on the counter, her hand unsteady. The sound breaks whatever spell had been building, and suddenly you're both stepping back, the careful distance reasserting itself like a physical barrier.

"I should-" she starts.

"Yeah, you should-" you agree, both of you speaking over each other, both of you not finishing the thought.

She's already standing, moving towards your front door. "Thank you for the lesson. The coffee turned out well."

"It did." You stand too, uncertain whether you should try to salvage the moment or, for your own sanity, beg her to move faster already. "Keep practicing."

"I will." She's at the door now, hand on the handle, not quite meeting your eyes. "Same time next week? If you want to continue the lessons, I mean."

"Same time next week."

She nods once, quick and decisive, and then she's gone.

-

The routine develops gradually, without discussion or formal arrangement. Saturday mornings become coffee lessons, each one building on the last. She brings different beans - Colombian from Huila, Guatemalan Antigua, bright Kenyan AA - and you teach her how each origin requires slightly different approaches, how altitude and processing method affect extraction, how to adjust grind size and water temperature for optimal results, minutes that turn to hours of nerdy coffee ramblings.

She's a quick learner, which shouldn't surprise you but somehow does. By the third week, she's managing proper blooms that expand like small flowers in the dripper. By the fourth, her timing is almost as good as yours, her pours controlled and confident.

"You could probably teach this yourself now," you observe one Saturday morning, watching her execute a nearly perfect pour-over with some Panamanian beans she'd found at a specialty shop in the city, expensive stuff that most people would consider a waste to practice with.

"Probably." She doesn't look up from the dripper, maintaining her concentration until the last drop falls. "But then I'd have to drink alone."

It's a simple statement, but something about the way she says it, the quiet vulnerability underneath the casual tone, makes you look at her more carefully. There's loneliness in it, a quiet admission that these Saturday mornings have become important to her in ways that have nothing to do with coffee education or even that simmering tension that seems to linger beneath your every interaction. The way she lingers over breakfast, the way she seems reluctant to leave, the way she asks questions that keep the conversation going just a little longer.

"The farm keeps me pretty busy during the week," you find yourself saying, setting down your cup. "But if you wanted to learn about the growing side of things..."

She looks up then, eyes bright with the same genuine enthusiasm she'd shown when talking about her baking weeks before. "Really? You'd want me underfoot while you're trying to work?"

"Harvest season's starting soon. If you want to understand the full process, you should see where it begins." You gesture toward the window, where your coffee plants stretch across the hillside in neat rows. "Besides, I could use the help."

"I'd like that," she says, and you could swear to god you hear a hit of shyness in the agreement. "I'd like that a lot."

So she starts showing up on weekday afternoons, initially just to watch but gradually to help. She arrives in old jeans and work boots, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her. She's surprisingly good at identifying ripe cherries, the deep red ones that yield with just the right amount of pressure, surprisingly willing to get her hands dirty, surprisingly comfortable with the physical labor of farming. Which is, in all fair honest, definitely not something you expected from world-famous Taylor Swift. But then again, it seems like, for whatever reason, she has left that part of her identity behind her.

The first day, she lasted maybe an hour before needing a break. By the second week, she's working alongside you for entire afternoons, movements becoming more efficient.

"This is harder than it looks," she says one Wednesday afternoon, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist after two hours of picking. Her shirt is damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed from both exertion and heat, but her voice doesn't have an ounce of complaining in it, and she's smiling.

"Most worthwhile things are." You pause in your own picking to offer her your water bottle.

"Is that your philosophy on everything?" She takes a long drink, her throat working, a drop of water catching on her lower lip before she wipes it away. You swallow on a dry throat.

You consider the question, hands still moving through the coffee plants with automatic efficiency. "Pretty much. Easy things don't usually last."

She's quiet for a while after that, working alongside you in companionable silence. You find yourself stealing glances at her - the way she moves through the plants with increasing confidence, the small sound of satisfaction she makes when she finds a particularly perfect cluster of cherries, the way the late afternoon light catches in her skin and her hair and those annoyingly vivid blue eyes.

It's only when you're both taking another water break, sitting on the low stone wall that borders this section of the farm, that she speaks again.

"Is that why you came here? Looking for something that wasn't easy?"

The question is casual, but you can hear the genuine curiosity underneath it, the same careful way she'd studied your coffee explanations and brewing technique. She is, it seems, trying to understand you the same way you've been trying to understand her.

"Among other reasons." 

You stare out at the mountains, the way they roll into the distance in shades of green.

"What were the other reasons?"

You take a long drink of water, buying time, aware of her sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her sun-heated skin. How do you explain Renée, explain loss, explain the way grief can make you want to disappear into something entirely different? Do you even trust her enough for this?

"Someone I cared about had dreams about this place," you say finally, voice dropping lower. "After she died, I thought maybe I could make them real for both of us."

Taylor is very still beside you, her breathing the only sound between the both of you for a long moment. When you glance at her, her expression is soft with something that seems eeriely like recognition.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't make it easier."

You glance at her again, surprised by the understanding in her voice, the lack of awkward platitudes or attempts to change the subject. "No. It doesn't."

There's something in the air between you then, a recognition of shared loss even if the details are different, even if you're entirely sure of the specifities of her situation. You're both here, in this remote corner of Panama, because the lives you had before became impossible to continue. Both running from something, both trying to build something new from the pieces that remained.

"She would have loved this," you say, gesturing toward the coffee plants, the mountains, the late afternoon light turning everything a shade of golden. "The complexity of it. The way it requires patience and attention and hope, the way it connects you to something bigger than yourself."

"She sounds like she was special."

"She was." You cap your water bottle, ready to get back to work. "She would have liked you, I think. Your dedication to getting things right, your willingness to start over when something isn't working."

The admission surprises you both. Taylor looks like she wants to ask more questions, but something in your expression must warn her off. Instead, she just nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Chapter Text

Today is a good day. You start it early, have your morning coffee ritual as always, manage to sneak in some time to call your mother and catch up on the family (expertly deflecting any and all attempts of convincing you to go back home or to host a "family holiday"), go through the daily motions of work on the farm, have a 40-minute run that leave your lungs burning in the best possible way, and wrap it up to a hot bath with the bath bombs you reserve for special occasions. Now you're wrapped up in your fluffy robe, barefoot in your own kitchen. You pour yourself a glass of the fancy whisky and put a frozen pizza in the microwave. Life is unbelievably good.

That's when you hear a knock on your door, soft, hesitant.

Through the kitchen window, you catch a glimpse of blonde hair in the fading evening light. No black SUV in your driveway, no security detail hovering at a respectful distance. Just her, standing on your porch like any normal neighbour might.

Which is exactly what makes it so strange.

Even during those months in which her presence in your mornings and afternoons has been a fixture at least twice a week, she always had one of her military guys nearby, at times simply standing guard in your driveway, at times full-on following you two through the coffee fields, even if at a distance, as if they were expecting a horde of fans or a sniper to show up in the mountains at any time. You would always glare at them for a spare minute (especially fucking Marco) and then move on with whatever you were doing.

Still, this time it seems it's just her. Mid evening. She never once visited later than 2PM. And, predictably, your stomach immediately does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing for months now whenever she shows up. Which has been happening with increasing frequency, despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of emotional distance and to remind yourself how bad of an idea it is to get involved with  Not-That-Much-Of-An-Asshole Neighbour.

You finish setting up the microwave timer and make sure your robe isn't showing more than it should (although, yeah, in all fairness she's already seen a significant lot), taking your time, trying to decide if you're imagining things. Four months of lessons and work afternoons, four months of carefully drawn and maintained boundaries and stilted conversation, four months of polite distance that can only come from having seeing each other in states of undress and having tasted each other's mouths then proceeding to pretend you never did. And now she's here, unannounced, as the sun sets behind the mountains.

Another knock, even softer this time.

You open the door to find Taylor Swift - because even after all this time, part of your brain still does a double-take at that particular reality - shifting her weight from foot to foot like a teenager asking someone to prom. She's wearing jeans and a soft black jumper, her hair loose and curled around her shoulders, and she looks... nervous. Her eyes set on yours then immediately widen, running from your head to your toe then back up again, and you could swear you see a faint blush on her cheeks.

"Hi," she says, then immediately follows it with, "I know I should have called first."

"You don't have my number," you point out, leaning against the door frame.

"I could get it."

"But you didn't."

"No." A small sheepish smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't."

You study her face, noting the way she's holding her hands behind her back, the slight flush in her cheeks that could be from the cool evening air or embarrassment. As unlikely as it seems, you'd bet on the latter.

"What's up?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner." The words come out in a rush, like she's been practicing them. "At my place. I mean, I know you're probably busy, and I should have asked earlier, but I was thinking-"

"Taylor."

"-that maybe we could, I don't know, try something different for once instead of just-"

"Taylor."

"-all those lessons and maybe it's time I returned the favour-"

"Taylor."

She stops mid-sentence, those blue eyes focusing on you with startling intensity.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

You watch her face cycle through several expressions before settling on something that might be panic.

"No! I mean, not- it's not a date. It's just dinner. Between neighbours. Who are..." She trails off, apparently realising she doesn't know how to finish that sentence. "Who are trying to be friendly."

"Friendly."

"In a friendly capacity," she adds quickly, like the extra words somehow make it more official. "Just two people sharing a meal and maybe getting to know each other better without the whole coffee brewing lesson structure. And yeah, I know, I know. Given my track record with coffee, you probably think I'm going to poison you." There's a self-deprecating smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "But I promise I'm actually much better with food than I am with espresso machines."

You remember the sourdough, the casual mention of coq au vin and risotto that day in the grocery store. The confidence in her voice when she talked about cooking, so different from the uncertainty she shows every time she touches a coffee grinder, even after months of practice.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing fancy. Just..." She gestures vaguely, and you realise she's genuinely nervous about this. "Dinner. At my place. Tomorrow night, maybe? If you're not busy."

There's something vulnerable about the way she asks, like she's offering more than just a meal. And maybe she is, you think to yourself. These coffee lessons have been safe territory - your kitchen, your rules, your comfort zone. Her place would be different. More intimate, somehow, even though you've been there before under considerably more combustible circumstances.

"Should I be concerned about my safety?"

"I promise I won't let you starve or give you food poisoning." Her smile is more genuine now, wider. "Besides, if it's terrible, you can always make fun of me for it. I know how much you enjoy that."

It's meant as a joke, but underneath it there's an acknowledgment of how your dynamic has evolved over these months. The sharp edges of your anger have worn smooth, replaced by something that feels dangerously close to fond teasing. It's... concerning perhaps, unexpected. But you won't let yourself linger much on the thought.

"What time?" you ask, and watch relief flash across her features.

"Seven? I know you're usually up early, so I didn't want to suggest too late-"

"Seven works."

"Great. Perfect." She starts to turn away, then pauses. "Should I send Marco to pick you up, or-"

"I know where you live, Taylor."

"Right. Of course. Yeah." Another pause. "Should I... is there anything you don't eat? Allergies or dietary restrictions or-"

"I eat everything. I'm not picky."

"Okay. Good. That's... that's good."

"Taylor." She stops at the bottom of the steps, looking back up at you. "Are you sure about this? I mean..." You struggle to find the right words. "We don't have to complicate things. The coffee lessons are working fine as they are."

"I know." She's quiet for a moment, her expression serious. "But I've been thinking that maybe... maybe it wouldn't hurt to try being actual neighbours for once. You know, instead of just... whatever this has been."

Whatever this has been. Careful politeness layered over simmering attraction, months of dancing around the elephant in the room, the kind of tension that makes your time spent together feel like exercises in self-control.

"Neighbours," you repeat.

"Friends, maybe. If that's not too weird." She looks down at her boots, then back up at you. "I realise I'm not exactly great at the whole normal human interaction thing after all this time, but I'd like to try. With you, I mean."

There's something achingly genuine about the admission, and you find yourself nodding before you can overthink it.

"Okay. Friends." The word feels strange in your mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Great." Her smile is radiant, unguarded, real, beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight. "I'll try not to burn anything."

You watch her walk back toward the tree line where she must have parked, noting the way she keeps looking back like she can't quite believe you said yes. When she disappears into the gathering dusk, you close the door and lean against it, wondering what the hell you've just agreed to.

-

You wake up at 5:13 AM, seventeen minutes before your alarm, with an inexplicable knot of anxiety in your stomach that has, or so you tell yourself, absolutely nothing to do with dinner tonight. After all, it's just dinner, just dinner between neighbours. Who happen to have a complicated history involving property disputes and nearly sleeping together twice, incidents you definitely don't think about when you're trying to fall asleep.

The coffee routine helps, as it always does. Grinding beans, measuring water, timing the pour, familiar rhythms that usually center you for the day ahead. Except today the ritual feels more like a distraction, your mind wandering to what Taylor might be planning to cook, whether her dining room is as intimidatingly perfect as her kitchen, if she owns actual dinnerware (a passing thought you immediately laugh at. What the fuck. Of course she does. She probably has cristal and golden dinnerware).

You catch yourself wondering these things and immediately redirect your attention to the day's work. Harvest season waits for no one, certainly not for whatever weird anxiety spiral you're apparently having about a simple meal with a simple neighbour.

By noon, you've managed to finally convince yourself that you're being ridiculous. It's just dinner. You've shared dozens of conversations over coffee, you've seen her struggle with dirt and coffee brewing and even the natural clay water filter in your kitchen, you've watched her get genuinely excited about finally brewing actually excellent cups of coffee or finding perfectly ripe berries. This is just an extension of that same dynamic, relocated from your kitchen to hers.

Except by 2 PM, you're standing in your bedroom staring at your open closet with a deep frown.

"This is stupid," you mutter to the empty room, but you're still pulling shirts off hangers and holding them up to yourself in the mirror.

The faded flannel you wore yesterday? Too casual, like you don't care at all. The black dress you keep for the rare occasions when you have to look presentable? Too formal, like you're treating this as something significant, which it most definitely is not. The soft gray sweater that Joanna always says brings out your eyes? Too... something. Too much like you're trying.

You settle on a simple blue cotton shirt - presentable, but not like you spent an hour thinking about it. Even though you absolutely have spent over an hour thinking about it, which is insane because it's just dinner with Taylor, who has seen you covered in coffee grounds and dirt more times than you can count.

The fact that you're even having this internal debate is concerning. You're not getting dressed up for Taylor Swift, internationally known (currently MIA) popstar. You're getting dressed to have dinner with your neighbour who happens to be attractive and accomplished and who has been occupying an increasingly disproportionate amount of your brain for months now.

That last part is the problem, isn't it?

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror - hair that you definitely didn't spend extra time on this morning, barely-there makeup you absolutely didn't spend an hour fixing - and force yourself to confront the truth you've been dancing around for weeks.

You're attracted to her. Not just physically, though there's certainly that. You've been attracted to her since that first night in the bar, even before you knew who she was. The way she laughs when she's genuinely amused, the concentration on her face when she's trying to get something just righ, the moments when her carefully constructed walls slip and you catch glimpses of something real underneath.

Which is a problem, because Taylor Swift is not just your neighbour. She's a globally famous woman who disappeared from public life for reasons she's never explained, who conducts most of her personal business through intermediaries, who sent you an NDA the morning after you nearly had sex in her kitchen. She's complicated in ways that extend far beyond your small corner of Panama, and getting involved with her would be... Would be what? Stupid? Dangerous? The best or worst decision you've ever made?

You don't know, and that's exactly why you've been keeping things carefully contained to coffee lessons and polite conversation.

Except now you're going to her house for dinner, and she looked so genuinely nervous asking you, and you said yes without hesitation because apparently your self-preservation instincts have thrown themselves from the highest cliff in the country.

The afternoon drags. You find yourself checking the time obsessively, which is ridiculous because it's just dinner, and then getting annoyed at yourself for checking the time, which creates its own spiral of irritation. 

At 5:30, you're back in your bedroom, second-guessing your outfit choice. The blue shirt looks wrong now, too much like you're trying hard, like you're treating this like a date. Which you're not. Because it's not.

You change into the gray sweater, then immediately change back to the blue shirt. Then spend five minutes staring at yourself in the mirror trying to figure out what in the living fuck you're doing.

"Jesus Christ," you say to your reflection. "Get it together."

The woman looking back at you is someone you barely recognize: flushed, nervous, spending way too much mental energy on something that should be simple. When did you become someone who agonises over what to wear to dinner with a friend?

Except Taylor isn't really a friend, is she? She's something else entirely, something you don't have a name for. She's the woman who's been making excellent coffee in your kitchen and helping with your plantations without asking for anything in return for months while carefully avoiding any mention of the tension that still crackles between you every time you're in the same room. She's the woman who kissed you like she was starving for years, who moaned your name like a prayer, who melted and trembled underneath your touch and then sent lawyers to your door the next morning. She's the pop star who vanished and bought a fortress in the mountains and somehow the very person you look forward to seeing twice a week.

And now she's invited you to dinner, looking nervous and hopeful and more human than you've ever seen her, and you have no idea what any of it means.

At 6:45, you're standing by your front door, keys in hand, telling yourself that you can still back out. Find a way to deliver her some excuse about not feeling well, reschedule for another time when you've figured out how to be normal about this whole situation.

But you don't. Instead, you lock your door and walk to your truck, because whatever this is - dinner between neighbors, the beginning of an actual friendship, a spectacularly bad decision about to happen - you want to see it through.

Even if your hands are shaking as you start the engine. Fuck.

Chapter Text

You're standing at the iron gates at exactly seven o'clock, clutching a bottle of wine and second-guessing every decision that led you here, truck keys still warm in your palm from the five-minute drive that somehow felt like an hour. 

It's been four months and two weeks since that disastrous night at the bar, four months and two weeks since you discovered your mysterious neighbour's identity, four months and two weeks of an uneasy détente that's somehow evolved into something resembling friendship. Coffee lessons twice a week, about three more weekly occurrences of her helping with harvesting, conversations that carefully skirt around anything too personal, a gradual thawing that neither of you has been brave enough to acknowledge out loud.

Now, standing here in the gathering dusk with your palms sweating and your heart racing, you're wondering if this was a mistake. The last time you were inside those gates, things had ended with you walking away with whatever the female equivalent of blue balls is and her sending a lawyer to your door the next morning. Not exactly a precedent that inspires confidence.

The intercom crackles to life before you can press the button.

"Evening," Marco's voice comes through, sounding almost... sheepish? If Marco is capable of sheepishness, that is. You're not too sure about that. Weird.

The gates swing open with their familiar mechanical whir, and Marco appears at the security booth, like he's been waiting for you. He's in his usual khaki cargos and black combat shirt combo, but there's something different about his posture, you notice. Less rigid, more... apologetic? Double weird.

"Ma'am," he says with a slight nod as you drive through. "I'll escort you to the house."

You follow his golf cart up the winding driveway, taking in any details you'd missed during your various states of intoxication and rage. Marco pulls up to a covered entrance you haven't seen before, gesturing for you to park under the stone portico. When you get out of your truck, he's standing nearby, hands clasped behind his back in that military way of his.

"I owe you an apology," he says suddenly.

You blink, sure you've misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"The messages I delivered, the way I delivered them." He meets your eyes briefly, then looks away. "It's my job, but the intimidation wasn't warranted. I'm sorry."

This is possibly the longest speech you've ever heard from Marco, and definitely the most human. And weirdest of all: it seems genuine.

"Okay," you say slowly. "Apology accepted."

He nods once, crisp and definitive. "Ms. Swift's inside. Through the main entrance, follow the hallway to the kitchen."

"You're not escorting me?"

"She requested privacy for the evening." There's the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Enjoy your dinner, ma'am."

The main entrance is all glass and wood, modern but warm, with soft lighting that makes the space feel welcoming. You follow the hallway as directed, footsteps echoing on polished concrete floors.

The smell of cooking food gets stronger as you walk, garlic and herbs and something that makes your mouth water despite the anxiety churning in your stomach. When you reach the kitchen, you stop short.

Taylor is standing at the enormous island, focused intently on whatever she's stirring in a pan, and she looks... stunning. Not in the casual, effortless way you're used to seeing her, but deliberately, carefully stunning. She's wearing a deep green dress that hugs her curves and falls just above her knees, her hair catching the warm light from the pendant lamps overhead, straight for the first time in the all the months you've known her, her fringe carefully finished. She's even wearing makeup, not heavily, but enough to emphasise her eyes with a soft smoky finish in bronze and make her lips look even more tempting than usual with a deep shade of red.

You think for the first time since you met her that this woman truly looks like world-famous popstar Taylor Swift.

"Hi," she says when she notices you standing there, and there's a nervous energy in her voice that matches your own feelings. "You found it okay?"

"Hard to miss." You hold up the wine bottle. "I brought this. It's not fancy, but..."

"It's perfect." She accepts the bottle with a smile that seems genuine despite the nerves. "Thank you."

The kitchen smells incredible - rich and complex, with layers of wine, herbs, and something you can't exactly pinpoint that still makes your mouth water. The counters are covered with evidence of food preparation: multiple cutting boards still bearing traces of chopped vegetables, ingredient bowls arranged with precision, a wooden spoon resting against a small dish of what looks like gremolata. On the professional-grade stove, a heavy Dutch oven sits with its lid slightly askew, steam escaping from beneath it.

"This smells amazing," you say, hovering near the island, not sure where to put yourself in this pristine space. "What are you making?"

