It pressed down on the island of Naxos like a weight, bleaching the whitewashed walls of the village to a blinding gleam. The air smelled of salt, hot stone, and wild thyme crushed underfoot. In the distance, the sea glittered—an impossible, deep blue that seemed to hum with heat.

You were learning that "routine farm call" in Greece meant something very different than it did in Aberdeen.

The road had ended half a kilometer ago. The path that replaced it was dirt and loose stone, winding through olive trees so old their trunks twisted like arthritic hands. Your rental car—a tiny white Fiat that had seen better decades—complained loudly with every bump. The GPS had given up entirely, leaving you to follow hand-painted signs that pointed toward something called Petrakis Family Farm & Taverna.

You had been on Naxos for exactly nine days.

Nine days of learning that Greek coffee was a weapon. Nine days of learning that the island moved on its own rhythm, unhurried and unbothered by your plans. Nine days of sleeping in a sunlit flat in Chora that still smelled of fresh paint, with Thalia's snorkeling gear drying on the balcony and her unshakeable optimism filling every room.

Nine days, and already you understood why people never left.

The call had come in just as you were sitting down to lunch. A goat. Distressed labor. The island's regular veterinarian was on the other side of Naxos, dealing with a colicky horse. Your Greek was limited to kalimera, efharisto, and a few words you'd learned from Thalia that she probably shouldn't have taught you. But the message was clear enough: come now, bring everything.

The farm appeared suddenly, as if the landscape had simply decided you'd seen enough olive trees.

A sprawling whitewashed building with blue shutters sat to your left—the taverna, shuttered and silent at this hour. Beyond it, the land opened into a patchwork of stone walls, vegetable plots, and sun-scorched pastures. Goats dotted the hillside like scattered stones. A donkey brayed somewhere out of sight. Chickens scratched in the dust near a cluster of farm buildings.

And then you saw him.

Standing at the