"Osso buco. With saffron risotto and roasted vegetables." She lifts the lid of the Dutch oven completely, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam, and carefully turns the veal shanks with a pair of tongs. The meat looks tender enough to fall off the bone. "I know it's kind of elaborate for a weeknight, but I wanted..." She trails off.

"Wanted what?"

"To do something nice for you. As a thank you for all the coffee lessons and the patience with my complete incompetence. And maybe to prove that I'm not a complete asshole."

"You don't need to prove anything to me."

"Don't I?" She adds a ladle of warm stock to the risotto, the liquid hissing softly as it hits the pan. "I feel like I've spent four months being the student, letting you teach me everything even if I didn't quite deserve your forgiveness. I wanted to show you that I'm capable of... I don't know. Taking care of someone else for once."

The vulnerability in her admission catches you off guard. She stirs the risotto, not looking at you.

"How long have you been cooking?" you ask, steering the conversation toward safer territory.

"Years. My mom taught me when I was little, and then..." She pauses, seemingly catching herself before she says something that might reveal too much. "I had a lot of time to practice. Cooking was one of the things that kept me sane when everything else felt out of control."

You want to ask about everything else, about what made her need an escape badly enough to disappear from the world entirely. But you've learned to read the signs when she's approaching the edges of what she's willing to share.

So you remain silent for a while and watch her work, noting the confident way she handles the pan, how she tastes and adjusts seasoning with the precision of someone who actually knows what they're doing. 

"Need any help?"

"I've got it." She glances at you, then back at the stove. "Actually, could you open the wine? Glasses are in the cabinet above the sink."

You busy yourself with the wine, grateful for something to do with your hands. The glasses you find are crystal, just as you guessed (now all that's left is finding some gold dinnerware and you'll be playing the lotery next), and you handle them with the kind of care of someone perfectly aware they'd probably cry if they needed to replace them.

"So," you say, pouring wine into both glasses and trying to fill the silence, "fancy dinner, actual dress-up clothes... should I be worried that you're about to propose to me or ask me to join some kind of cult?"

She laughs. "Neither. I just... wanted to do this properly."

"Properly?"

"Dinner. Like normal people do." She accepts the wine glass you offer her, careful not to let your fingers touch. "I realised I don't actually know much about you beyond your coffee preferences and your talent for creative cursing."

"I'd like to think I'm a creative person, yeah," you admit, taking a sip of wine. It's good, better than you'd expected from a bottle that cost you barely twenty dollars at the grocery store. You lean against the counter, studying her profile as she stirs the risotto with one hand while checking the vegetables in the oven with the other. "This is really elaborate for getting to know each other on a friendly capacity."

"I like cooking." She doesn't look at you when she says it. "And I wanted... I don't know. Like I said, I wanted to do something nice for you."

The admission is, once again, inexpectedly sweet. You take another sip of wine, using the time to process the implications. Taylor Swift, who could have literally anything she wants delivered to her door, spent hours preparing dinner for you. Because she wanted to do something nice.

"Well," you say finally, "it definitely beats my usual dinner of whatever's left in my fridge and a questionable amount of whisky."

"Whisky for dinner?"

"Don't judge. I'm a simple woman with simple needs."

"I'm not judging. I'm just... surprised. You seem too put-together for that."

You snort. "Put-together? Have you met me? I spend most of my day covered in dirt arguing with plants."

"That's not what I meant." She turns to face you fully now, wine glass in hand. "You have this... confidence. Like you know exactly who you are and what you want. It's impressive."

The compliment catches you off guard. You've never thought of yourself as particularly confident, especially not lately. The past few years have been much more about survival than self-assurance.

"I think you might be confusing confidence with stubbornness," you say.

"Maybe. But there's a difference between being stubborn and being sure of yourself. You have both."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't try. Instead, you watch her return to the stove, adding butter and parmesan to the risotto.

"How old are you?" you ask suddenly, realising you barely know that very basic piece of information.

She looks up, surprised. "Forty. You?"

"Thirty-six." You take another sip of wine. "I would have guessed younger."

"Thanks. I think." She turns back to the stove. "A bit of botox here and there and expensive skincare."

"And probably not having to work in the sun all day."

"Probably."

The conversation feels awkward, like you're both trying too hard to be normal. Which you are, you suppose. Normal is not something either of you has much practice with, separately or together.

"What's your favourite colour?" Taylor asks suddenly, and you nearly choke on your wine while suppressing a laugh.

"My favourite colour?"

"We're getting to know each other, right? That's a normal getting-to-know-each-other question."

"It's definitely a question," you agree. "I don't know. Green, maybe? Forest green. What about you?"

"Purple. Deep purple, like..." She looks around the kitchen, then points to a small vase near the window filled with bougainvillea. "Like that."

You nod, pursing your lips to hold back a smile. "Favourite season?"

"Fall. Everything about it. The colors, the weather, the way the air smells different." She's moving around the kitchen as she talks, checking on various pots and dishes with practiced efficiency. "You?"

"Dry season. About January through April here. Perfect for harvesting, and you don't have to worry about rain ruining everything you've worked for."

"Very practical."

"I'm a practical person."

"I've noticed."

Of course she did. You file that information away along with everything else you're learning about her - the way she moves around her kitchen, how she tastes everything twice before she's satisfied, the vanilla perfume she is once again wearing.

"Favourite food?" you ask, getting into the rhythm of this strange interrogation.

"Comfort food. Chicken tenders, burgers, fries. A chocolate shake when I'm feeling indulgent." She's plating now, arranging the osso buco alongside perfectly golden risotto, spooning the rich sauce over everything with an artist's attention to detail. "You?"

"Coffee."

She looks at you like you're insane. "Coffee isn't food."

"It can be if you drink enough of it."

"That's deeply concerning." She pauses in her plating, studying you with what might be genuine worry. "Do you actually eat real meals?"

The words slip out before you can stop them, and immediately the comfortable atmosphere shifts. Taylor goes very still, her wine glass halfway to her lips, and you watch all the careful ease of the evening drain from her posture.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine." But her voice has that careful quality again, each word measured and guarded. "I know you have questions."

"I do. But you made it clear you don't want to talk about... that stuff."

"I don't." She sets down her wine glass, the crystal ringing softly against the granite. "At least, not yet. Maybe not ever. Is that okay?"

You study her face, noting the way the warmth has fled from her eyes, how her shoulders have drawn inward like she's bracing for impact. Whatever happened five years ago, whatever drove her to disappear from the world entirely, it's still raw enough that even the gentlest acknowledgment of it makes her retreat behind walls you're only just beginning to see around.

"Yeah," you say finally. "It's okay."

-

The greenhouse is tucked behind the main house, connected by a stone path lined with solar lights that cast gentle pools of illumination in the darkness. It's larger than you'd expected, easily the size of a small house itself, with soaring glass panels that reflect the lights coming from the main building's windows.

"Jesus," you breathe as Taylor opens the door and flicks on the interior lights. "This is incredible."

And it is. The space is filled with lush greenery, from towering palms that brush the glass ceiling to delicate orchids arranged on wooden benches. There are citrus trees heavy with fruit, exotic flowering vines trailing from hanging baskets, and what looks like an entire wall dedicated to different varieties of ferns. The air is warm and humid, scented with earth and growing things.

"Dean's pride and joy," Taylor says, following your gaze as you take it all in. You'd bet Dean is the other military type you saw Taylor make eye contact with the night you two met. Or the housekeeper she mentioned. Could they both be the same person? "I basically gave him free rein and unlimited budget. He went a bit mad."

"A bit?" You walk deeper into the space, noting the sophisticated irrigation system, the climate controls, the grow lights supplementing the natural illumination. "This is absolute insanity, what the fuck."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's impressive. Also slightly terrifying that you have staff specifically dedicated to keeping plants alive."

"Just Dean. And he's not specifically for the plants, he manages the whole property. The greenhouse is more of a... passion project."

You stop in front of a magnificent bird of paradise, its orange and blue flowers vivid against the backdrop of broad green leaves. "This is beautiful. How long has it been blooming?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Taylor admits, coming to stand beside you. "Dean tells me when things are flowering, and I nod and pretend I understand what he's talking about."

"You don't know anything about your own plants?"

"I know they're pretty. And expensive. And that they die if I try to water them myself."

You laugh, reaching out to touch one of the bird of paradise's petals. "That's actually quite tragic. You have this amazing space and you can't enjoy it properly because you don't know what you're looking at."

"I enjoy it. I come out here to read sometimes. It's peaceful."

"It's not the same thing. I mean... well, look at this." You gesture to the bird of paradise. "This is a strelitzia. Bird of paradise. It grows brilliantly in tropical climates like this. The flower is designed to attract sunbirds, the bird lands on that blue petal there, and when it does, the stamens pop up and dust it with pollen."

"How do you know all that?"

"I grow things for a living, remember? It's kind of a favourite subject. When I'm not out under the sun, I'm usually having coffee and reading. Plus I've got a herb garden back home. Nothing this elaborate, obviously, but..." You trail off, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, don't apologise. It's fascinating. Keep going."

You move to the next plant, a stunning orchid with deep purple blooms. "This is a Vanda orchid. See how the roots are just hanging there in the air? They're epiphytes, which means they don't need soil. In the wild, they'd be growing on tree branches, getting their nutrients from the air and rain."

Taylor follows as you move through the greenhouse, listening intently as you explain the difference between tropical and temperate plants, point out the clever design of the automatic misting system, do your best to identify the various citrus varieties by their leaves and fruit.

"That's a Meyer lemon," you say, pausing by a tree heavy with bright yellow fruit. "They're actually a cross between a lemon and a mandarin orange. Sweeter than regular lemons, perfect for cooking."

"I should tell Dean to pick some for the kitchen."

"You could pick them yourself, you know. They're ripe when they give slightly to pressure, like this." You demonstrate, cupping one of the lemons gently in your palm. "Feel that? It's ready."

Taylor reaches up to touch the same fruit, fingers brushing against yours. The contact sends a little spark of electricity up your arm.

"Like that?" she asks, her voice softer now.

"Yeah. Just like that."

Your eyes move lower to the red in her lips, the same shade as the wine you were just sharing. The lipstick is still flawless after the meal and two and a half glasses of wine.

"What about herbs?" she asks, and you have to blink to refocus on the conversation.

"Herbs?"

"You mentioned you grow herbs. What should I be growing here?"

"Oh. Well, basil, obviously. Fresh basil makes everything better. And rosemary, it's practically indestructible, even you couldn't kill it. Thyme, oregano, maybe some mint, though you'd want to contain that because it'll take over everything if you let it. And sage. Sage is brilliant for cooking, especially with pork or chicken, and the flowers are gorgeous, these purple spikes that bees absolutely love..."

You're gesturing as you talk, getting into full nerdy rambling mode (which you now figure you seem to do a lot around her), when you realise Taylor isn't looking at the plants anymore. She's looking at you, her head tilted slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"What?" you ask, self-conscious again.

"You're very passionate about this."

"I suppose. It's just... when you understand how things work, how they grow, what they need to thrive, it makes everything more interesting. Like that orchid, knowing that it's basically living on air makes it seem almost magical, doesn't it? I don't know, it just makes the world feel more connected, more purposeful. Even something as simple as mint, the way it spreads and takes over, it's not just being invasive, it's doing what evolution designed it to do, which is survive and propagate, and there's something beautiful about that kind of determination, that refusal to just give up and die when-"

She kisses you.

It's sudden and soft and it stops your rambling mid-sentence. Her hands come up to frame your face, and she tastes like the wine and a hint of the saffron. For a moment, you're too surprised to respond, and then your brain catches up and you're kissing her back, hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.

The kiss deepens, and you find yourself backing up until you hit the wooden potting bench behind you. Taylor follows, her body pressing flush against yours, and you can feel every curve of her through the thin fabric of her dress. Your hands tangle in her hair - it's softer than you'd remembered, and you've definitely thought about this extensively - whilst hers slide down to grip your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt to trace patterns on bare skin.

"Taylor," you breathe against her lips, voice a notch rougher.

"Mmm?" She doesn't pull away, just shifts to press open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. The sensation sends liquid heat straight between your legs.

"We're in your greenhouse."

"So?" Her teeth graze your earlobe before her tongue follows, and you can't suppress the soft moan that escapes. Your hands find her hips, pulling her harder against you until you can feel the heat of her through your clothes.

"So it's... it's very public. Glass walls and all."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against your throat where her lips are working a path downward. "There's no one around for miles."

"Your staff-"

"Gone for the evening." She pulls back to look at you, her pupils dilated, lips already swollen from the kissing, lipstick finally smeared. You feel a mundane, stupid pleasure in achieving what the wine and the food couldn't. One hand is still tangled in your hair whilst the other has found its way to your thigh. "I may have given Marco very specific instructions about having the night off."

"Very presumptuous of you."

"Was I wrong?"

You consider this whilst she traces patterns on your collarbone with her fingertips. "Jury's still out."

"Is it?" She kisses you again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against yours whilst her thigh presses between your legs, the same way it did the very first time you two were in this position, against her car in the open Panamanian night. The pressure makes you gasp into her mouth, and you can feel her smile against your lips.

"Okay, maybe not," you admit.

She beams, that genuine kind of smile that transforms her entire face, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Good."

You kiss her again, hungrier this time, your hands finding the zipper at the back of her dress. The metal is warm under your fingers, and you manage to tug it down a few inches before she arches against you, a soft sound escaping her throat that makes your head spin. Her hands are at your waistband now, fingers teasing at the edge of your jeans, when she suddenly breaks away with a sharp intake of breath.

"Wait," she says, pressing her forehead to yours. "Not here."

"No?"

"I want..." She seems to struggle with the words. "I want to do this properly. Upstairs. In my bed."

There's a small tinge of hesitance in her tone that makes you pause, in spite of the very clear signals she's been sending with her body. "Are you sure? We don't have to-"

"I'm sure." She cuts you off with another kiss, this one brief but determined, as if to strengthen her point. "I'm very sure. Just... not here."

"What's wrong with here? Bit adventurous for you?" you tease, trying to lighten the suddenly serious mood.

"Something like that." She steps back, smoothing down her dress, and you immediately miss the warmth of her body against yours. "Come on. Back to the house."

"Picky, picky," you say, following her towards the greenhouse door. "What's the worst that could happen? A bit of exhibitionism never hurt anyone."

She pauses with her hand on the door handle, looking back at you with an expression you can't quite read. "There are security cameras all over out here."

The words hit you like a bucket of cold water. Of course there are. This is Taylor Swift's house, not some normal person's back garden. There would be cameras everywhere, recording everything, storing it all on servers that could be hacked or subpoenaed or leaked.

"Oh," you say, suddenly feeling very naive. "Right. Security cameras."

"Quite a lot of them, actually." She opens the door, and the cooler night air hits your overheated skin. "I've learned to be very careful about where I... conduct certain activities."

The way she says it makes you wonder what experiences taught her that particular lesson. But you don't ask, just follow her back along the stone path towards the house, the wine and the warmth running through your body making you slightly unsteady on your feet.

"So the bedroom is camera-free, I take it?"

"The bedroom is camera-free," she confirms, glancing back at you with a smile wicked enough to makes your pulse quicken again. "I do have some boundaries."

"Good to know you draw the line somewhere."

"I draw the line in quite a few places, actually. Up to you if you wanna find out where."

Chapter Text

Taylor leads you through hallways you haven't seen before, past rooms that hint at a life beyond the carefully curated spaces you've glimpsed so far. A music room with a piano and a guitar stand filled to the brim against the wall, quickly passed without comment. A library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and reading chairs positioned to catch the mountain views through the large windows. Her hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

You catch a glimpse of movement in your peripheral vision, a flash of white disappearing around a corner, followed by what looks like a much smaller blur of orange.

"Was that a cat?" you ask, pausing mid-step.

"Olivia. And probably one of the kittens." She doesn't seem surprised by the sighting. "They're not big on strangers. You'll be lucky if you see them again tonight."

"Kittens? Plural?" You remember reading something years ago about Taylor Swift being obsessed with cats, back when you'd occasionally see her name in headlines. "So you really are some kind of cat lady."

"I am. Sort of. It's complicated." Her voice turns clipped, smaller, enought that it makes you glance at her, brows furrowed, but she's already moving forward again. "There's Olivia, she's the white one. Benji is around somewhere, probably in his bedroom. And the babies, Phoebe and Elliot. They're about eight months old."

"This place is massive," you observe, letting the subject change, though you file away for later the slight tension that crept into her voice when talking about the cats.

"Too big, really." She pauses at the foot of a staircase, one hand on the banister. "Having second thoughts?"

You pause close enough, studying her face. The carefully done makeup is slightly smudged now, lipstick transferred to your mouth, and there's something uncertain in her expression that make you once again feel that weird pang in your chest.

"Are you having them?" you counter.

"No." The answer comes immediately, but then she looks away. "Maybe. I don't know. It's been..."

"A long time."

"Yeah." She turns back to you, biting down nervously on her lower lip. "Are you okay with that? With me being... out of practice?"

The question catches you off guard. Taylor Swift, Asshole Neighbour, asking if you're okay with her being rusty at sex. The absurdity almost makes you laugh, but the genuine worry in her voice stops you short from doing so.

"Taylor." You step closer, bringing your free hand up to cup her cheek. "I'm not exactly operating on recent experience myself."

"How long for you?"

The question you've been dreading. "A very long time if you don't consider the near misses with you back when we first met and the occasional vibrator."

She nods slowly. "So we're both..."

"Terrified and horny and probably going to be terrible at this."

That does make her laugh, some of the tension seemingly leaving her shoulders. "Speak for yourself. I'm planning to be amazing."

"Arrogant."

"Determined." She pulls you up the stairs, suddenly decisive again. "Come on. Before I lose my nerve entirely."

Her bedroom is up the stairs, down at the end of the hallway, double doors opening into a surprisingly understated space. The bed is enormous, king-sized at minimum, with cream and deep green sheets and more pillows than any reasonable person needs. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the mountains, currently draped in sheer curtains filtering the moonlight. But what strikes you most is how lived-in it feels, how personal. There are books stacked on the nightstand, reading glasses folded on top of them, a half-empty mug of tea long gone cold, a throw blanket that looks hand-knitted draped over the foot of the bed, a guitar laying on top of its case next to an armchair by the windows.

"Nice room," you say.

"Thanks. Something to drink?" she asks, moving toward a small bar cart in the corner, but you can hear the nerves underneath the casual tone.

"We've had enough to drink already." You catch her hand, pulling her back to you. "Come here."

She comes willingly, and your hands find her waist. Her hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones.

"You know, I've been thinking about this for longer than I probably should admit."

"Yeah?"

"Remember that first night? When we got to my place, and we figured out each other's identities and you asked to leave? Then while waiting for that goddamn cab you called for a two-minute ride and you looked like you weren't sure whether you wanted to punch me or fuck me?"

"I remember wanting to do both, yeah. Especially option A."

"I kept thinking about what would have happened if you'd chosen the second option." Her thumb traces your bottom lip, and you have to fight not to close your eyes at the sensation. "Then the next day in my kitchen, when we almost..."

"When I almost effectively fucked you?"

"When I almost threw away every rule I've made for myself about getting involved with people." Her voice is quieter, more serious. "I've been thinking about it ever since."

"Rules?"

"It's complicated, being me. Getting close to people... it never ends well. I've learned to be careful."

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are." She then kisses you, tongue languidly exploring your mouth, as if you two weren't in the slightest hurry in spite of the very objective knowledge that yes, you actually are. When she pulls back away, after a few minutes of stealing your air, giving you just enough time to find oxygen then immediately going back to catch it again, her pupils are once more dilated and both your breathings are heavy, lips still close enough to touch. "You're making me break a lot of rules."

"Good," you murmur against her lips. "We can forget about those for a little while."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against your mouth, and then she's kissing you properly, hot and heavy and hungry. Your hands find the zipper of her dress again and this time she doesn't stop you as you slide it down, the fabric pooling at her feet.

She's wearing a black lace bra and a matching thong underneath, intricate and expensive-looking, and for a moment you can only stare. Long, toned legs, curves to drive someone insane and pale skin with a few in between scattered moles.

"Jesus. You planned this," you accuse.

"I hoped." Her hands are working at your shirt now, and you raise your hands to help her get rid of the piece. "I've been thinking about seeing you like this for months."

"Just seeing?"

"Among other things." Your shirt joins her dress on the floor. "Fuck, you're beautiful."

"And you're..."

"What?" There's that uncertainty again, like she needs the reassurance.

"Stunning. Absolutely fucking stunning."

The compliment seems to unlock something in her. She steps closer, confident now, fingers tracing the deep red cotton bra you have on (a middle ground between the usual very practical pieces and the trying-too-hard extreme of actual lingerie), and the way she's looking at you makes you feel like the most beautiful woman alive. Her hands map your newly exposed skin with reverent touches, and when she leans down to press kisses along your collarbone, you can't suppress the soft moan that escapes.

"Bed," you manage, already moving backward.

"Impatient," she teases, but she's following, fingers resting in the belt loops of your jeans.

"A very long time," you remind her, falling back onto the impossibly soft mattress and pulling her down with you.

She laughs against your throat, but the sound dissolves into something breathier when you roll her beneath you, settling between her thighs. The friction makes you both gasp, and suddenly the playful atmosphere shifts into something much more urgent.

"Tell me what you want," you murmur against her ear, nipping at the sensitive skin just below it.

"I want..." She arches beneath you, hands fisting in your hair. "God, I want everything. I want you to touch me like you did that morning in my kitchen and-"

You silence her with a kiss, deep and demanding, whilst your hand trails down her body. She's trembling slightly, with nerves or anticipation or both, and when your fingers trace the edge of her bra, she arches into the touch with a desperate sound.

"Can I?" you ask, fingers hovering at the clasp.

"Off. Everything off. Please."

The please undoes you completely. You make quick work of her bra, tossing it aside, and the sight of her beneath you, hair spread across the pillows, lips swollen, parted, makes your head spin.

"You're staring," she whispers, but there seems to be no self-consciousness in it now if the smile tugging at the corner of her lips are anything to go by.

"Can you blame me?" Your hands map the curves of her breasts, thumbs brushing over pink nipples that harden immediately under your touch. The response makes you bold, leaning down to take one into your mouth.

The sound she makes is worth the four months of waiting, or even those years before it for that matter. She threads her fingers through your hair, holding you against her whilst you work your tongue across sensitive skin, alternating between gentle and demanding, nipping and licking and sucking and kissing until she's writhing beneath you.

"Please," she gasps, and there's that word again, making your pulse spike. "Please, I need..."

"What do you need?" You kiss your way across her chest, lavishing attention on her other breast whilst your hand slides lower, fingers teasing over moisten lace. "Tell me."

"Your hands. Your mouth. Fuck, I need you to touch me properly or I'm gonna die."

The desperation in her voice makes you want to tease her more, to build the tension until she's begging, but the way she's looking at you stops that impulse cold. There's a trust there that feels fragile and precious. Besides, last time was enough, wasn't it?

So instead of teasing, you hook your fingers in the waistband of her panties and drag them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, and when the lace joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor, you sit back on your heels to look at her.

"Beautiful," you say. "So fucking beautiful."

She reaches for you, pulling you back down for another kiss, and this time when your hand slides between her thighs, there's nothing in the way. She's already wet, trimmed curls slick, and when your fingers brush against her clit she cries out into your mouth.

"Sensitive," you observe, grinning against her lips.

"It's been five years, of course I'm- oh fuck, right there."

You find a rhythm that makes her hips buck against your hand, alternating between direct pressure and lighter touches that have her gasping your name against your lips. You let your fingertips trace her labia, gather her wetness with just the slightest touch before going back to teasing the increasingly swollen bundle of nerves. She's responsive in a way that makes you feel drunk with power, and you make sure to catalogue in your mind every small reaction, every flicker in her expression, how every change in pressure, in speed, in target affects her, which places make her moan and whimper and breathe heavier.

"More," she pants, fingers digging into your shoulders. "Please, I need more."

You shift lower then until settling between her thighs, and her eyes widen when she realises your intention.

"You don't have to-"

"Shh." You press a kiss to her inner thigh, close enough that she can feel your breath. "Let me taste you. I've been craving it for months now."

The admission makes her breath catch, and when you finally put your mouth on her properly, the sound she makes is almost enough to send you over the edge without even being touched.

You take your time despite her increasingly desperate sounds, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her grip the sheets hard enough to turn her knuckles white or pull your hair with enough force that it hurts in the best way. When you finally slide two fingers inside her whilst your tongue works her clit, it barely takes two minutes of persistent curling of your fingers before she comes apart completely, back arching off the bed as she cries out your name.

You work her through it, gentling your touch as the waves subside, pressing soft kisses to her trembling thighs whilst she catches her breath.

"Jesus Christ," she pants, reaching down to pull you back up for a kiss. "That was..."

"Better than terrible?" you tease, leaning down supporting your weight on your forearms by the sides of her head and licking into her mouth so she can taste herself.

"Considerably better than terrible." Her hands are already working at your trousers, unclasping your bra, urgent and demanding and surprising nimble. "My turn."

"Hey, I'm not-"

"Don't." She silences your protest with a finger to your lips, pupils blown. Her voice is commanding in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly, as if a switch had been flipped and the hesitant, nervous woman suddenly vanished. "I've been craving this for months now. Since that first night at the bar, since you told me to go fuck myself and left me wet and confused on my own driveway. I've gotten myself off thinking about having you exactly like this."

"Romantic," you manage, but the word dissolves into a sharp intake of breath when she rolls you onto your back with surprising strength, straddling your hips.

Her hands are everywhere at once, unclasping your bra, sliding your trousers down your legs with enough slowness to makes you squirm beneath her.

"Look at you," she breathes, mouth following the path of her hands. "So fucking responsive. I bet you're already soaked for me, aren't you?"

Before you can answer, she's leaning down, mouth finding your breast with devastating precision. She's good at this, better than someone who claims to be out of practice should probably be, alternating between gentle kisses and harder suction and little flicks of her tongue that makes your back arch off the mattress. There's a crease between her brows, as if she's making an effort to figure out what makes you tick, as if she's solving a particularly complex problem. When she grazes her teeth over your nipple, you can't suppress the moan that tears from your throat.

"That's it," she murmurs against your skin, tongue soothing where her teeth just were. "I want to hear everything."

Her mouth continues its worship while her hands explore, fingers tracing patterns across your ribs, your stomach, teasing at the edge of your underwear but not quite going where you're throbbing for her. The anticipation is maddening, and when you try to guide her hand lower, she catches your wrist.

"Patience," she says, voice husky with desire. "I've waited a lot of time, I'm going to savour every fucking second."

She kisses her way down your body with torturous slowness, pausing to lavish attention on spots that make you writhe - the hollow of your throat, the sensitive skin just below your breast, the curve of your hip. By the time she hooks her fingers in your underwear, you're already embarrassingly desperate.

"Fuck okay." You catch her hand, bringing it to your lips to kiss her palm before wrapping your lips around her fingers, eyes on hers. She swallows hard, and you give her fingers and then her lips quick, soft pecks before offering a whispered, "That was incredible."

She beams, looking pleased with herself, and settles beside you on the pillows. "Not bad for two women who are allegedly rusty."

"Not bad at all. Though I feel like we might need more practice. You know, to make sure we've really got it down."

"Perfectionist," she teases, though her hand is already trailing down your body again, one leg hooking over yours. "Though I'd argue that's on my top 3 hottest traits in a woman."

"Good," you say, catching her wrist and guiding her hand to one of your breasts. "Cause I'm planning to be very thorough about this."

The second and third time are slower, more exploratory. You learn that she likes it when you bite her neck just hard enough to leave marks, that she lets out this breathless little whimper when you curl your fingers just right, that she's surprisingly vocal and likes things a touch rougher than you usually do.

Afterward, you're both breathing hard, sweat cooling on overheated skin. Taylor's head is on your shoulder, blonde hair tickling your chin - now, after all the sweating, closer to the natural curls you came to grow accostumed to -, and you can feel the steady rhythm of her breathing gradually returning to normal.

She lifts her head to look at you. "Are you okay? You seem... I don't know. Pensive."

You consider deflecting, making another joke to keep things light. But it seems to be genuine concern in her voice, and after what you've just shared, it feels wrong to brush her off.

"It's been a while," you admit. "I'm just... processing."

"In a bad way?"

"Good," you say quickly, because the last thing you want is for her to think she did something wrong. "Definitely good. Just... unexpected, I suppose. Five months ago-"

"Five months ago you wanted to murder me with garden shears, yes, you mentioned that." She settles back against your shoulder. "What changed?"

It's a fair question, and one you're not sure you can answer completely, especially since you're not entirely sure of the answer yourself.

"You did," you say finally. "Or maybe I did. Maybe I just finally saw who you actually were underneath all the... drama."

"And who am I, exactly?"

"Someone worth getting to know properly." You press a kiss to the top of her head. "Someone who makes excellent osso buco and even better... other things."

"Other things?"

"I'm trying to be classy here."

"Since when?"

"Since I'm lying on what I'd wager are Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than my truck."

"They're Italian, actually. And your truck is really a disaster, so that's not saying much."

"My truck is a classic. It's a 2003 classic Baja. It's queer history."

"And it's held together with duct tape and sheer hard-headedness."

"Both excellent automotive solutions."

She's laughing now, the kind of full-body laugh that makes you want to spend the rest of your life saying ridiculous things just to hear it again. Which is a very, very strange feeling. When she finally calms down, she traces lazy patterns on your chest with one finger, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"I have a very large bathtub," she says eventually, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Congratulations?"

"I was thinking... if you're interested... we could continue this conversation there. With bubbles. And possibly a bottle of champagne I've been saving for a special occasion."

"Is this a special occasion?"

"I'd say so." She lifts her head to meet your eyes. That shy, sheepish expression strikes again, and you swallow hard. "Unless you need to get home already."

"Bubbles, you said?"

"Oh yeah, bubbles and bath salts and oils."

"Well, in that case..."

-

The bathtub is, as advertised, enormous. It's more like a small swimming pool, actually, carved from what looks like a single piece of stone and positioned to take advantage of the large windows that look out over the mountains. Steam rises from the water, scented with the vanilla fragrance you started associating with Taylor (which you now, finally, figured out is her bathing oil, not some perfume), and the champagne she produces is indeed very expensive if the French words on the label are anything to go by.

The water is the perfect temperature, hot enough to relax muscles you didn't realise were tense but not so hot that it's uncomfortable. You lean back against the curved edge, letting the heat seep into your bones whilst you watch Taylor through the steam, leaning immediately across from you.

"This is surreal," you say eventually.

"The bathtub?"

"All of it. The fact that out of nowhere I'm drinking champagne in a billionaire's bathtub after having the best sex of my life."

"The best sex of your life?" There's obvious satisfaction in her voice and out of a sudden she's beaming. Her smile is radiant, blinding, and you try not to linger much on that, instead redirecting your gazer up to the ceiling.

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." She moves through the water until she's close enough to touch, settling between your legs with her back against your chest. "Though I have to say, the feeling's mutual."

She melts back against you, seemingly boneless in the hot water, and for a while you just hold her, listening to the gentle lapping of water against stone.

"Can I ask you something?" she's the one to break the silence this time.

"Depends what it is."

"Before. When you said it had been a long time... how long is a long time?"

The question you'd been hoping to avoid. You take a sip of champagne, buying time, but she's patient, waiting for an answer you're not sure you're ready to give.

"Four years," you say finally. "Give or take."

"That's... quite a while."

"Yeah, well. Life got complicated for a bit there."

She doesn't push, which you're grateful for. The whole truth isn't something you're ready to share. Maybe someday, but not tonight.

"What about you?" you ask, deflecting. "Five years is a long time too."

"Five years, seven months, ten days. But who's counting?" Her voice is light, even if there's something underneath it that suggests the precision isn't entirely in a joking note.

"That's... very specific."

"I have a good memory for significant dates."

"And the last time you had sex was significant enough to warrant that level of precision?"

She goes quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you've pushed too hard. Then she sighs, settling more firmly against you.

"It was about the last normal thing I did. Before everything went to hell. So yes, I remember it precisely."

There's pain in her voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. You wrap your arms around her a little tighter, offering what comfort you can without words. 

"Well," you say eventually, pressing another kiss to her temple, "hopefully tonight will give you something better to remember."

"It already has."

Instead or lingering too much on the statement or on the weird, uncomfortable, fluterring feeling it brings to your chest, you reach for the champagne bottle, refilling both your glasses.

"Now," she says, reaching for the bottle of champagne in your hands instead of her refilled glass and settling on your lap, straddling your thighs, "I believe there was mention of continuing our earlier conversation."

"Was there?"

"Oh yes." She takes a long sip directly from the bottle, then leans down to kiss you, the champagne sweet on her tongue. "I have several more points I'd like to make."

Chapter Text

You wake up disoriented, sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, your internal clock screaming that something is wrong. The room is bright, too bright for half past five, and for a moment you can't place where you are. Then you register the warm body pressed against your back, the arm draped over your waist, and the events of last night come flooding back.

Oh fuck.

Taylor's bedroom. Taylor's bed. Taylor's arm around you squeezing tight even in apparent deep slumber.

You carefully extract your phone from the nightstand without disturbing her, squinting at the screen. Seven-fifteen. You've overslept by nearly two hours, and your body is absolutely not happy about it (or it might be a matter of the insistent soreness remnant of an increasingly creative night of sex with the woman you're supposed to hate but somehow, weirdly, kinda like now). Your coffee plants are probably wondering where you are. The morning inspection routine is shot. Your entire schedule is bollixed. Great.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath, starting to extract yourself from Taylor's embrace.

"Where are you going?" 

Her voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your shoulder blade. It's adorable. You're absolutely not lingering on that thought, however.

"I have to get home. I'm late for... everything, basically."

"It's seven in the morning." Her arm tightens around you. "On a Friday."

"Exactly. It's not even the weekend yet. And I always get up at half past five. Always."

"Always?"

"Every day for the past three years. Coffee, news, work, exercise. It's a routine."

She props herself up on one elbow, hair falling in messy waves around her face. Even first thing in the morning, she's unfairly beautiful. Focus. "Stay."

"I can't. I've got things to do."

"What things? It's the weekend."

"Friday isn't the weekend. But the same things I do every day. The plants need checking, the irrigation system has been playing up, and I've got a delivery of new seedlings coming on Monday that I need to prepare beds for-"

She kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then your jaw and the corner of your mouth, and your train of thought derails completely.

"Stay," she repeats against your skin. "Have breakfast with me. I'll make you proper coffee."

"You don't know how to make proper coffee. That's why I've been teaching you for months."

"Then you can make coffee and I'll make breakfast. Division of labour."

You turn in her arms to face her properly. She's watching you with those startlingly blue eyes, hair mussed, no makeup, looking nothing like the international superstar and everything like the woman who kept you up half the night doing wonderfully improper things.

"I really should go."

"Maybe. But do you want to?"

The honest answer is no. You want to stay in this bed with her for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the week. You want to learn what she looks like when she first wakes up - which is apparently goddess-like, because of course it is - and whether she's a morning person or if she needs coffee before she can form complete sentences like you do. You want to rediscover all over again, now in the broad light of day, what she sounds like when she's is ecstasy, what her moans are like, the places that make her whimper and cry out like she did last night. You want to pretend, just for a few more hours, that this is your life.

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it?" She traces patterns on your bare shoulder with her fingertip. "When's the last time you deviated from your routine?"

"I don't deviate from my routine. That's why it's called a routine."

"That's not healthy."

"I'm not entirely sure the woman who disappeared from the world without a trace to live in Panamanian mountains can tell me what's healthy and what's not."

She flinches slightly at that, and you immediately regret the words.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "That was- I didn't mean to be flippant about it. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. And you're not wrong. I'm probably not the best person to give advice about healthy life choices." She's quiet for a moment, still tracing patterns on your skin. "But maybe we could both try something we haven't done in years today? I could try having someone stay for breakfast, and you could try sleeping past dawn?"

There's a note of vulnerability in the way she says it that makes your chest tighten. This is new territory for both of you - the morning after, the question of what comes next, the delicate negotiation of boundaries and expectations.

"I suppose the plants will survive without me for a few hours," you concede.

Her smile is radiant, blinding. "Excellent. Coffee first?"

"Always."

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in Taylor's kitchen wearing one of her oversized t-shirts and a brand new pair of knickers she gave you still in its original packaging (as yours from last night were pretty much ruined for good), trying to figure out how to work her ridiculously expensive espresso machine. It's a beautiful piece of equipment, but it's clearly been barely used.

"This is a Rocket Espresso R Nine One," you say, running your hands over the machine like you're greeting an old friend.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's very, very good. It's also complete overkill for someone who's been making coffee with a French press for four months and was barely able to brew a simple espresso before that." You locate the power switch and wait for it to warm up. "When did you buy this?"

"When I moved in. I thought having expensive equipment would make me better at coffee automatically."

"That's not how coffee works. That's not how anything works."

She's moving around the kitchen as you talk, pulling ingredients from the fridge with the easy familiarity of someone who actually knows how to cook, a fact you're now entirely and thoroughly convinced of since last night. Eggs, bacon, fresh herbs you assume are from her own neglected garden.

"Teach me," she says, nodding towards the espresso machine. "Properly this time."

"Right. First rule: respect the beans." You open the bag of coffee you recognise as one of your own blends - apparently she's been buying from you more regularly than you realised. "These are arabica, single origin. They've been roasted to bring out the natural sweetness and acidity. Grinding them wrong or extracting them wrong is basically criminal."

"Very serious business, coffee."

"Deadly serious. Watch." You measure out beans, adjust the grinder to the proper fineness, tamp the grounds at exactly the right pressure. "Water temperature is crucial. Too hot and you'll burn the coffee, too cool and you won't extract properly. This machine should be perfect, but you need to purge the group head first-"

"Purge the what now?"

"Run water through it without coffee to clear any residue and stabilise the temperature. Like this." You demonstrate, then show her how to lock the portafilter in place, how to time the extraction. "Twenty-five to thirty seconds for a double shot. Watch the colour. It should start dark and gradually lighten to a honeyed colour."

She's standing close enough that you can smell that goddamn vanilla oil in both of you, feel the warmth of her body against your arm.

"That's beautiful," she says as the espresso flows into the cup in perfect golden streams.

"That's properly extracted coffee. Try it."

She takes a sip and her eyes widen. "Christ. That's completely different from what I've been making."

"Your technique was... enthusiastic. But wrong in basically every way."

"Show me again?"

You walk her through it a second time, guiding her hands on the grinder, correcting her tamping pressure, standing behind her as she times the extraction. She's a quick learner when she's actually paying attention, and there's something satisfying about watching her get it right. You figure in another life, where everything hadn't happened the way it did, you might've liked to be a teacher. Or maybe you just like teaching her.

"Better?" she asks, offering you the cup.

"Much better. You might actually be teachable after all."

She laughs, starting to crack eggs into a bowl. "What's your usual morning routine, then? Since I've disrupted it so thoroughly."

"Up at half past five, coffee first thing. Then I spend about fifteen minutes checking the news, just to see if the world's ended overnight. After that, I go out and check the plants, see what needs attention, do whatever maintenance or harvesting needs doing. Work out before lunch, usually a run or some weights."

"Every day?"

"Every day. Weekends, weekdays, doesn't matter. The plants don't care what day it is."

"That sounds..." She pauses, whisking eggs without barely looking at them, eyebrows scrunched together as if she were trying to figure out the word she wants to use. "Lonely."

The observation catches you off guard. You've never thought of your routine as lonely. Efficient, productive, necessary, but not lonely.

"It's not lonely. It's purposeful."

"When do you see other people?"

"I see Joanna a few times a week. I go into town for supplies. I talk to customers when they come to buy coffee."

"That's not the same thing."

"Same as what?"

"As having people in your life. Friends, relationships, connections that matter."

She's cooking as she talks, and the bacon is starting to smell. Your stomach rumbles, making sure to remind you that you haven't eaten since dinner last night.

"I have connections."

"Hm. What about before?"

It's a fair question, and one you don't particularly want to examine too closely. The truth is that your routine, your careful isolation, has been as much about avoiding connections as it has been about productivity. After everything that happened in your previous life, the idea of letting people close enough to hurt you again has been... unappealing.

"Before was different," you say finally.

"Different how?"

"Different complicated." You mirror her deflection from last night, and she recognises it immediately.

"Touché." She plates the bacon and starts on the eggs, scrambling them with what looks like fresh chives. "What about your exercise routine? Please tell me it's not as regimented as everything else."

"It's not as regimented."

"That sounded convincing."

"Fine, it's exactly as regimented. I run the same route every day, do the same weight routine three times a week, and yes, I track everything."

"You track it."

"Consistency is important."

"Obsession is unhealthy."

"Says you. Taylor Swift."

"That's different. That was my career, and it's not who I am anymore."

"How is that different though?"

"Because..." She pauses, considering. "Because you're not trying to prove anything to anyone. You're just... existing. Going through the motions."

The observation stings because it's probably true. Your routine hasn't been about growth or challenge for a long time, it's been about control, about creating a life so structured and predictable that nothing unexpected can derail it.

"What about you?" you ask, deflecting. "What's your routine like?"

"I don't really have one. I read a lot, watch films, sometimes I walk around the property. The staff handles most of the practical stuff."

"That sounds lonely too."

"It is." She plates the eggs alongside the bacon, adding fresh fruit that probably came from her own trees if you had to make a wager. "But it's safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From people knowing where I am. From having to be 'on' all the time. From photographers and reporters and fans who think they own pieces of me." She sets the plate in front of you, the domestic gesture at odds with the weight of her words. "From people who want things from me that I can't give."

"What kinds of things?"

"Everything. My time, my attention, my music, my story, my body, my love. Everyone wants something, and I got tired of being pulled apart by it all."

She says it matter-of-factly, but there's old pain underneath the words. You think about what it must have been like - being that famous, that scrutinised, that constantly in demand - and suddenly her disappearance makes more sense.

"Is that why you don't want to go back to music? Because of what people want from you?"

"Partly." She settles across from you with her own plate. "And partly because I'm not sure I remember how to be that person anymore."

"Maybe you don't have to be that person. Maybe you could be someone new."

"Maybe." She takes a bite of the eggs, looking thoughtful. "What about you? Do you miss who you were before you came here?"

"Sometimes," you admit. "I miss feeling like my work mattered. Like I was contributing something meaningful to the world instead of just... hiding from it."

"You grow coffee. People need coffee. That's meaningful."

"It's not the same."

You eat in comfortable silence for a while, processing the conversation and the excellent food. The eggs are perfect, creamy and light, and the bacon is exactly the right amount of crispy. Even the fruit tastes better than anything you usually buy at the market.

"This is really good," you say eventually.

"Thanks. My mom's scrambled egg technique. Low heat, lots of stirring, and don't rush it."

"Your mom taught you well."

"She taught me a lot of things. Including how to make a proper breakfast for someone you want to impress."

"Is that what this is? You trying to impress me?"

"Is it working?"

"Yeah," you say honestly. "It's working."

Her smile is soft and satisfied, pretty and honest enough to tug at your fucking heartstrings and play an entire symphony in them, and you realise that this - sitting here eating breakfast and talking about routines and loneliness and the people you used to be - feels more intimate than anything that happened last night. This is the part that's truly new territory for both of you: the morning after, the quiet domesticity, the possibility that this could be something more than just one night of breaking rules or a truce in your otherwise rocky relationship.

"So," Taylor says, refilling your coffee cup with the properly extracted espresso. "What do you normally do after breakfast?"

"Check the news, then go out to the plants."

"And today?"

"Today," you say, surprising yourself, "I think I'll try something different."

Chapter Text

Breakfast had been surprisingly domestic. The cats had made tentative appearances, Olivia and Benji keeping a wary distance whilst the kittens had been bolder, Phoebe eventually allowing herself to be coaxed close enough for a few gentle scratches behind the ears.

Now you're wandering through the house in the lazy way of people with nowhere urgent to be, Taylor giving you the proper tour she'd promised. The music room you'd glimpsed briefly last night is even more impressive in daylight - a grand piano dominates one corner, whilst several guitars rest in stands along the wall. There's recording equipment too, professional-looking but dusty, like it hasn't been used in a while.

"This is where the magic happens?" you ask, running your fingers along the edge of the piano bench.

"Used to happen," Taylor corrects, voice neutral. "I don't really... I haven't used this room much lately."

There's something in her tone that makes you look at her more closely, but she's already moving towards the windows, adjusting curtains although they really don't need adjusting. You recognise the deflection tactic, it's the same one she's been consistently using whenever the conversation gets too close to whatever happened five years ago: deflect, get your hands busy, give a non-answer.

"Well," you say, settling into one of the armchairs, "I rambled your ears off about coffee and plants for a long time now. Maybe you should teach me something too."

She turns from the window, eyebrows raised. "Such as?"

"Music?" You gesture towards the guitars. "I mean, I assume you know how to play those, given your... former profession."

Something complicated crosses her face, a flicker of what might be pain, quickly smoothed away. "I know how to play them."

"So play me something. Fair's fair."

For a moment, you think she might refuse. Her shoulders have gone tense in that way they do when she's retreating behind her walls, and you're already preparing to change the subject when she moves towards one of the guitar stands.

"What do you want to hear?" she asks, lifting an acoustic guitar with care, with obvious reverence in spite of her seemingly reluctance towards anything musical.

"Can it be one of your songs?"

"Pick something else." The response is immediate and firm, no room for negotiation.

You study her face, noting the way her jaw has tightened, the careful blankness in her expression. Another boundary, another no-go zone in the minefield of getting to know Taylor Swift.

"Alright," you say easily. "How about... I don't know, something classic? 'Thirteen'? Big Star?"

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "I can do that."

She settles into the chair across from you, guitar balanced comfortably in her lap, and for a moment just sits there, fingers finding their positions on the frets like muscle memory. When she starts to play, the change in her is immediate and startling. The careful guardedness falls away, replaced by something that looks almost like peace.

The song fills the room, her voice clear and sweet and perfectly in tune with the melody, and you find yourself transfixed by the transformation. This is Taylor Swift, you realise - not the pop star, not the mysterious neighbour who sends lawyers and gets in your skin or even the one who makes perfect sourdough and makes your head spin, but the musician. The artist. The person who disappeared because music was taken away from her somehow.

Benji appears in the doorway during the second verse, drawn by the sound, and after a moment of deliberation, pads over to curl up near Taylor's feet.

"That was beautiful," you say when the last chord fades.

"It's a good song. Alex Chilton was a genius." She's running her fingers over the guitar strings absently, like she's reluctant to put the instrument down. "Do you have a favourite song?"

"'The Long and Winding Road,'" you answer without hesitation. "The Beatles. My mom used to play it constantly when I was growing up, and then I started actually relating to it."

"Good choice." She adjusts her grip on the guitar, finding the opening chords. "Paul McCartney knows how to write a melody."

She plays it through once, her interpretation stripped down and even more intimate compared to the orchestral original, and something about hearing this song, your song, played by her in this sun-drenched room makes your chest tight with a wave of emotion you weren't truly expecting when you said yes to having dinner with her, or even when you said yes to staying for breakfast.

"Beautiful," you murmur when she finishes.

"Want to learn it?"

"I don't know how to play guitar."

"That's why it's called learning." She pats the arm of her chair. "Come here."

You move to perch on the arm of her chair, and she adjusts the guitar so you can both reach it, her arms bracketing you as she guides your fingers to the proper positions on the frets.

"This is G," she says, positioning your fingers on the strings. "Feel how that sits? Now try strumming with your other hand- gently, you're not trying to attack it."

Your first attempt is clumsy, producing a sound that could generously be called noise, but she's patient, adjusting your grip, showing you how to arch your fingers so they don't accidentally mute other strings.

"Better," she says after your third try produces something that actually resembles a chord. "Now we'll add C."

She shifts your fingers to the new position, hands warm over yours, and you're struck by how natural this feels - the weight of her arms around you, the casual intimacy of shared space. Phoebe has joined Benji on the floor, both cats watching the proceedings. Every so soften, the kitten pokes her older brother and runs to hide behind the piano, then settle back close and repeat the cycle.

"I'm terrible at this," you say after several attempts to transition between chords smoothly.

"You're learning. There's a difference." Her chin is resting on your shoulder now, breath warm against your ear. "It takes time. Your fingers have to learn where to go without you thinking about it."

"How long did it take you?"

"To play basic chords? A few weeks. To play well..." She considers this. "I'm still learning. That's the thing about music, there's always more to discover."

There's something wistful in her voice, and you twist slightly to look at her. "Do you miss it? Playing, I mean. Performing."

For the briefest of moments, it feels like she's inclined to give you an honest answer after all the careful deflecting. Then Elliot, the bolder of the two kittens, chooses that moment to run into the room and leap onto your lap, tiny claws catching in the guitar strings and producing a discordant twang that breaks the spell.

"Elliott!" Taylor scolds, but she's laughing as she gently disentangles the kitten from the instrument. "No playing guitar until you're bigger."

"He's got good timing," you observe, scratching behind Elliott's ears as he settles contentedly in your lap.

"He's got terrible timing. We were having a moment."

"Were we?"

She meets your eyes. "I thought we were."

"We were," you confirm, leaning back against her shoulder. "Think your audience approves."

All four cats are in the room now, Olivia having finally decided you're not a threat worth worrying about. She's claimed the piano bench as her perch, surveying the scene with the regal air of a queen holding court.

"They like you," Taylor observes. "That's... unusual."

"I'm very likeable."

"Are you?" Her arms tighten around you slightly, the guitar forgotten in favour of this moment - lazy morning sun, purring cats, and the easy comfort of being held.

"You tell me."

Instead of answering, she kisses the side of your neck, just below your ear, and you think that maybe this is answer enough. The music, the cats slowly warming to your presence, the way she's letting you into spaces that feel private and precious, it all feels like a kind of trust you're not sure you've earned yet.

-

Three days later, Taylor materialises at your kitchen door just as the first golden rays of dawn filter through the windows, clutching two steaming travel mugs against her chest. Her outfit screams practicality rather than fashion - worn denim jeans with grass stains on the knees, brand new leather hiking boots, and a faded flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few escaped strands catching the early light. She looks like someone who genuinely intends to get her hands dirty and, perhaps even more importantly, she looks hot as fuck.

"Coffee lesson?" she asks, though you both know she's mastered the basics weeks ago.

"If you insist." You accept the proffered mug with both hands, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic. The first sip reveals exactly what you'd hoped: a rich, perfectly extracted espresso with no sugar, no milk, nothing to mask the complex notes of what you're quick to recognise as, again, your own beans. She's been paying attention to every casual mention of your preferences, filing away details you barely remember sharing. "What's the excuse today?"

"I want to practice pruning." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a gesture you've already learned to recognise as a subtle tell that indicate she's not being entirely honest. "I know we did it a few times already, but I'm really trying to take proper care of the greenhouse and the gardens myself now. There's still some stuff I'm not totally confident about, you know?"

It's bullshit, obviously - she could hire someone to handle the pruning, just like she hires people for everything else. Just like the fact that she's an expert on it by now with the help she's given you and from watching you do it over the past weeks. 

But you don't call her on it. Instead, you drain the last of your coffee, set the mug on the wooden table in the middle of your kitchen, and head to the potting shed to collect your tools. She falls into step beside you, close enough that you catch those notes of vanilla taking over your senses as they always do.

She stays for lunch, naturally. She disappears to her car and returns with arms full of provisions from her own kitchen: thick-cut artisanal bread - fresh, made by herself and wrapped with brown paper, some tacky cat stickers and your name written on it with her handwriting -, paper-thin slices of prosciutto, aged cheddar, ripe tomatoes, and a jar of what she claims is her housekeeper's homemade chutney.

"You don't have to keep bringing food," you tell her as you both work at the small kitchen table, assembling sandwiches.

"I know I don't have to." She spreads the chutney with precise strokes, not meeting your eyes.

The sandwiches are extraordinary. You eat mostly in silence, stealing glances at each other across the narrow table, the autumn sunlight streaming through the kitchen window casting everything in warm amber tones.

When it's time for her to leave, she lingers by your battered pickup truck, keys dangling from her fingers but making no move towards her own SUV parked nearby. The afternoon sun has warmed the air, bringing out the earthy smell of freshly turned soil.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks.

"If you want," you reply.

She steps closer then, close enough that you have to tilt your head up a bit to meet her gaze. Her hand comes up to rest against your chest, fingers spread over the worn cotton of your shirt. When she kisses you, it's soft and brief and tastes faintly of the coffee you shared before she decided to head out. 

When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, whether from the kiss or the cool air, you can't be certain. She doesn't say anything, just squeezes your hand once before walking to her car with that same purposeful stride she'd arrived with twelve hours earlier.

You don't let your mind linger overmuch on the implications as her engine purrs to life and she disappears down the lane. Some things are better left unexamined, at least for now.

-

"Your basil is leggy," you observe, crouched next to the raised beds Dean installed in Taylor's greenhouse at your suggestion that week. Tiny gnats dance in the golden light, and somewhere overhead, a sparrow that's taken up residence in the rafters chirps contentedly.

Taylor is kneeling beside you, her designer jeans already bearing the telltale smudges of potting compost. A fine sheen of perspiration gleams on her forehead, making the escaped strands of blonde hair from her ponytail curl further at her temples.

"Is that bad?"

"Not bad, just inefficient." You reach towards the nearest basil plant, fingers hovering over the delicate green stems where tiny white flowers are beginning to form at the tips. "When it starts flowering, it puts all its energy into reproduction instead of producing the leaves you actually want. You need to pinch off the flower buds to keep it productive. Like this."

"Pinching off. Got it." She mimics your movements on the next plant, and you try not to read too much into the way she glances at you for approval. "What about the rosemary?"

She gestures towards the robust, silvery-green bush that's already outgrown its designated space, woody stems reaching toward the glass ceiling.

"The rosemary could survive a nuclear apocalypse," you say dryly, sitting back on your heels to survey the thriving herb garden. "It's practically indestructible. In fact, your main problem is going to be stopping it from taking over the entire greenhouse. It's fine."

She laughs, that genuine sound you're becoming addicted to, and you find yourself struck by the uncomfortable realisation that you've been manufacturing reasons to visit this place almost as frequently as she appears at your kitchen door. The greenhouse lessons that could have been covered in a single afternoon have somehow stretched into weekly sessions. The guitar tutorials, ostensibly payment for your horticultural expertise, happen twice a week now. The shared meals that began as convenient timing have evolved into something approaching routine, with ingredients appearing as if by magic and conversations stretching long into the evening - none of it is strictly necessary anymore. But neither of you seems inclined to acknowledge this shift, much less put a stop to it.

That night you stay for dinner and end up falling asleep on her sofa, her head pillowed on your shoulder whilst Elliot purrs in your lap. You wake up covered by a soft throw, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen where she's already started your morning routine.

-

"You're getting better at this," Taylor says, adjusting your fingers on the frets of the guitar. You're working on 'Wonderwall' because she'd rolled her eyes so dramatically when you'd suggested it that you'd insisted out of pure spite.

"I'm getting better at making noise that vaguely resembles music," you correct, wincing slightly as you fumble the transition from G to D and produce what sounds more like a screech than a chord progression. "There's a distinction."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." She settles back against the bed, tucking one leg beneath her. "You've only been at this for what, three weeks? Most people can barely hold a pick properly after three weeks."

You're both sitting on the plush carpet of her bedroom floor, backs pressed against the side of her bed, the late afternoon sun slanting through the tall windows in golden bars that shift slowly across the hardwood floors. The cats have claimed various surfaces around the room - Olivia on the windowsill, Benji on the bed behind you, the kittens wrestling quietly near the door.

The room smells of expensive floral candles, undercut by the faintest trace of lemon oil from the recently polished furniture. It's intimate in a way that her perfectly appointed sitting room or even her music room aren't - personal belongings scattered about, a coffee mug with lipstick traces on the rim sitting on the bedside table, clothes draped carelessly over the back of the chair by the window.

"My turn to ask," you say, setting the guitar carefully against the bed frame and stretching your fingers, which are beginning to protest the unaccustomed positions. The afternoon has been full of these little exchanges - favourite films, least favourite foods, most embarrassing childhood memories - each question peeling back another layer of the careful composure you both usually maintain. "What's your favourite Beatles song?"

She tilts her head back against the mattress, blonde hair spilling over the cream-coloured duvet, and considers this with her brow furrowed slightly.

"'Here Comes the Sun,'" she says finally. "I know it's terribly cliché, everyone says that one or 'Yesterday' or 'Let It Be.' But there's something about the hope in it that gets me every time. The way George wrote it after that awful winter, you know? Like he was genuinely surprised that things could get better, but so grateful when they did."

"Not cliché at all. Perfect choice, actually. Play it for me?"

For a moment, something flickers across her face, a shadow of pain so brief you might have imagined it. She shakes her head, but it's not the sharp, defensive gesture she makes when you ask about her own compositions. This refusal is gentler, sadder somehow, tinged with wistfulness.

"I don't... It's one with memories. Some songs get tangled up with people and places, you know? Sometimes it's better to leave them be."

You don't push, just pick up the guitar again and attempt the chord progression you've been practising. It's clumsy still, but recognisably the song, and when she hums along quietly to fill in the melody you can't quite manage, something warm and strange settles in your chest.

You're fucked.

Chapter Text

You're cooking together in your kitchen this time, and this simple fact seems like some fever-induced hallucination. Taylor's wielding your ancient vegetable knife with surprising competence, reducing a pile of carrots to perfectly uniform dice whilst you hover over the temperamental gas hob, coaxing your battered rice pot not to boil over again.

It's comfortable in a way that genuinely surprises you, this easy synchronisation of two people who've somehow learned to orbit each other without collision. She automatically shifts left when you need to reach the spice rack or some drawer. You duck under her arm when she stretches for the olive oil. Neither of you thinks about it anymore, this careful dance around your cramped kitchen.

"Hand me that wooden spoon?" you ask, nodding toward the utensil jar.

She passes it without looking up from her methodical chopping, and you're once again struck by the sheer domesticity of the moment, how dangerously normal this has become. Taylor Swift standing in your shabby kitchen wearing one of your faded Nirvana t-shirts, humming under her breath whilst she prepares dinner with vegetables she picked up from the village market this morning and a combination of herbs from both your gardens.

It's a terrifying line of thought, actually. The kind that makes your chest tight and your palms sweaty, because normal has never been something you've been particularly good at maintaining.

"I've been thinking," she says suddenly, voice carefully casual in that way that means she's been rehearsing this conversation in her head for days. That's another thing you're starting to learn and memorise like a favourite book; her tells, her quirks, her particular changes in tone and phrasing that usually say more than her actual words do.

"Dangerous habit," you reply automatically, though your stomach is already beginning to knot itself into familiar patterns of anxiety.

"About this." She gestures vaguely between the two of you with her knife, a movement that encompasses everything and nothing; the shared meals, the invented excuses, the way she kisses you goodbye against your truck or in her front porch every afternoon, the way you've both been pretending this is all perfectly casual. "What we're doing."

And there it is. Your stomach clenches properly now, that familiar plummeting sensation that means the other shoe is finally dropping. Here comes the conversation you've been dreading but expecting since this whole thing started, the gentle but firm explanation about how this was fun whilst it lasted, how she needs to be more careful about her public image, how this can't possibly go anywhere because of who she is and who you emphatically are not. The speech about incompatibility and complications and how she's sure you understand.

You've heard variations of this before, from women with far less to lose than Taylor Swift. The basic arithmetic is always the same: you're a temporary diversion, not a permanent solution.

"I know it's complicated," you start, already mentally preparing your gracious acceptance of the inevitable rejection, but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head.

"I don't want to define it," she says quickly, the words tumbling out like she's afraid if she doesn't say them fast enough, she'll lose her nerve entirely. "I just... I wanted you to know that I'm not just killing time with you. This isn't just convenience or boredom or some sort of extended holiday fling or whatever."

The relief is so sharp and unexpected it makes you genuinely dizzy. You have to grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself, knees suddenly feeling unreliable.

"Good," you manage. "Because the guitar and gardening lessons are definitely just excuses at this point."

"The coffee lessons too," she admits with a small, sheepish smile.

"Definitely. You could probably give me lessons now."

She laughs, and some tension you hadn't fully noticed leaves her shoulders, her posture softening as she returns to her chopping. "So we're in agreement, then. This is something, we just don't know what yet."

"I can live with that level of uncertainty," you tell her, and you're surprised to discover that you mean it.

Uncertainty has never been your strong suit, you're someone who likes clear parameters, defined expectations, exit strategies planned in advance, probably all byproducts of your former profession or your history, or even the way you were raised. But there's something about Taylor that makes the unknown feel less threatening than it usually is.

"Good. Because I'm not sure I know how to do more certainty than that right now," she says quietly, attention focused intently on the vegetables as if the precise uniformity of her dice is the most important thing in the world.

You understand, probably better than she realises. Whatever drove her to disappear to Panama five years ago, whatever made her retreat so completely that she needs security systems and legal threats and layers of isolation just to feel safe buying groceries in a village that probably has more sheep than people; that sort of damage doesn't simply evaporate because she's decided to trust you with her body and flecks of her music and her ridiculous number of spoiled cats.

And your own wreckage is still there too, isn't it? All the reasons you ended up here with a barely sustainable coffee farm and a constitutionally inability to commit to anything more permanent than a monthly phone bill. The way you have a tendency to sabotage good things before they can turn bad, to leave before you can be left. That's all still lurking beneath the surface, just temporarily overshadowed by how unexpectedly good it feels to have someone, this someone, actively choose to spend time with you day after day.

"Uncertainty it is, then," you say. "I'm sure we'll muddle through somehow."

She glances up at you then, carrot-dicing temporarily forgotten, and the smile she gives you is soft and genuine and, oh fuck, you can feel an embarassing warmth immediately spread and take over your chest.

"I think we might," she agrees, and reaches across to steal a taste of the sauce you've been tinkering with. Her face scrunches up immediately. "Christ, how much paprika did you put in this?"

"Apparently too much?" you grimace, watching her reach for a water glass with barely concealed amusement. "Was going for slightly spicy."

"You were going for food poisoning, more like," she counters, although she's laughing now and the moment of vulnerability has passed, dissolved back into the comfortable rhythm you're both learning to navigate.

Outside, the autumn light is beginning to fade, casting long shadows across your kitchen floor. The cats - because somehow her cats have become a permanent fixture in your house now too - are arranged in various states of repose around the room, Benji sprawled across the window sill, Olivia curled in the patch of remaining sunlight by the door. The kittens are presumably terrorising something in the sitting room, if the occasional crash and scrambling sounds are anything to judge by. You find yourself thinking you actually don't mind it a bit.

It occurs to you that this might be happiness. Not the dramatic, overwhelming kind that poets write about, but a quieter version, the kind that sneaks up on you whilst you're arguing about seasoning and negotiating shared kitchen space and teasing each other about your respective musical tastes. The kind that exists in the spaces between words, in comfortable silences and synchronised movements and the assumption that tomorrow will bring more of the same.

It's a dangerous thought, but not an unwelcome one.

-

The morning sun streams through your kitchen window, taking over the worn wooden table where you and Taylor sit with coffee and toast. She's wearing another one of your old t-shirts again, this time one from an Alicia Keys tour you attended over a decade ago. Her hair is messy from sleep and your fingers and she still looks adorably sleepy herself.

"This is really good," she says, taking another bite of the scrambled eggs you made with herbs from your garden. "It's honestly surprising to see you cooking actually good food."

"Rude. I make perfectly adequate food."

"Adequate is generous."

"I'm good with breakfast food, alright?"

"Coffee and whatever's left over from yesterday's dinner is not breakfast." She steals a piece of your toast, spreading it thick with the guava jam she'd brought from her own kitchen. "This is breakfast."

You watch her eat, noting the way she hums contentedly around each bite, the way the morning light catches the blue of her eyes that seem to sparkle like Caribbean seas under the summer sun. Nearly a month of this: waking up together more often than not, trading spaces and excuses and increasingly elaborate reasons to spend time in each other's company. Guitar lessons that barely involve guitars, gardening tutorials that end with Taylor's mouth on yours against the greenhouse wall, coffee education sessions that turn into her teaching you how to make proper pasta before you end up fucking in the kitchen.

It's easy. Easier than anything has been in years, this careful dance you've developed around each other. Neither of you mentions the careful way you avoid certain topics, the way conversations redirect when they venture too close to the reasons you're both here, hiding in the mountains of Panama. Neither of you puts a name to whatever this is.

"What's your schedule like today?" you ask, refilling both your mugs from the cafetière on the table.

"Nothing urgent. I was thinking of working in the herb garden, maybe starting that mint bed we talked about. Dean's been asking when he should order the plants."

"Remember what I said about containing it?"

"Root barriers, yes. You've only mentioned it about twelve times."

"Because mint is basically a green plague if you don't control it properly."

She grins. "I like how passionate you get about it. It's hot, you know."

"Well, it's a-"

The sound of a car engine cuts through the morning quiet, growing louder as it makes its way up your drive. You freeze, coffee mug halfway to your lips, as the reality of your situation hits you.

"Shit," you mutter, already pushing back from the table. "I've got a client coming."

"Now?"

"I don't know, I didn't- fuck, what time is it?" You grab your phone from the counter, squinting at the screen. "It's only eight-thirty, they're not supposed to be here until- oh, fucking hell, it's Wednesday."

"What happens on Wednesday?"

"The Rodriguezes always come early on Wednesdays. They have to get to the market before-" The car doors slam outside, followed by voices speaking rapid Spanish. "Shit, shit, shit."

Taylor's already standing, smoothing down the t-shirt. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just... hang in here."

You rush to the mirror by the front door, attempting to tame your hair and wipe the sleep from your eyes. The voices are getting closer; Santiago and Lucia Rodriguez, your most reliable customers, who've been buying coffee from you for two years and definitely don't need to know about your complicated personal life.

"Buenos días!" Santiago voice carries across the yard as they approach the house.

"Stay here," you mutter to Taylor, then call back in Spanish, "Morning! I'll be right there!"

You grab the keys to the processing shed from the hook by the door and hurry outside, hoping your smile looks natural rather than manic.

"Santiago, Lucia, lovely to see you," you say, still in Spanish. You got fluent in college, and used it for the majority of your adult life, living as a correspondent in Latin America. "You're here early today."

"The truck's loaded and we want to get to David before the traffic gets bad," Lucia explains, kissing your cheek in greeting. "Same as usual, five pounds of the medium roast?"

"Of course. Let me just get that for you."

You lead them toward the processing shed where you keep the packaged coffee, mind racing. It's a routine transaction, nothing complicated, but you can't shake the awareness taking root in your mind of how... dizzy you feel. The shed smells like coffee and the oil you use in the machinery, familiar and comforting. You pull five one-pound bags from the shelf, checking the roast dates automatically.

"This is last Saturday's roast," you tell them. "Perfect timing."

Santiago examines one of the bags, brows scrunching together, eyes narrowing behind thick glasses. "The flavour has been excellent lately. Whatever you're doing differently, keep it up."

"Just better weather for the harvest," you deflect, though privately you wonder if your improved mood has somehow translated to better attention to detail in your work.

"And how's the new crop looking?" Lucia asks as you calculate their total.

"Very promising. The rains have been good this year, and the plants are healthy. I'm expecting one of my best harvests yet."

You handle the transaction with practiced efficiency; weighing, calculating, making change from the cash box you keep locked in the shed. It's a routine you could do in your sleep, which is fortunate because part of your brain is still processing the domesticity of the morning, the strange normalcy of Taylor in your kitchen, the way this feels like something that could be a life rather than just an interlude or a brief distraction.

"See you next Wednesday?" Santiago asks as he loads the coffee into their truck.

"Absolutely. Drive safely."

You wave them off, waiting until their truck disappears down the drive before heading back toward the house. The morning quiet settles around you again, broken only by the distant sound of birds and the faint hum of your irrigation system.

Taylor's still in the kitchen when you return, having cleared the breakfast dishes and started another pot of coffee. She looks up when you enter.

"Everything all right?" she asks.

"Fine. Just my usual Wednesday morning customers." You lean against the doorframe, studying her. "You didn't have to clean up."

"I wanted to." She turns back to the coffee. "They seemed nice."

"They are. They've been buying from me since I started selling to locals."

"It's good. That you have that. Regular customers, I mean. People who know you, depend on you."

You cross to where she's standing by the stove, slipping your arms around her waist from behind. She leans back into you, and the tension you hadn't realised was building in your chest eases slightly.

You're standing there, Taylor in your arms, when you hear the car engine again. The same engine, getting louder as it comes back up your drive.

"What the hell?" you mutter, pulling away from her to look out the window. It's Santiago and Lucia's truck, definitely coming back.

"Did something happen?" Taylor asks, following your gaze.

"I don't know. Maybe they forgot something? Shit, I hope I didn't short-change them." You head for the door, then pause. "I'll be right back."

The truck is already parked when you step outside, and Lucia is getting out with something in her hand - cash, you realise with a sinking feeling.

"Everything all right?" you call out in Spanish.

"You gave us too much change," Santiago says, walking toward you with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Forty dollars too much."

Your face heats up as you accept the money back. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I don't know where my head was this morning."

"It happens," Lucia says kindly. "We've all had those mornings."

"Thank you for bringing it back. Most people would have just kept it."

"Most people aren't trying to build a business relationship that lasts," Santiago replies. "See you next week?"

"Absolutely. And thanks again."

You wave them off properly this time, mentally kicking yourself. Forty dollars. You'd given them forty dollars too much change because you were distracted, thinking about Taylor in your kitchen and what it meant and how domestic it felt. Amateur mistake, the kind of thing that could add up to real problems if you're not careful.

When you get back to the house, Taylor's not in the kitchen anymore. You find her in the living room, sitting on your couch with your phone in her hands, staring at the screen with an expression you can't quite read.

"What's wrong?" you ask, and then you see your phone properly, a new message notification still visible on the lock screen.

"You left this," she says, voice carefully neutral. "It was buzzing."

You take the phone from her, swiping to read the message in full:

Hey stranger, hope you're doing well down there. The newsroom misses you. Thinking about you, especially with everything that's happening with the Venezuela story. Call me when you get a chance? Would love to catch up.

You look up to the contact name and feel a wave of nausea hit you. Jeremy Scahill, The Intercept. Your old life, your old work, everything you've been running from for years, suddenly materialised in your living room through thirty-something words on a phone screen.

"So," Taylor says, and her voice sounds different now than it was all morning, different than it has consistently been those last weeks, colder. "Jeremy from The Intercept."

"Taylor-"

"You're a journalist." It's not a question. "Were a journalist? Are a journalist? I'm having trouble figuring out the tense."

"Was. I was a journalist."

"And you just... what? Decided not to mention it? In all these weeks of getting to know each other, it never came up?"

You can see where this is going, can feel the walls she's rebuilt in the space of two minutes, the careful distance she's already put back between you two.

"It's not relevant," you say carefully. "I don't do that work anymore."

"The Intercept, though. That's investigative journalism. Big stories, important stories." Her laugh is sharp, humourless. "What was your specialty? Government corruption? Corporate malfeasance?"

"Taylor, please-"

"Let me guess." She stands up from the couch, and you can see her physically retreating even as she moves closer to you. "You're working on something. Some story about a reclusive pop star who disappeared from the public eye. Rich, famous, mysterious woman living in isolation, that's got to be worth something to the right publication. Maybe some award, maybe even a book deal."

"That's not-"

"How long have you been working on it? Since we started talking? Since the whole property dispute? Jesus, did you start crossing Marco as just a way to get close to me?"

"Stop." Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "Just stop. You're being paranoid."

"Paranoid?" Her voice rises. "I'm being paranoid? Do you have any idea what it's like to live knowing that any person you meet, any conversation you have, could end up as content for someone else's career?"

"This isn't about my career, this is about-"

"About what? About how you've been lying to me for weeks? About how you've been sleeping with me whilst probably taking notes for your fucking article?"

"I'm not writing an article!"

"Then why didn't you tell me?" She's shouting now, eyes turned a bit glassy. "Why didn't you mention that you used to be an investigative journalist? That's not exactly a small detail to leave out!"

"Because I knew you'd react like this!" You throw your hands up, frustration and hurt making your voice loud enough to match hers. "Because I knew that the moment you found out, you'd assume the worst and shut me out!"

"And I'd be right to, wouldn't I? Because here we are!"

"No, here we are because you can't trust anyone enough to have an actual conversation instead of immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion!"

"I can't trust anyone because people like you have made it impossible!"

"People like me?" The words sting more than they should. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"People who see me as a story instead of a person. People who think my private life is public property. People who smile and laugh and make conversation and fuck me and crawl their way into my heart while the whole time they're thinking about how it'll look in print."

"That's not what this is."

"Isn't it?" She's crying now, though her expression isn't of sadness or anguish: it's just pure anger. "Then why are you here? Are you even really into coffee? Because that text sure makes it sound like you're still connected to your old world."

You want to tell her, want to explain, want to make her understand that you're running from the same things she is, just for different reasons.

But she's not listening anymore. She's already picking the cats up and into their respective travel bags, moving toward the door, and you can see in her posture that she's made up her mind.

"Taylor, wait-"

"I need to go."

"Please, just let me explain-"

"There's nothing to explain." She pauses at the door, not looking back at you. "I should have known better. I did know better. I just forgot for a while."

"Forgot what?"

"That this was too good to be true."

And then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoes through your suddenly empty house.

Chapter Text

You stand there, staring at the closed door, your hand still half-raised like you might have caught her if you'd just been faster. The house is silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant hum of the refrigerator. The sound of her car starting up cuts through the quietness, loud and aggressive and feeling like it's tearing through your chest, taking your heart in its hands and squeezing it.

The engine noise fades down your drive, and then there's nothing but silence and the cooling coffee on the counter and the faint indent in your couch cushion where she'd been sitting moments ago.

Twenty minutes, that's all it took. Twenty minutes from her stealing your toast and humming contentedly to the door slamming and her car disappearing and you standing here like an idiot, wondering how everything went to shit so quickly.

You should go after her. The thought arrives with urgency. Get in your truck, drive the short distance to her house, make her listen. Or, who knows, simply run the fucking distance, barefoot feet against the gravel and the asphalt, struggling against the certainty that not even physical exhertion could make your heart beat faster than it is right now. Just do something, anything, to make her understand that you're not writing a story, that you left that life behind, that whatever this thing is between you, it's real.

But your feet don't move. Your hand drops back to your side.

All you can do is sink onto the sofa where she'd been sitting, still warm from her body heat. Your phone buzzes in your hand but you can't bring yourself to look at it. Instead, you stare at the coffee mugs still sitting on your kitchen table, the toast crumbs, the untouched fresh batch of brewed coffee.

The thing is, she's not entirely wrong. You did lie by omission. You had dozens of opportunities over the past three weeks to mention your past, and you'd deflected. Told yourself it didn't matter, that it was ancient history, that bringing it up would only complicate things. And, yes, she did too. You still don't know much of anything about her as a person, or the reasons that led her here, aside of the fairly objective, simple fact that you're attracted to her, and her voice, and her mannerisms, and her intelligence, and her smile, and the sound of her laughter every time you say something stupid just to make her laugh, or whenever the cats do something cute.

But still, you lied. You screwed up, and now you might just as well lose one of the only few good things to happen to you in recent times. Even if you'd really not told her because you were afraid of exactly this reaction.

A familiar ache settles in your chest, the one you've been carrying for years now, before you even moved to Panama, the one you'd almost forgotten about in the past few weeks because Taylor had somehow made everything lighter. It's back now, heavy and insistent, reminding you that this is what happens. This is what always happens. You find something good, something worth keeping, and then it's gone, and you're left standing in the wreckage trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

You close your eyes and Renée's face flashes through your mind, unbidden. Laughing at some stupid remark about the state of journalism in the contemporary West, or some of the fairly frequent rambling on the latest political scandal. She'd hated your work, hated the danger, hated the way you'd throw yourself into investigations like you were trying to save the world single-handedly. You can't fix everything, she'd said more than once. You're going to get yourself killed trying.

She'd been right about the first part, at least.

The way she'd looked at you that last night, worried and frustrated and trying so hard not to say 'I told you so' about the investigation. The way you'd kissed her goodbye the next morning, annoyed that she didn't understand why the story mattered, why it had to be you who wrote it. The way you'd never got to apologise for that, for choosing the work over her concerns, for being so sure you knew better.

And then the investigation got too dangerous, and Renée was gone, and suddenly you couldn't remember why any of it had mattered. You'd lost her to biology and bad luck and the cruel randomness of an aneurysm that gave no warnings before taking the love of your life away. But you'd also lost her to your own stubbornness, your own certainty that the story was more important than her fears, your choice of sacrificing time with her to pursue something that would eventually prove useless anyway.

Two losses for the price of one.

The story, the exposé, the truth; what was the point of uncovering grand schemes and unmasking big political players if you couldn't protect the people you loved from the ordinary tragedies of being alive?

You'd walked away. Taken everything you had and disappeared to Panama because it was about as far as you could get from congressional hearings and anonymous sources and the particular kind of paranoia that comes with investigating people who have the power to make you disappear, but also because it was where you two had always talked of moving to after retirement, in an alternate universe where your plans had worked and your fiancée had got to live her dream of growing a coffee farm from scratch.

And now here you are, years and thousands of kilometres away, and you're doing it again. Not the same way, not exactly, but close enough that the pattern is unmistakable. Keeping secrets because it's easier than explaining, avoiding difficult conversations because you're too much of a coward to risk the intimacy, letting someone walk away because your pride won't let you chase them.

"Fuck," you say aloud to your empty kitchen. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Thinking about you, especially with everything that's happening with the Venezuela story.

Jesus Christ, Jeremy. His timing couldn't have been worse if he'd tried.

That fucking ache in your chest somehow deepens ever further, the one that says you're always losing things. Renée, your career, your sense of purpose, your ability to trust. And now Taylor, who somehow managed to slip past your defences and make you forget, just for a little while at least, what it felt like to be alone.

You think about the morning; her messy hair, the sweet smile on her face as she sang along to your Beatles playlist, the casual intimacy of her wearing your clothes. The way she looked at you when you met, months ago in that bar in town, or the look in her eyes in the greenhouse that first night, right before she kissed you. The guitar lessons where she'd sit behind you, her hands guiding yours through chord progressions, her breath warm against your neck, leaning forward at times to press soft pecks to your skin before going back to the instrument. The morning she taught you to make fresh pasta, flour everywhere, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

Three weeks. That's all it's been, really. Three weeks of pretending you could have something normal, something uncomplicated. Three weeks of carefully not asking about her past whilst hiding your own.

And it felt like something, like it could actually become something real.

The ache in your chest sharpens. This isn't just the grief you've been carrying around like extra weight. This is fresh, acute, the kind of anguish that comes from having something and watching it slip away.

You look at your phone again, at Jeremy's message, at the reminder of everything you've been running from. Then you look at the door Taylor walked through, at the direction she went when she left, towards her property.

No.

The word comes with sudden clarity, with a determination that cuts through the shock and hurt and wounded pride.

No, you're not doing this again. You're not letting another person disappear from your life because you were too scared or too proud or whatever to fight for them. You're not adding Taylor to the list of things you've lost, things you've let slip away.

You stand up, pacing now, mind racing. She needs space, sure, you can see that. Chasing after her right now whilst she's still in fight-or-flight mode would only make things worse. But giving her space doesn't mean giving up, it doesn't mean accepting her worst assumptions about you.

It means waiting just the littlest bit, until she's calm enough to listen. And then making her listen, whether she wants to or not.

You grab your phone again, find her contact. Over these weeks of undefined relationship (situationship, you think to yourself, doesn't cut it. It isn't an actual relationship either, you both agreed on it. Whatever), you got each other's contacts but never really used it beyond a couple quick calls. Simply crossing the stupid distance between your properties has always been much easier. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, trying to find words that won't make things worse. Eventually, you settle on something simple:

I'm not writing a story. I'm not using you. I need you to believe that, even if you can't believe anything else right now. When you're ready to talk, I'll be here.

You hit send before you can second-guess it, then immediately open a second message thread, this one in reply to Jeremy:

Hey. I'm good, thanks for checking in. I'm out of that world now, permanently. Whatever's happening with Venezuela, I'm glad the work is continuing, but I can't be part of it. Take care of yourself.

You send that one too, then you set the phone down and look around your kitchen, at the life you've built here over these years. The coffee farm that's finally turning a profit, the garden you've coaxed into productivity, the regular customers who depend on you. It's a good life, a quiet life, a safe life.

But it's also been a lonely life, and you hadn't fully realised how lonely until Taylor appeared in it months ago with her sharp tongue and her high-up walls and her cats and her unexpected softness.

You think about Renée, about the guilt you've been carrying since she died; about the way you blamed yourself for dragging her into your dangerous work, for not listening when she begged you to walk away; about the promise you made at her funeral, that you'd never let your choices hurt someone you loved ever again, which inherently meant you'd never get someone get close like that again.

That promise has been protecting you, keeping you safe and alone in equal measure. But maybe it's time to recognise it for what it really is: not protection, but another form of running away.

Taylor is not Renée. This situation is not that one. And you are not the same person you were four years ago, broken and grieving and convinced that isolation was a synonym for safety.

You move through the house with new purpose, cleaning up the breakfast dishes, wiping down the counters, putting things back in order. Physical tasks to ground yourself whilst your mind works through everything that needs to happen next.

You're not going to lose this, not without a fight.

The question is timing. Do you go to her now, while she's still angry and defensive and unlikely to listen? Or do you give her space, let her calm down, risk that the space becomes distance and the distance becomes permanent?

You think about the way she looked at you when she said I should have known better. Not angry, in that moment, but resigned. Like she'd been waiting for this betrayal from the start, like it confirmed something she'd always suspected about herself or the world or the impossibility of letting people in.

That's what decides it.

You grab your keys from the hook by the door, shove your feet into your boots, then rethink the whole thing and decide to sit back down. You'll give her an hour. Long enough to get home, to maybe cry or scream or throw things or whatever she needs to do. Long enough that showing up won't feel like chasing, but not so long that she convinces herself this is just another proof that people can't be trusted.

One hour, then you're going over there, and you're going to tell her everything. About Renée, about the investigation, about why you're really here and why you understand better than she knows what it's like to run from a life that tried to consume you.

And if she still wants you to leave after that, at least you'll know you tried. At least you'll know you didn't let fear win again.

That hour passes by excruciatingly slowly.

The drive to Taylor's property takes less than five minutes, but it feels perhaps even longer than the hour you've spent sitting in your sofa, staring at the spot where she'd just been. Your hands are tight on the steering wheel, your mind racing through what you're going to say. How do you explain over four years of running in a way that makes sense? How do you make someone understand that you weren't lying so much as trying to forget?

The gate appears around the final bend; tall, iron, expensive, and very, very closed, as always. You pull up to the intercom, rolling down your window and pressing the button before you can second-guess yourself.

Nothing happens for a long moment. Then the speaker crackles to life, and a familliar voice comes through.

"Good morning." Marco's tone is perfectly professional, perfectly polite. "How can I help you?"

"Marco, it's me. I need to speak with Taylor."

"I'm afraid Ms. Swift is not receiving visitors at this time."

"Marco, please. I just need five minutes-"

"Ms. Swift has asked not to be disturbed. I'm sure you understand."

You stare at the intercom, frustration building in your chest. The irony isn't lost on you, six months ago, it was Taylor the one chasing you, getting turned down and pointedly ignored. You'd found it satisfying then, the idea of the rich Asshole Neighbour being rebuffed, sent away without getting what she wanted.

It's significantly less satisfying from this side.

"Look, I know she's upset, but if I could just talk to her for a minute-"

"I really must insist-"

"Marco, por favor." You switch to Spanish, hoping the familiarity might help. "I'm not trying to cause problems. I just need to explain something to her."

"I understand." His voice is still as level and professional as it's been from the very beginning of this, as expressionless as when he was the only connection you had to Taylor, when he was showing at your door delivering warnings and complaints, when Taylor was just the nameless and faceless entity he called his employer and at whom you used to curse creatively on the daily. "But my instructions were very clear. I'm sorry."

"Can you at least tell her I'm here? That I came? That I tried?"

There's a pause, longer than before. You can picture him standing in that absurdly high-tech security room, probably watching you on a camera, weighing his loyalty to his employer against whatever humanity he's managed to maintain working for someone as isolated as Taylor.

"I will relay your message," he says finally. "But I can't promise anything beyond that."

"Thank you."

"I'd suggest giving her some time."

The gentle advice catches you off guard. It's more than you expected, more than you probably deserve given that you're essentially asking him to betray his employer's direct orders.

"How much time?"

"I don't know. But pushing right now will only make things worse."

He's probably right. You know he's probably right. But every instinct you have is screaming that if you leave now, if you let this sit, it'll calcify into something permanent. Taylor will convince herself she was right about you, and the walls will go back up, and that'll be the end of it.

"Marco-"

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I have to go now."

The intercom clicks off, leaving you alone with the sound of your truck's engine and the quiet morning around you. The gate doesn't open. The camera mounted on the stone pillar beside it stares down at you, an unblinking eye recording your failure.

You could honk. Could sit here and lean on the horn until someone - Taylor or Marco or Dean or whatever other staff she has hidden away in that enormous house - comes out to deal with you. Could make a scene, force the confrontation.

But that's not going to help, is it? That's just going to confirm everything Taylor already thinks about you; that you're pushy, invasive, willing to bulldoze through boundaries to get what you want.

That you're a journalist, essentially. Following the story regardless of who wants you to stop.

"Fuck," you mutter, putting the truck in reverse.

The gate stays closed as you back away, turn around in the wide space clearly designed for exactly this purpose. You catch one last glimpse of it in your rearview mirror; imposing, impersonal, a very clear message about who's welcome and who's not.

You make it about halfway down the drive before you have to pull over, hands shaking too much to keep driving safely. You grip the steering wheel hard enough that your knuckles go white, trying to breathe through the frustration and fear and the horrible certainty that you've just ruined the best thing that's happened to you in these last years.

Your phone is in your pocket, suddenly feeling heavy. You could text her. Could try to explain in writing what you couldn't say in person. Could pour everything out; about Renée, about the investigation, about why you're here and why you didn't tell her and why she needs to understand that you're not the person she thinks you are.

But you've been a writer long enough to know that some things can't be said properly in text. Some things require seeing someone's face, reading their body language, knowing whether your words are landing or just bouncing off walls they've rebuilt.

And Taylor's walls are very, very high and strong, you've come to learn.

You pull back onto the road, driving slowly, your mind already racing ahead to what comes next. Marco said to give her time. Maybe that's right. Maybe pushing now will only make things worse.

But how much time? An hour? A day? A week?

How long before "giving her time" becomes "giving up"?

Chapter Text

Day 3

Two days of silence feels like two years, and that's the reason you decide it's due time to try again.

Over these two days, you throw yourself into work because it's the only thing you know how to do when everything else is falling apart. Tending to the plants, ticking every chore in your to-do list, working out afterwards so you're exhausted enough at night that you don't get to think much before dozing off. But even the work can't quiet your mind completely. You find yourself reaching for your phone a few dozen times a day, typing out messages you never send. 

I wasn't lying, I was just trying to move past it. Delete. You don't understand what I left behind. Delete. Please just let me explain. Delete.

On the third morning, you stand in your processing shed surrounded by bags of roasted coffee and realise what you need to do.

You select the beans carefully, the best of your latest harvest, the ones you'd normally reserve for special orders or personal use or even tournaments. Medium roast, perfectly balanced.

The packaging takes longer than it usually does for your regular customers, as Taylor's not regular, nor a customer. You're particular about the weight, the seal, the way the bag sits in the small box you've found. It's not fancy - you're a coffee farmer, not a fucking Santa elf - but it's neat, professional, the kind of thing that says 'I care' without being too overt.

The note is harder to produce. You go through half a dozen attempts before you settle on something simple, written on the back of one of your business cards in careful handwriting:

I was wrong. Let me explain properly.

Not an apology, exactly, at least not yet. Because you're not entirely sure what you're apologising for; not telling her about journalism? Having a past? Existing in a way that triggered her paranoia? But you were wrong about something, even if you're still figuring out exactly what, and maybe that's enough to start with.

You tape the note to the top of the box, then spend another five minutes second-guessing the whole thing. Is this too much? Not enough? Will she see it as a peace offering or just a form of manipulation (like you once did when she was the one on the other side of this, trying to gift you stuff to get you to listen to her), will it just feel like more evidence that you're trying to get close to her for ulterior motives?

"Fuck it," you mutter finally, and carry the box out to your truck before you can change your mind.

The gate looks exactly the same as it did two days ago. Same iron bars, same security camera, same absolute finality, nothing a single inch out of place. You pull up to the intercom, the box balanced on your passenger seat, and press the button. Nothing happens.

You wait a full minute, then press it again. Still nothing. The speaker doesn't even crackle to life this time. It's possible no one's there; Marco has to have days off, surely, even working for someone as demanding as Taylor, though you also know for a fact she has other people in her security team. There's a second of still nothingness until you can see the camera moving slightly, adjusting its angle, which means someone's watching. They're just choosing not to respond.

"Right," you say to the empty air. "Okay then."

You get out of the truck, taking the box with you. The gate is too tall to climb and too solid to see through properly, but there's a flat stone pillar beside the intercom that looks stable enough. You set the box on top of it, positioning it carefully so it won't fall, so it's visible from the camera's angle.

"Taylor," you say, looking directly at the camera because you know she might be watching, might be seeing this in real-time on whatever security feed she has. And even if she isn't (the possibility, you think to yourself with no small amount of inexplicable sadness, is the most likely), maybe someone in her staff is and will take pity on your humiliation and let her know about it. "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I'm not writing a story. I'm not using you. I just... I need you to understand that."

The camera stares back at you, unblinking and silent.

"The coffee's good," you add, feeling ridiculous now, talking to a lifeless, unmoving machine. "Best of the harvest. You always said my medium roast was your favourite."

Still nothing. The morning air is getting warm, and you're standing in front of a closed gate talking to a camera like a lunatic, and this is so much worse than just being turned away because at least rejection is acknowledgment. This is nothing.

You get back in your truck and leave the box where it is, visible and waiting. As you drive away, you check the rearview mirror again and again, half-hoping to see the gate opening, someone coming out to collect it. But it stays closed, and the box stays where you left it, and you make it all the way home before you admit to yourself that this probably isn't going to work either.

Marco appears on your porch the next morning, the box in his hands, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"My employer asked me to return this," he says before you can even say hello.

The box looks exactly as you left it; sealed, untouched, your note still taped to the top. She didn't even look at it. Didn't check to see what was inside, didn't read past the first line of your note, that is, if she even read the fucking note at all. Just sent it back, like returning unwanted mail.

"Right." Your sound like a kicked puppy even to your own ears. "Of course."

"I'm sorry," Marco says, and he actually sounds it, surprising as that might be.

"It's fine. Not your fault."

He shifts uncomfortably, still holding the box out like he's not sure whether you're going to take it back or throw it at him. "It's not personal."

You laugh, bitter. "It's entirely personal, Marco. That's the whole problem."

He has the grace to look sympathetic as you take the box from him. Feels heavier than you remember, weighted with the growing certainty that you've fucked this up beyond repair.

After he leaves, you sit on your porch with the returned box in your lap, staring at your own handwriting on the note. I was wrong. Let me explain properly.

So she doesn't want your explanations. Doesn't want your coffee or your notes or your presence at her goddamn property. She wants you gone, erased, removed from whatever bubble of safety she's constructed around herself for whatever reason.

Fuck.

The frustration that's been building for these last couple of days finally breaks through. You set the box down on the porch boards, standing up and pacing because sitting still feels impossible.

You were wrong. You know you were wrong. But how are you supposed to fix something if the other person won't even let you try? How are you supposed to apologise if they've decided you're not worth listening to?

Your phone is in your pocket. You could call her, you could text her, write out everything you need to say, force her to see it even if she won't see you. But that feels like exactly what she's afraid of, the pushy journalist who doesn't take no for an answer, who bulldozes through boundaries in pursuit of the story, even if the only story you're chasing is the truth of what in the living fuck you actually are to each other.

You pick up the box again, carrying it inside and setting it on your kitchen counter next to the mug she left behind that morning and that you still can't bring yourself to wash or get rid of. Your house is becoming a museum of rejected peace offerings, physical evidence of every failed attempt to bridge the gap she's put between you.

-

Day 5

You try texting first. Simple, non-threatening messages that you compose and recompose a dozen times, each iteration living in the undefined, hollow space between being more and less adequate than the last.

I know you don't want to talk, but please just let me explain about the journalism thing.

The message shows as delivered but never read. You watch the screen like it might change if you stare hard enough, willing those two grey checkmarks to turn blue. Two hours crawl by, measured in the number of times you pick up your phone, check it, set it down, pick it up again; soundtracked by the sound of your kitchen, fridge whirring, clock ticking.

I'm not writing anything. I haven't written anything in years. I left that life behind.

Delivered, not read. The grey checkmarks mock you with their steadfast refusal to evolve. You stare at the screen until the words blur, until your reflection ghosts over the black glass like someone you don't fully recognise. Then, one more try.

Please, Taylor. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking.

This time the message doesn't deliver at all. Just sits there beneath a small explanation in unforgiving sans-serif: Not delivered.

You call. It goes straight to voicemail, just the generic robot woman reciting the number back to you like you might have dialled wrong. But you didn't dial wrong, and the reality of what this means settles over you with the weight of its inevitability: you've been blocked. Not just ignored, not simply avoided; actively, deliberately excised from her digital existence. She went into her address book, found your name, and removed you as thoroughly as if you'd never existed in her contacts at all.

The rejection is so complete, so unambiguous, it actually makes you laugh, loud and bitter and slightly unhinged in the too-quiet emptiness of your own kitchen. The sound echoes off the walls and dies quickly. You sink against the counter, phone hanging loose in your hand, thumb twitching as if another message might undo it all.

-

Day 7

You drive to the gate again, this time with three terracotta pots wedged carefully in the passenger footwell - thyme, rosemary, parsley, soil still dark and damp from this morning's watering. Some of the herbs you'd mentioned back in the greenhouse, back when she still wanted to know the answers to all the questions she presented you with, back when she'd listen to you speak about whatever nerdy subject at hand with a soft smile gracing her lips.

You'd written care instructions by hand on small cardstock tags, looped through twine around each stem. Watering schedules, sunlight needs, small things that felt important at the time, like maybe those details could substitute for the conversation she won't let you have.

For your garden. Like we talked about.

The intercom stays silent when you press it, once again. No static, no acknowledgment, just the faint hum of the camera adjusting its lens like a mechanical eye deciding you're not worth the effort. You wait anyway - ten seconds, twenty, a whole minute -, then get out with the pots cradled against your chest, their edges pressing into your ribs.

You set them by the gate in a neat row, close enough to the stone pillar that they won't get clipped by a car, visible enough that no one could miss them. The thyme leans slightly to one side. You straighten it, then immediately feel ridiculous for caring about the angle of a plant she'll probably never see.

When you drive past the next morning on your way into town, they're still there, unmoved, the tags fluttering in the breeze. The morning after that, same thing. Pots in a row, soil drying at the edges, rosemary going a little grey from the overnight cold.

On the third day, they're gone.

You slow the truck without meaning to, scanning the spot where you left them, the empty stretch of gravel and stone like maybe you imagined the whole thing. You don't know if Marco carried them inside - set them on a kitchen counter or a back patio where she might see them and think of you, even for a second - or if he just tossed them in the garbage the moment you left, dirt and all. Another rejected gesture composted into nothing.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter, even if it does. You tell yourself that all the way home, and through the rest of the day, and into the next morning when you still catch yourself looking for any impossible clue that she might've seen it.

-

Day 10

The supermarket in town is small enough that running into people you know isn't simply a possibility, it's a weekly guarantee. You've been avoiding it lately, slipping in just after dawn when the aisles are empty and you're less likely to encounter anyone. But today you're out of basics, and there's only so long you can survive on black coffee and canned food.

Thursday afternoon, and the place is nearly deserted. You're in the produce section, loading vegetables into your cart mechanically, when you see her.

Two aisles over, partially hidden behind a tower of tinned tomatoes, but you'd know her anywhere. The way she stands, the tilt of her head, the careful deliberateness of her movements. She's wearing sunglasses indoors and a baseball cap pulled so low it nearly touches the frames, the universal costume of someone who doesn't want to be seen. It would almost be funny if your heart hadn't just lurched into your throat and lodged itself there, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

"Taylor." 

Her name leaves your mouth before your brain catches up, before you can swallow it back. It sounds too loud in the quiet store.

She looks up, and even through the dark lenses you can see the exact moment she registers you. Her whole body locks; spine straight, shoulders tight, hand suspended over a jar of pasta sauce like she's been frozen mid-reach.

"Taylor, please, just-"

She abandons her cart. Literally just leaves it in the middle of the aisle, half-full of groceries, wheels still angled from where she'd been pushing it, and turns on her heel. Her stride is fast, purposeful, so close to running that the distinction barely matters. You follow for a few steps before the sheer absurdity of chasing her through a small-town supermarket under flickering lights slams into you and roots you in place.

A woman you vaguely recognise from the farmers' market gives you a curious look as she navigates around Taylor's abandoned cart. You stand there like an idiot, staring at the evidence of Taylor's exit - organic kale, expensive imported cheese, a bag of pre-ground coffee that isn't even good; evidence of how thoroughly you've been rejected

"Lovers' quarrel?" the woman at the produce counter asks. She's holding a spray bottle of water, misting lettuce.

"Something like that," you mutter, and go back to your shopping with shaking hands.

-

Day 13

Another trip to the gate. This time you bring a book: Slouching Towards Bethlehem, first edition, the spine creased just enough to prove it's been loved but not enough to damage it. You'd found it over a decade ago in a second-hand shop, back when you were still in uni, buried under stacks of forgotten paperbacks, and bought it for more than you could afford at the time. One of those possessions you've carried with you through every move, every life change, the kind of thing you don't lend out because losing it would feel like losing a piece of yourself. Taylor had mentioned Didion once. Just in passing, during one of those early dinners.

You open the cover carefully, pen hovering over the blank front page. Then, in your neatest handwriting:

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." I need to tell you mine. Please.

You wrap it in brown paper, tie it with twine, and drive to the gate with the package resting on the passenger seat like something fragile. Not the book - though that too - but the gesture itself, this last-ditch offering of something that actually costs you.

The intercom doesn't answer, though you didn't really expect it to at this point.

You set the package on the stone pillar, adjusting it twice to make sure it won't slide off, that the knot is visible, that she'll know someone took care with this. Then you stand there for a moment, staring at the camera, wondering if she's watching. Wondering if she'll even open it, or if this too will come back to you sealed and untouched, another piece of yourself returned to sender.

You drive home, wait.

Two days pass like slow erosion, hours that scrape by while you check your phone too often, listen for cars on your drive that never come, imagine scenarios where she reads the inscription and understands, where the book becomes a bridge instead of another burned one.

On the third morning, Marco pulls up to your house.

He's holding the package, still wrapped in brown paper, twine still knotted exactly how you left it. His face carries that same expression he's worn for every return, sympathy laced with something closer to exasperation now, like he's tired of being the messenger for your failed attempts at reconciliation.

"I'm sorry," he says, and this time it sounds like he means I'm sorry this keeps happening as much as I'm sorry I have to do this.

You take the package. The twine hasn't been disturbed, the paper not even loosened at the corners to peek inside.

She didn't even look.

"Right," you say. Your voice comes out flat, emptied of anything resembling hope. "Thanks for bringing it back."

Marco lingers for a second like he might say something else - some piece of advice, some insight into what Taylor's thinking - but he just nods and leaves.

-

Day 18

Joanna finds you in the processing shed. It's barely seven in the morning and you're already elbow-deep in equipment maintenance that wasn't really necessary or urgent at all. The kind of busy work you invent when your hands need something to grip that isn't your phone, when the silence in your head gets too loud to bear.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you," she says by way of greeting, dropping her bag by the door.

You don't look up from the roaster you're pretending to recalibrate. "Nice to see you too. How was Colombia?"

"Colombia was fine. You're deflecting." She crosses her arms, leaning against the workbench. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm just working."

"Oh really? Try again."

You finally glance up. Joanna's tanned from her time away, skin golden in the early light filtering through the shed's open door, dark hair pulled back in a practical braid that's already coming loose. She's wearing that expression, the one that means she can see straight through whatever bullshit facade you're trying to hold up. You'd forgotten how well she reads you after three months of her absence.

"I've been busy," you try.

"Busy hiding, apparently." She moves closer, boots scuffing against concrete, and plucks the wrench from your oil-stained fingers before she sets it aside. "Talk to me. What the hell happened whilst I was gone?"

"I think I fucked up something that could've been good," you hear yourself say, before your brain catches up to your mouth, before you can shove the words back down where they belong.

Joanna's eyebrows rise. "This is about Asshole Neighbour."

"Taylor."

"I know her name is Taylor. You told me that months ago." She drags a stool over with her foot and drops onto it. "Asshole Neighbour still fits better, though. So what happened between you two?"

So you tell her. Not everything - you can't tell her everything, not the parts that aren't yours to share - but enough. About the coffee lessons that turned into something more and the increasingly creative excuses you kept finding to see each other. About dinners that stretched past midnight and mornings waking up with her hair across your pillow (or the other way around), her breath warm against your collarbone. About how it felt easy in a way nothing's felt easy since Renée died, like maybe you were allowed to have this, to want this.

About the text from Jeremy that Taylor saw. About her immediate shutdown, the assumption that snapped into place like a lock; that you were using her, hunting her, that everything between you was just research for a story you weren't writing.

About three weeks of returned gifts, blocked numbers, Marco's increasingly uncomfortable visits to your porch, carrying back pieces of yourself you kept trying to give away.

You don't mention Taylor's last name. Don't explain why a retired journalist would send her into a rabbit hole this deep, why the discovery of your past detonated everything so thoroughly. You just paint her as someone wealthy, private, deeply damaged by something you're not allowed to talk about, though honestly, it's not like you actually know what's damaged her so badly to begin with.

Joanna listens without interrupting, which is how you know she's taking this seriously. When you finally trail off, voice rough from talking, she's quiet for a long beat. The shed fills with the distant sound of birds, the faint mechanical hum of the refrigeration units.

"Okay," she says finally. "So you fucked up by not telling her about your past. That's fair. But she also fucked up by not letting you explain."

"She thinks I was writing a story about her."

"Were you?"

"What? No! Of course not."

"Then why didn't you tell her about the journalism thing?"

You slump against the workbench, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour, despite the coffee still buzzing in your bloodstream. "Because I didn't want to be that person anymore. Because every time I told someone I used to be an investigative journalist, they'd ask what I was investigating, and then I'd have to explain about Renée and the corruption story and why I left, and I just..." Your throat tightens, you feel tears start to threaten their way out. "I wanted to be someone new. Someone who grew coffee and lived quietly and didn't carry all that history around like a fucking anchor."

"But you do carry it around," Joanna says gently. "You can't just decide not to have a past."

"Apparently not."

"So she found out and panicked. That's not great, but it's understandable if she's as private as you say." Joanna shifts on the stool, angling toward you. "What I don't understand is why you're sitting here three weeks later covered in grease instead of fighting for her."

"I did fight for her." The words come out sharper than you intended, with bitter edges of frustration and perhaps even a tinge of resentment. "I tried everything, Jo. I showed up at her gate so many times her security guys probably have my license plate memorised. I sent gifts, wrote letters, left messages. She returned everything unopened. She blocked my number."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Joanna goes quiet again, jaw working like she's chewing on the information, trying to find the right angle. "You really care about her."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yeah."

"Like... care care about her."

"What other kind of caring is there?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse. You know what I mean." She leans forward, her dark eyes intense. "Is this just about the sex? About having someone warm in your bed again after years alone?"

"No."

"Then what is it about?"

You try to find the words, but they knot in your throat, refusing to come out clean. How do you explain the way Taylor looked at you that first morning in your kitchen, sleepy and soft and more real than anything you've felt in years? How do you describe watching her in the greenhouse, patient with plants she didn't understand because you'd asked her to try, dirt under her nails and that small smile when something finally made sense? How do you put into words the simple, ordinary perfection of making coffee together while arguing over stupid, petty shit just to hear her voice push back against yours?

"She's not just rich," you say finally. "She's... complicated. Damaged in ways I think I recognise because I'm damaged in the similar ways. And I hurt her by keeping secrets, even if I didn't mean to, even if I was just trying to protect myself."

"Okay." Joanna nods slowly. "So you hurt her and she shut you out. That's shitty, but it's not necessarily permanent."

"It feels pretty fucking permanent."

"Feelings are called feelings for a reason. They're not facts." She stands up, brushing dust and coffee chaff off her jeans. "Look, I don't know this Taylor woman. Don't know what her deal is or why she's so paranoid. But I know you. And I know you don't let yourself care about people easily. So if you really care about her, and it's obvious you do, then three weeks of rejection shouldn't be enough to make you give up."

"I tried-"

"You tried her way. Gifts and letters and messages. Things she could ignore without having to face you." Joanna crosses her arms. "But did you actually try? Like, really try? Force the conversation even if it's uncomfortable? Make her listen even if she doesn't want to?"

"Last time I tried to force her to do anything, she sent a lawyer to my front door, Jo."

"So let her do it again. What's the worst that happens? They send you a cease and desist? You're already not talking to her. You can't make this worse than it already is."

You want to argue, but she's not entirely wrong. The past three weeks have been a special kind of hell - the silence, the rejection, the growing certainty that you've lost something precious before you fully understood what you had. How much worse could one more attempt actually make things?

"I haven't felt this way since Renée," you admit quietly, the confession scraping its way out. "And I'm terrified I've destroyed it before it even started."

Joanna's expression softens.

"I know," she says. "That's exactly why you can't give up. Because if there's even a chance that this could be real, that you could have this again, you owe it to yourself to try. One more time, for real this time."

"She won't open her gate."

"Then find another way. You're creative. You're stubborn as hell. Use that." She picks up her bag, heading for the door. "I'm going to check on the north field. When I come back, I want you to have a plan that doesn't involve hiding in this shed and pretending your equipment needs maintenance."

"Jo-"

"One more try," she says firmly, pausing in the doorway to look back at you. "And this time, don't take no for an answer. If she wants you gone, make her say it to your face. Make her look you in the eye and tell you she doesn't want you. Because I'm betting she can't."

She leaves before you can respond, her footsteps fading into the morning sounds - birds calling, wind rustling through the trees. You stand there in the empty shed, oil still coating your hands, and let that decision settle over your doubts, even if it's born from sheer stubbornness.

Alright. One more try.

Chapter Text

The next day, you drive to Taylor's gate with Joanna's words still ringing in your ears like some mantra. Make her say it to your face. Don't take no for an answer.

This time, you're not bringing gifts or carefully crafted explanations written on cards. This time, you're coming with three weeks of accumulated frustration and the bone-deep certainty that if you don't force this conversation now, you never will.

The gate is closed, naturally. You park directly in front of it, tires crunching on gravel, then kill the engine and sit in the sudden silence. Nothing happens for a full minute; no camera adjustment, no intercom crackle, just the weight of being watched without acknowledgment. You reach for the intercom button, fingers hovering, then pull back. Instead, you try the horn; loud, sharp, demanding, in the same way you did months ago.

The intercom crackles almost immediately. "Ma'am, you need to move your vehicle."

"I'm not moving until I talk to Taylor."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Ms. Swift is not available."

"Then she can fucking become available." Your voice comes out harder than you intended, edged with an anger that's been building for weeks, sharpening with every returned gift and unanswered message. "I'm not leaving this time, Marco. So either you let me in, or I'll sit here and keep honking until the whole fucking country hears about whatever it is she's so afraid of."

It's a bluff; you're not actually sure what you'd say, and threatening to expose Taylor's secrets isn't exactly going to earn her goodwill. But you're out of patience and out of options, and desperate measures are starting to look pretty reasonable.

"Ma'am-"

"Don't." You cut him off, voice rising. "I'm someone who cares about your boss, and I'm not leaving until I've had a chance to tell her that myself."

There's a long silence, static humming through the speaker. Then a sigh, barely audible, followed by a clipped: "Please wait a moment."

You wait. Five minutes crawl by with nothing but distant birdsong and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You're beginning to think this was a colossal waste of time when you see movement: a familiar obsidian black SUV rolling down the path from Taylor's house, slowing as it approaches the gate.

A figure emerges. Marco, but not the Marco you've gotten used to over the past few months. This version has his posture ramrod straight, shoulders back, jaw set; all that clear military training you were used to before you found out who Taylor was. He's walking with the kind of determination that suggests this won't be pleasant.

He stops on the other side of the gate, arms crossed, regarding you with a furrowed brow.

"Ms. Swift has asked me to tell you to leave," he says, voice formal, stripped of the sympathy he's shown on previous visits. "She's made it clear that any further contact will be considered harassment, and she will be calling the police."

"I don't believe you." The words are out before you can stop them. "If she'd really wanted me gone, she wouldn't have sent you down here. She'd have just called the cops."

"You need to go."

"No." You step out of the truck, leaving the door open, approaching the gate. "I need to talk to her. Five minutes, Marco. That's all I'm asking for."

"It's not my decision."

"Then get her to make it."

"She has made it. You're to leave."

"I'm not leaving." Your voice is steady now, all the panic and desperation crystallising into something clearer, much more like frustration. "I'm not leaving this gate until Taylor tells me herself that she doesn't want to hear what I have to say. Not you, not her lawyers, not some fucking threat about police. I need to hear it from her."

Marco's expression hardens, his jaw tightening. "If you don't leave in the next five minutes, I will call the police. They will come, and you will be removed. Is that what you want?"

"No." You take another step closer to the gate, your hands gripping the iron bars, cold metal biting into your palms. "What I want is for you to go tell Taylor that I'm here. Tell her I'm not leaving. Tell her that if she wants me gone, she needs to come out here and say it to my face."

"That's not going to happen."

"Then call the police." The words surprise you even as they leave your mouth, reckless and sharp-edged. It feels like something the old you would say - the journalist-you, the version who was fearless and stubbornly determined, who had a purpose and a life and the person you loved most still beside you. You can't help but feel you've never been further from that version than you are right now, standing at a locked gate begging for scraps of attention. "Call them. Do you honestly think I'm scared of a trespassing arrest? Really? Because I'm way more fucking terrified of spending the rest of my life wondering what would've happened if I hadn't given up."

Marco stares at you. You can see him weighing his options, trying to figure out how serious you are, whether you're actually unhinged enough to get yourself arrested over this. Behind him, the house sits silent, no indication that Taylor's listening through whatever intercom system is undoubtedly still connected.

"Please," you say, and your voice cracks slightly, anger fracturing into something more vulnerable. "Just... please ask her."

He stands there for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable. Then he reaches for the phone on his belt. Your heart sinks. He's really going to call the police.

But before he can unclip it, a voice crackles through the gate's intercom system.

"Let her in."

Marco goes absolutely still. So do you, breath caught, trapped somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

"Ma'am?" he says into the intercom, doubt clear in his voice, like he's not sure he heard correctly.

"Let her in, Marco."

It's Taylor's voice, unmistakable even distorted through the speaker, even stripped of inflection.

The gate slides open with a mechanical whir, and you drive through with hands that won't stop shaking. Marco's SUV follows you up the winding drive, but when you park and cut the engine, he's already walking away, phone pressed to his ear.

Taylor's waiting on the front steps when you climb out of the truck. She's dressed simply in denim shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a bun. She looks tired, with shadows under her eyes that weren't there three weeks ago.

"Well?" she says as you approach, arms crossed tight over her chest. "You wanted to talk. Talk."

"Not out here."

"Why not?"

"Because what I have to say isn't for your security team to live-stream or record or whatever the fuck they do with all those cameras."

She stares at you for a long moment, jaw working like she's chewing on a response she won't let out. Then she turns and walks into the house without a word. You follow, noting the way she doesn't wait for you, doesn't hold the door, just lets it swing half-closed behind her so you have to catch it yourself. Inside, Taylor positions herself behind the living room sofa, using it as a deliberate barrier between you. The furniture becomes a moat, a line you're not supposed to cross, and you're struck by how carefully she's maintaining distance, like you're something dangerous she needs to keep at arm's length.

"So," she says. "Explain. Tell me how I've got it all wrong. Tell me how you're not actually a journalist who's been lying to me for weeks."

"I was a journalist. Past tense. I left that life years ago."

"Left it or took a sabbatical? Because that text made it sound like you're still very much part of that world."

"The text." You take a breath, trying to hold onto the calm you came here with, the reasonable explanations you rehearsed in the truck. "Jeremy was my editor at The Intercept. He checks in sometimes because..." You pause, not sure how much you want to reveal, how much of yourself you're willing to give to someone who's already returned every other piece you tried to offer. "Because I left under difficult circumstances, and he worries about me."

"What kind of difficult circumstances?"

"The kind that are none of your business unless you're actually interested in knowing me instead of just looking for reasons to push me away."

"That's not what I'm doing." Her voice wavers slightly, defensive.

"Isn't it?" You take a step closer. "Because it seems like the moment things got real between us, you went looking for an excuse to run."

"Things didn't get real between us." The words come out sharp, fast, like she's been holding them ready. "We were just-"

"Just what? Just fucking? Just passing time?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

"Bullshit. You know exactly what we were doing, and it scared the hell out of you."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're terrified of trusting anyone." Your voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through every syllable. "I know you'd rather believe I'm some predatory journalist than accept that someone might actually care about you without wanting anything in return."

"People always want something in return."

"What do I want, then? What's my angle? What am I getting out of sleeping with my reclusive neighbour?"

"I don't know!" Her voice breaks slightly. "Rich, reclusive pop star hiding in Central America? That's got to be worth something. Pulitzer-worthy, maybe, if you can crack the mystery of why Taylor Swift disappeared."

"Stop." Your voice comes out harder than you intended, loud enough that she flinches. "Just stop with the paranoid celebrity bullshit for five seconds and listen to me."

Her jaw clenches. "Paranoid celebrity bullshit?"

"Yes. This whole victim complex where everyone's out to get you, everyone's using you, everyone's got an agenda. It's exhausting."

"You lied to me."

"I didn't lie. I just didn't volunteer information about a life I don't live anymore."

"For months. Through everything we... through all of it, you never thought to mention that you used to make a living exposing people's secrets?"

"Because I knew you'd react exactly like this!" The words explode out of you, weeks of careful restraint finally detonating in the space between you. "Because I knew that the moment you found out, you'd decide I was the enemy and shut down completely!"

"Maybe because I've learned not to trust people who make their careers out of other people's private lives!"

"I don't do that anymore! Besides, you act like I was some gossip writer, working for Page Six or The Daily Mail or whatever. I was a fucking investigative journalist reporting on governamental corruption."

"So you say. But here you are, living next door to me, getting close to me, learning all my secrets-"

"What secrets?" You laugh, sharp and bitter. "You haven't told me anything. You won't talk about your past, your music, why you're here, what made you disappear. For all your paranoia about me writing some exposé, there's nothing to expose because you've never actually trusted me with anything real."

"That's not-"

"Isn't it?" Your voice rises, frustration boiling over. "Name one meaningful thing you've told me about yourself. One real thing, not favorite colours or the serial killer documentaries you watch or what you like to cook."

She goes quiet.

"That's what I thought," you continue, the hurt of the past weeks sharpening your voice. "So forgive me if I don't feel guilty about not sharing my entire professional history with someone who's been treating me like a potential threat from day one."

"You don't understand what it's like-"

"Don't I?" You take a step forward, hands clenched at your sides. "You think you're the only one who's running from something? The only one who's had their life turned upside down?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm here for the same goddamn fucking00 reason you are." Your voice cracks slightly, bleeding through the anger. "Because my old life became impossible. Because I lost my fiancée and couldn't stay in a world that reminded me of her every single day. Because I was working on a story that got too dangerous and I was too much of a coward to see it through."

Taylor's posture shifts slightly, some of the rigid defensiveness cracking at the edges. Her arms loosen, hands dropping from where they'd been crossed tight over her chest.

"You lost your fiancée." She repeats it carefully, voice suddenly flat, stripped of inflection. "That's the person you mentioned that other day."

"Yes. Renée. She died about a year before I moved here."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" The question comes out cruel, and you watch it land like a physical blow. "Or are you just filing it away as another piece of the puzzle?"

Taylor flinches, her hands clenching at her sides, knuckles going white. "That's not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair. Nothing about you deciding I'm the villain because it's easier than admitting you might actually care about me."

"I don't-"

"Don't what? Don't care? Don't feel anything?" Your chest heaves with each breath, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "Because the past few weeks sure felt like something."

She's moving now, coming around the sofa, and there's something dangerous in her expression, anger meeting anger, two live wires sparking in the narrow space between you.

"You want to know what I feel? I feel like an idiot. I feel like I should have trusted my instincts instead of letting you convince me that this was real."

"It was real."

"Was it?" She's close now, close enough that you can see the way her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the flush creeping up her neck. "Or was I just a convenient way to pass the time while you figured out your angle?"

"Fuck you." The words come out low and vicious. "Fuck you for thinking so little of me that you'd believe that."

"What am I supposed to believe? That it's all just coincidence? That of all the places in the world, an investigative journalist just happened to end up living next door to me?"

"Yes, actually. That's exactly what happened."

"I don't believe you."

"Then you're the world's biggest fucking idiot."

She slaps you. It's sudden and sharp, her palm connecting with your cheek with a crack that echoes through the large room. The exact same gesture in the exact same way as you did to her months ago when you first visited this place, that argument in her kitchen. Your cheek stings hot and immediate, skin burning where her hand made contact, but more than that, something breaks open inside you, all the frustration and hurt and want you've been carrying for three weeks crystallizing into something that feels like rage but burns low in your gut like lust.

You grab her wrists, firm enough to stop her if she tries to hit you again. She struggles against your grip, but as soon as her hands are free, she's pulling you closer, mouth finding yours in a kiss, furious and full of weeks of unspoken want twisted up with hurt and bitterness. She bites your lower lip hard enough to sting, and you respond by backing her against the wall, pressing your body against hers until there's no space left between you.

"Taylor-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Your shirt hits the floor somewhere behind you, and then her hands are on your skin, urgent and hasty and without a trace of gentleness or refinement. You pull at the hem of her own tank top, dragging it over her head. She's not wearing a bra underneath, and the sight of her makes your breath catch despite everything.

She shoves you backward until you hit the opposite wall, kissing you harder. There's a feverish intensity to her movements, a mixture of just as much anger and need as you can feel boilling inside your own body. Your hands slide down her body, gripping her hips and pulling her closer, the heat between you almost unbearable.

"We shouldn't-" you manage to get out, though your actions aren't faithful in the least to your words.

"Shut up," she says again, her mouth finding your neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. "Just shut up and-"

Her hands go to the buttons of your jeans, nimble and demanding. You push her hands away, turning the tables and switching your positions so you're pinning her back against the wall instead. You take her wrists in one hand, holding them up above her head again, and she looks down at you with such anger and want and helplessness that it hurts like a hot brand against your skin.

You keep her wrists in your grip, leaning in so your mouth is almost touching hers. A breath of hot air into her mouth, a mischievous smile, and then you bring your lips to her neck, fingers tracing the edge of her jeans before diving in to find drenched curls. Her breath catches and the feeling is fucking addictive.

"I'm not the enemy, you know that right?" The words are murmured between her neck and her ear, tongue tracing over warm skin. She shudders, her body arching into your touch, as her hands clutch at the wall. You keep talking, a quiet litany whispered against her skin as your fingers tease with a barely there touch. "I don't have some sinister plan. I just want-"

"Stop talking," she pants, eyes closed, body trembling.

"You're just scared-"

"Fuck off."

You sigh and take your fingers away, looking up to find her eyes, blue irises now just a thin halo around the full-blown pupils.

"You're a coward," you mutter, though this time all the reaction it elicits is a pathetic little whimper. You lower her wrists and take a step back, but don't let them go yet. Instead, you walk back until your calves touch the edge of the sofa and let yourself sit down, bringing her along by the grip around both her wrists. She doesn't complain nor puts a fight, instead just looking at you with those wild burning eyes beneath scrunched brows. "You're gonna fuck yourself on my fingers. You either swallow your pride and ride me like the needy little fucker you are or tell me to fuck off and get out of here and I'll never come back again."

Her eyes darken, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Her breathing is ragged, her body tense. Her gaze drops to your lap, and you can see the war going on in her head - pride battling against want. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, she moves. She untangles her wrists from your grasp to get rid of her shorts in hurried movements, then straddles your lap, now wearing just a pair of simple light blue knickers, the heat of her seeping through the fabric, wetness creating a dark moisten patch on it. Her hands come up to rest on your shoulders, her eyes find yours and she arches a single brow but doesn't say anything else.

"There you go," you murmur, trying to sound unaffected but not able to fight the way your voice comes out hoarse and thick with how much you've suddenly started to want this. You trail your fingers over the inside of her thighs, nails gently scraping, leaving faint red lines behind and coaxing little cries from her lips. She shivers, biting her lip, but her eyes remain locked on yours, a challenge in them. You bring your hand up to brush over the wet fabric. "So wet already... are you that desperate for me, sweetie?"

You two, in the months you've known each other, have never been much for the pet names. But it does feel appropriate now, if only a little pedantic, and you can't help but bask in the satisfaction of how bothered she immediately looks by it.

"Don't," she hisses, the heat in her eyes shifting to annoyance. "Don't you fucking dare call me that." Her fingers dig into your shoulders, almost painfully, before she moves one hand to close around your throat. You have half a mind to think about how fucking hot angry Taylor is, with her choking kink and bitten down curses. "I'm not-"

"I know," you reply, gently, fingers still rubbing her slowly through the material. "You're not desperate. You're tough and untouchable and don't need anyone, we both know."

She glares at you without saying anything and tightens her grip on your throat. It doesn't hurt, but her thumb presses into your jaw. It's a weird mix of threatening and erotic, and you feel your blood pound a little faster, your own underwear getting a little more uncomfortably wet. You look up at her from half-lidden eyes, your free hand slowly drifting lower to push her underwear aside. Why bother with proper undressing, right? It's just a quick fuck to get it out of your systems.

"It's funny," you say, voice still just as casual as ever, "If only I'd known that was what it took to get you so riled up. Sweetness doesn't work for you, does it, baby? You only get off on anger. Is that why you got interested in me on the first place?"

She doesn't say anything, just tightens her grip and lowers her face to yours, noses brushing together, her free hand coming up to grab a fistful of your hair. There's something dangerous about her expression now, feral like a cornered animal, and you almost expect her to bite you. She doesn't. Her eyes travel down to you lips and you take the opportunity to lean up, brush your mouth along her jaw, and then to the shell of her ear.

"I told you to ride me," you whisper, letting your fingers brush against her wetness but making no move to press further. "Do it, you fucking coward."

That's what gets to her. With a snarl she lets go of your hair to take your face in her hands, one thumb pressing against your pulse point, then leans forward and captures your mouth in a brutal kiss. Teeth scraping over your bottom lip just enough to draw a small hiss from you. You move your other hand up, fingers gripping her hip, and you finally give in, letting your thumb press just hard enough to make her gasp against your mouth before your middle and ring finger enter her with no further preamble.

The kiss muffles her moan. She pulls back, lips red and swollen, and you can't help but press your thighs together at the sight, surely enough ruining one more piece of perfectly good underwear. Her hips twitch forward and you let her grind against you, slowly, so slowly, fingers rubbing over her walls, not nearly deep enough.

"Move," you order, voice a growl.

Her head drops to your shoulder, lips and teeth finding the curve of your neck before biting down hard enough to sting and give you the certainty that you'll be bearing a mark for the next few days. When she speaks, you can feel the vibration of her words against your skin. "Don't tell me what to do, you lying fucker."

"But I thought you loved it when I ordered you around, honey," you say sweetly, using the same condescending tone you know annoys her so well. "That's what-" Her teeth on your neck move to your shoulder, and this time she really sinks in, trying to put all her frustration into the bite. "-what you seemed to enjoy the other night. I wonder what changed."

Her teeth release your skin just as suddenly as they came, leaving behind a bright red mark. Her hand finally lets go of your throat, and you can feel the blood pumping almost painfully in your veins in the aftermath, somehow dizzier than if she had tightened her grip. You're both panting as she lifts her head to stare at you, eyes dark.

"You want to know what changed?"

"Enlighten me," you say, not taking your fingers out, but also not moving another muscle. You two are locked in a stalemate.

"You lied. You betrayed my trust. You fucked up the only good thing I had in over half a decade." Her hand on your hair pulls with enough strength that you're forced to tilt your head up, eyes locking on hers. Then she moves her hips, enough to make the pads of your fingers brush against the spot you've come to know intimately over the course of the past month, enough to make her sigh and close her eyes. "And now you're gonna shut the fuck up and let me use you like you used me."

"I didn't use-"

"I said shut the fuck up."

There's something about the way she bites the words, how she pulls your hair and stares down at you with such disdain and hatred in her eyes. Still, you're angry and you're turned on and you want her to break you in two.

You let your fingers flex, press just a little deeper, and watch the way her breath catches in her throat. It almost feel like you're the one using her instead. Or maybe you're like matches and gasoline, like knife and sheath, like lightning crashing against a dry forest. You're just both going to end up consumed and burned and ultimately hurt. But you don't really care much about whatever literal or metaphorical implications this might have now.

She grinds down on you, desperate and rough and relentless, her face buried in the crook of your neck and her tongue tracing your earlobe. You can feel her nails dig in your scalp and then the back of your shoulders where they slip under the straps of your bra, although she makes no move to get rid of it.

Her movements start to get jerkier, less precise, and when you lean forward to take one of her nipples into your mouth and gently bite down into it, she moans loud enough you wonder whether her staff might be hearing it.

A part of you hopes they do.

It doesn't take much before she's coming in your fingers, thighs trembling and walls clenching around you. She doesn't make any move to speak. You don't let her touch you.

All you do is get untangled and move her away from your lap, then find your discarded t-shirt and put it on. You clean your fingers on her own discarded shirt before throwing it her way and head out towards her front door without a single word. You get in your truck, steer it back towards the gate, and lay it on the horn until someone in her security team opens it.

That night, you have nearly half a bottle of whisky by yourself and make yourself come three times trying to think of anything but her.

Chapter Text

You wake up to sunlight cutting violently through the curtains of your bedroom and a fucking irritating migraine, head pounding, nausea building. Your mouth tastes terrible, and when you try to sit up, the room spins badly enough that you have to lie back down and wait for it to stabilise.

There's an empty whisky bottle on your bedside table, the cheap shit you keep for emergencies and apparently angry drinking. You have a vague memory of getting home yesterday, of heading straight for the liquor cabinet, of pouring the first glass and then deciding the glass was unnecessary.

The details are fuzzy after that. You remember sitting on your porch, watching the sun set over the mountains. Remember drinking straight from the bottle like you were twenty-five again, back in the days when you and your journalist colleagues would close down bars arguing about ethics and corruption and whether any of it actually mattered. Remember masturbating while trying to think of anything but the reason why you were so pent-up. Remember thinking that at least hangovers were familiar, manageable, a physical pain you could understand instead of the complicated mess of emotions you've been carrying for weeks. Apparently, you'd forgotten how much worse hangovers get after thirty.

Your phone is somewhere nearby, you can hear it buzzing insistently. The sound drills into your brain and worsens the insistent ache hitting against your skull. You consider ignoring it, but the buzzing continues, relentless, until you finally force yourself to move. Bad idea. The movement sends a second wave of nausea rolling through you. You make it to the bathroom just in time, kneeling on the cold tile whilst your body reminds you exactly how stupid yesterday's decisions were.

When you can finally stand again, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and immediately wish you hadn't. Your hair is a disaster, mascara smudged under your eyes, there are bruises on your neck, hickeys and bite marks highlighted under the harsh bathroom light. Your lips are swollen, and there's a scratch along your collarbone that you don't remember getting but can guess the origin of easily enough.

The memory hits you then, unavoidable and visceral. Taylor's house, the argument, the way she'd looked at you with such scepticism when you tried to explain about leaving journalism, like you were just another person trying to manipulate her. The anger that had built between you, sharp and crackling, until suddenly you weren't arguing any more, you were kissing, and then you were fucking, and then-

"Fuck," you mutter to your reflection.

Your phone is still buzzing. You finally locate it on the kitchen counter, next to your keys and wallet and the general debris. Three missed calls from Joanna, a text from her asking if you're okay, another one asking if you want to talk about whatever happened yesterday and how the confrontation went.

You definitely don't want to talk about yesterday.

There's nothing from Taylor, not that you really expected there would be. You'd checked your phone obsessively during the first drink, then the second, hoping for... what? An apology? An acknowledgement that what happened was as fucked up and confusing as it felt? By the third drink, you'd stopped checking. She had you blocked anyway.

You pour yourself a glass of water and force yourself to drink it, then another. Your body feels alien, your head is pounding, your mouth still tastes like cheap whisky, the marks on your neck are starting to darken into proper bruises.

And underneath all the physical discomfort is something worse; the hollow certainty that you've just made everything exponentially worse than it already was.

You'd gone there to explain. To make her understand that you weren't the person she thought you were, that you'd left journalism behind for good reasons, that what you had together was real. Instead, you'd called her a coward, fucked her on her sofa out of spite or anger or some combination of emotions you're not ready to examine, and then walked out like it meant nothing.

The whisky bottle sits on your counter, accusing. You pick it up, consider pouring another drink just to quiet the noise in your head, then force yourself to put it back down. Drinking yourself sick didn't help yesterday, and it's not going to help today.

What would help is having any idea what happens now.

You can't go back to Taylor's house. That much is clear. Whatever slim chance you had of fixing things, you've thoroughly destroyed it. You can't text her - she's still got you blocked, and even if she didn't, what would you say? Sorry I called you a coward and then hate-fucked you?

You can't talk to Joanna because explaining what happened would require admitting that you're capable of being that reckless, that self-destructive. That when pushed hard enough, you revert to the person you used to be, the journalist who was always so certain she was right, who pushed and pushed until something broke.

The coffee maker beckons from across the kitchen. At least that's something you know how to do. Something that makes sense, that follows rules you understand. Water, grounds, heat, time. Simple, controllable, unlike everything else in your life right now.

You're measuring out coffee when you hear a vehicle coming up your drive. For a moment, your heart leaps, maybe it's Taylor, maybe she's come to... what? Yell at you more? Apologise? Continue what you started yesterday?

But when you look out the window, it's just Joanna's truck, dust trailing behind it in the morning sun.

Of course it is. Because when you're hungover and covered in evidence of your own terrible decisions and trying very hard not to think about what a mess you've made, naturally your best friend would show up to ask questions you don't want to answer.

You watch her park, watch her get out and head for your door with a determined stride. You briefly consider pretending you're not home, but your truck is visible and she knows you too well for that to work.

The knock comes half a minute later. "I know you're in there. Open up."

You look down at yourself - rumpled clothes from yesterday, visible hickeys, smelling like alcohol, the general appearance of someone who's made spectacularly poor life choices. There's no hiding what happened. Joanna's going to take one look at you and know.

But she's also the only friend you have, and you're tired of handling everything alone, so you open the door.

Joanna takes one look at your face, then your neck, then the empty whisky bottle visible on the counter behind you, and her expression shifts between concern and tired resignation.

"What the fuck did you do?"

You step aside to let Joanna in, not trusting yourself to answer yet. She brushes past you into the kitchen, taking in the evidence with the systematic attention of someone conducting an investigation.

"I went to see her," you say finally, your voice rough from dehydration and screaming and things you'd rather not think about. "Like you said. I forced the conversation."

"And?" Joanna turns to face you, arms crossed. "What happened?"

"What does it look like happened?"

"It looks like you got drunk and possibly into a fight. But those-" she gestures at your neck, "-suggest something else entirely."

You sink into one of your kitchen chairs, suddenly exhausted despite having just woken up. "I told her everything. About Renée, about the investigation, about why I left journalism. I explained the whole thing."

"Okay. And?"

"And she didn't believe me. Or she believed the Renée part, offered sympathy like it was something she could check off a list, but the journalism thing? She still thinks I'm lying. Still thinks I'm working on some story about her."

"So what did you do?"

"I called her a coward." The words taste bitter even now. "I told her she was just scared of feeling something real, that she was hiding behind accusations because it was easier than admitting she might be wrong about me."

Joanna winces. "Jesus."

"She called me a liar. Said I was just like everyone else, trying to get close to her for my own purposes. Said nothing between us was real, it was all just me playing a role to get what I wanted." You run your hands through your hair, immediately regretting it when the movement makes your head pound harder. "We fought. Proper one, shouting and saying horrible things to each other."

"And then you fucked."

It's not a question. You don't answer it anyway, just stare at the half-empty whisky bottle.

"Was that before or after you called her a coward?" Joanna asks, her tone carefully neutral.

"After. During. I don't know." You finally look at her, and the concern in her expression makes that pain in your chest grow even further. "It wasn't... it wasn't like before. It was angry, spiteful. Like we were trying to hurt each other and that was just another weapon."

"Did it work?"

"I don't know. Probably. I didn't exactly stick around to ask." You stand up, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy crawling under your skin. "I got dressed and left. Came home and drank myself unconscious. Very mature, very healthy, exactly the kind of coping mechanism a well-adjusted adult would choose."

"Hey." Joanna's voice is sharp enough to cut through your self-flagellation. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"The self-pity spiral. You fucked up, yeah, but sitting here hating yourself isn't going to fix anything."

"There's nothing to fix." You grab the coffee grounds, finally starting the brewing process because at least it gives your hands something to do. "I went there to explain, to make things better, and instead I made everything catastrophically worse. I proved every terrible thing she thinks about me. I pushed when she wanted space, forced a conversation she didn't want to have, called her a coward, and then-" You stop, unable to finish the sentence.

"And then you had sex with her."

"Yeah." The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the familiar smell that usually grounds you but today just makes you feel more unmoored. "Which doesn't solve anything, it just creates new problems."

Joanna leans against the counter, studying you. "Do you regret it?"

"Which part? Calling her a coward? Sleeping with her? Coming home and drinking myself sick? All of the above?"

"Any of it, all of it. I'm asking what you're feeling."

You pour coffee with shaking hands, adding sugar even though you normally would feel nauseous just at the thought of sweetening perfectly good coffee, because you need the sweetness, need something to cut through the bitterness coating your tongue. The question sits heavy between you, demanding honesty you're not sure you're capable of right now.

"I don't know," you admit finally. "I'm angry. At her for not believing me, at myself for handling it the way I did. I'm frustrated because I tried everything - gifts, letters, explanations, showing up repeatedly - and none of it worked. I'm confused because even when we were fighting, even when we were saying horrible things to each other, there was this moment where we kissed and it felt like maybe..."

"Like maybe what?"

"Like maybe underneath all the anger and mistrust, there was still something real." You take a sip of coffee, burning your tongue. You grimace but take a second sip anyway. "But that's probably just wishful thinking. Probably just me trying to find meaning in something that was purely physical and vindictive."

"You don't actually believe that."

"Don't I?" You set your mug down, ceramic hitting the counter with a sharp thud that makes you wince. "I called the woman I supposedly care about a coward, Jo. I fucked her out of anger and then walked out without a word. What part of that says 'real feelings' instead of 'self-destructive behaviour pattern'?"

"The part where you came home and drank yourself unconscious because it hurt too much to think about." Joanna moves closer, her voice gentler now. "The part where you're standing here, beating yourself up because you care about someone and you don't know how to fix what's broken. That's just... messy feelings."

"Messy is an understatement."

"Yeah, well, relationships usually are. Especially when both people are damaged and scared and terrible at communicating."

You want to argue that what you have with Taylor doesn't qualify as a relationship, but the words stick in your throat. Because what else would you call weeks of waking up together, of learning each other's habits and fears and favourite ways to be touched? What else would you call the way she'd looked at you all the time, soft and open and fond to a point of hurting, before everything fell apart?

"I don't know what to do now," you say quietly. "I can't go back there. I can't try again. I've already pushed too hard, crossed too many lines. Yesterday was supposed to be the last attempt, and I fucked it up so completely that there's no coming back from it."

"Have you talked to her? Since yesterday?"

"She has me blocked, remember?"

"Maybe after yesterday, she-"

"After yesterday, she probably changed her locks and upgraded her security system." You laugh, the sound hollow. "I'm lucky if she doesn't file a restraining order."

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" You turn to face Joanna fully, and you can feel the anger bubbling up again, directionless and searching for a target. "I know that I've spent three weeks trying to reach someone who doesn't want to be reached. I know that every single attempt has been rejected or returned or ignored. I know that yesterday I forced my way past her security, argued, had angry sex with her, and then left like it meant nothing. What part of that suggests she's going to suddenly decide I'm worth listening to?"

"The part where she let you in." Joanna's voice is maddeningly calm. "She could have had her security call the cops or kick you out, could have let you sit there making a fool of yourself, but she didn't."

"And look how well that turned out."

"Yeah, it turned out messy and complicated and painful. But it also turned out with both of you finally being honest about how angry you are, how hurt you are, how scared you are." Joanna pulls out a chair and sits down, forcing you to either sit with her or keep pacing like a caged animal. "Sometimes things have to break completely before they can be fixed properly."

You want to believe her. Want to think that yesterday's disaster was somehow necessary, some kind of catharsis that cleared the air between you and Taylor. But mostly you just feel empty and regretful and angry at yourself for being stupid enough to think that forcing a conversation would somehow make everything better.

"She thinks I'm a liar," you say, sitting down because your legs are shaky and your head is still pounding. "How do I come back from that? How do I prove that I'm not the person she's convinced I am?"

"I don't know. But I know that giving up and drinking yourself sick isn't the answer."

"I'm not giving up. I'm accepting reality. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Joanna leans forward, her dark eyes intense. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're doing exactly what you accused her of: hiding, being a coward, running away because it's easier than staying and fighting for something that matters."

The words hit like a slap. You want to argue, want to defend yourself, but the truth is she's right. You called Taylor a coward for hiding behind her walls, but what are you doing right now? Sitting in your kitchen, nursing a hangover, convinced that everything's ruined because trying again would be too hard, too humiliating, too risky.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit, and your voice cracks on the words. "I don't know how to make her believe me. I don't know how to prove that what we had was real when she's already decided it wasn't."

"Maybe you can't." Joanna reaches across the table, squeezing your hand. "Maybe you can't fix it, can't prove anything, can't make her believe you. Maybe all you can do is tell the truth and hope she's brave enough to listen. And if she's not, if she really can't get past her fear and mistrust, then that's her choice. But at least you'll know you tried everything."

"I have tried everything."

"Have you? Or have you just tried everything except actually being vulnerable with her? Except admitting that you're terrified and you don't have all the answers and you're just as scared of this as she is? Listen, let's make a deal. Give her some time. Give both of you some time. Don't argue again, don't push. But don't give up like that either. Let it breathe for a while, take care of yourself, try not to drink yourself stupid, and when you two are in a better headspace you try again."

You stare at your coffee, watching steam rise and dissipate. The marks on your neck throb in time with your heartbeat. Somewhere a mile away, Taylor is probably in her house, possibly with her own hangover, definitely with her own regrets and confusion and anger.

"Okay," you hear yourself whisper.

-

You're not planning to see her again.

You've decided, with Joanna's words still echoing in your head like a warning bell you should've heeded months ago, that you need to give Taylor real space this time. You're going to focus on your farm, on the harvest, on literally anything except the woman in the neighbouring property who thinks you're a liar and with whom you might be a tiny little bit in love with, in spite of how conflicted and fucked up that makes you feel.

Then, barely a week later, Marco shows up at your gate, looking deeply uncomfortable, handing you an envelope with Taylor's name embossed on the return address.

The letter is brief and professionally worded, informing you that several of your coffee plants are "encroaching" on her property line and need to be removed immediately. There's even a surveyor's report attached, complete with photographs and GPS coordinates.

You stare at the documents, squinting against the afternoon sun beating down on your porch. The plants in question are maybe, maybe, two inches over the property line. Two fucking inches. Plants that have been there since before you bought the property, that were never an issue during the previous disputes, that she's clearly only noticing now because she's looking for a reason to start something.

"Is she serious?" you ask Marco, who's still standing by your truck looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.

"I'm just delivering the message, ma'am."

"Two inches, Marco. Two fucking inches of root system that's probably been there for a decade."

He shrugs helplessly, already backing toward his vehicle. "I have to go."

You watch him drive away in a cloud of red dust, then read the letter again, looking for some hint of what this really is. There's nothing personal in it, nothing that suggests this is anything other than a property owner enforcing her boundaries with the cold precision of someone who's probably never had to compromise on anything in her entire privileged life. But the timing is too fucking suspicious, the complaint too petty, for this to be coincidence.

You should ignore it. Should hire someone to move the plants and be done with it. Should take the high road and refuse to engage with whatever game she's playing. That's what a reasonable person would do. That's what Joanna would tell you to do. Instead, you get in your truck and drive to her gate.

This time when you press the intercom, she answers directly. No Marco, no one from her security team, not even a whole five seconds of delay, like she was sitting there waiting for it.

"What." Her voice is flat, neutral.

"Two inches, Taylor? Really?"

"The property line is clearly marked. You're in violation."

"Those plants have been there for years-"

"Then they've been in violation for years. I'm simply correcting an oversight." There's a pause, just long enough for you to imagine the expression on her face. "It's called property rights. Look it up."

You can hear it in her voice, that smile of satisfaction, the barely contained smugness. She's enjoying this. Getting under your skin, forcing a reaction, creating drama where none needs to exist.

"Let me in," you say.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because we both know this isn't actually about the plants."

There's a long pause. You can hear her breathing on the other end, can almost see her weighing her options, deciding whether to keep up the pretense or let the mask slip.

"The gate's opening. Park by the side entrance."

She's waiting in a different room this time, one you only glimpsed in passing during the time when you were... what? Together? In a situationship? Fucking around while pretending it didn't mean anything? Whatever the hell you want to call it.

It's a library, or maybe more accurately, the kind of room that rich people call a library even though you doubt she's read half the books lining the walls. Then you mentally course correct, because she might as well have. And annotated them. She had five years to do it and is, you admit to yourself grudgingly, smart and well-read and generally intellectual enough for it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in dark wood, a massive mahogany desk, windows overlooking the mountains that stretch orange and purple in the distance.

She's dressed in a maroon halter top and denim shorts, no makeup that you can see, hair pulled back in a ponytail, casual enough. But her posture is rigid, defensive, arms crossed over her chest.

"The plants need to be moved," she says before you can speak, before you can even fully step into the room. "I have a right to enforce my property boundaries."

"This is bullshit and you know it."

"Do I? Or do I just know that you can't be trusted to respect clearly established lines?"

There it is, the real issue, laid bare despite all the pretence about property disputes and surveyors' reports.

"We're not talking about plants anymore, are we?"

"We're talking about whatever I say we're talking about." She shifts her weight, looking you in the eyes. "This is my property, and you're here because I allowed it."

The arrogance in her tone makes something snap inside you. You cross the space between you in three strides, boots heavy on the hardwood floor, and she doesn't back away. Doesn't even flinch. Just tilts her chin up defiantly even though she's taller than you are, even though she has to look down to meet your eyes.

"You're doing this on purpose," you say, close enough now to see the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches. "Creating problems because you're too much of a coward to just admit you wanted to see me again."

"I don't want to see you. I want you to move your plants."

"Liar."

"Journalist."

The word lands like a slap, sharp and deliberate, and before you can think better of it, before either of you can think better of it, you're kissing her. Or she's kissing you. It's impossible to tell who moves first when you're both leaning into it, when her hands are already fisting in your shirt and your fingers are tangling in her hair, pulling her ponytail loose.

It's not sweet, not tender - this isn't about romance or reconnection. This is about all the things you can't say out loud, channelled into the scrape of teeth on lips, the bruising grip of fingers on skin. She bites your lip hard enough to hurt, hard enough to taste copper, and you shove her back against the bookshelf hard enough to make her gasp. Books tumble to the floor, heavy hardcovers that land with satisfying thuds, but neither of you even glance at them.

"This doesn't mean anything," she says against your mouth, as her hands are already working at the zip of your trousers.

"Obviously," you shoot back, hauling her top over her head and tossing it somewhere behind you.

She laughs, breathless and sharp, then yanks you closer by your belt loops. "Good. So we're clear."

"Crystal fucking clear."

Her skin is warm under your hands, and fuck, you've tried not to think about this. You back her further against the bookshelf, pressing close, and she arches into you with a whimper.

Then you turn, switch your positions and walk her backwards still kissing, hands roaming, her shorts joining the growing pile of discarded clothing, until the back of her knees hit the desk. She hops up without breaking contact, wrapping her legs around your waist, pulling you between her thighs. She's impatient, demanding, trying to direct things with that same commanding energy she brings to everything else.

"God, you're such a brat," you mutter against her throat, feeling her pulse hammer beneath your lips.

"Fuck you," she breathes, though at this point, with her heavy breathing and moans, it barely carries any heat.

"That's the idea, princess."

She laughs. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" You kiss lower, teeth grazing skin. "Isn't that what you are? Rich girl who gets everything she wants?"

"You're an asshole," she gasps when your hand slides between her thighs.

"And you're so fucking wet for this asshole," you say against her ear, feeling her shudder. "How does that feel, sweetheart? Wanting someone you hate?"

"Shut up and-" Her words dissolve into a sharp inhale as you touch her properly, finding her so fucking drenched it makes you whimper.

"Shut up and what?" You work her slowly, deliberately, making her wait, neglecting her clit. "Use your words. I know you're good at that, aren't you? You wrote me a whole fucking legal letter."

"Please," she finally grits out, the word sounding like it costs her something.

"Please what?"

"You know what, you smug-" She cuts off with a curse as you give her what she wants, fingers moving with purpose now, pressing against the bundle of nerves, making her hips chase your touch. Her head falls back, fully lying over the desk now, throat exposed.

"That's it," you coo, watching her face. "There she is. My difficult, impossible girl."

"Not yours," she manages, though her body contradicts her, tightening around your fingers.

"No? Could've fooled me."

You work her with your fingers, mouth closing around her breasts, until she's cursing, trembling, holding onto you, nails closing against your skin. When she comes, she bites down on your shoulder to muffle the sound, and you feel the sting of it, the mark she's leaving, territorial even now.

After, she reaches for you with shaking hands, returning the favour with that kind of focused intensity she always have that makes your knees weak.

"Still hate me?" you breathe as she works you toward the edge, three fingers deep, hearing curses and moans and her name tumble down your mouth with no conscious thought behind it.

"So much," she says against your neck. You can feel her smiling. "Arrogant, intrusive, boundary-violating-"

"You sent me a surveyor's report, you petty-" The words dissolve as she curls her fingers and lets her thumb grind against your clit, making your vision blur.

When you finally come, forehead pressed to hers, you think you leave the conscious, material world for a moment.

For a few minutes, neither of you moves. You're still close, breathing hard, chests pressed together. The room smells like sex and the faint vanilla of her perfume. Books are scattered across the floor. Your clothes are everywhere.

Then reality slams back in like a cold shower.

You step back, suddenly needing distance, needing air. She lets you go without a word. You can feel her eyes on you as you find your shirt, your boots, pulling yourself back together with shaking hands.

"So that happened," you say to the floor, because you can't look at her right now.

She doesn't respond. When you finally glance up, she's already dressed too, hair smoothed back, expression carefully blank. Like she's pulled her armor back on in the thirty seconds it took you to find your stuff.

"I'll move the plants," you say.

"Good."

That's it. No "stay," no "we should talk about this," nothing. Just that one word, cold and dismissive, like you're a contractor she's just given instructions to.

Fine. That's fine. This was always going to be a mistake anyway.

You head for the door. Your hands are still trembling slightly, and you hate that. Hate that she can still affect you like this, even now.

"See you around, princess," you toss over your shoulder, putting as much bite into the word as you can manage.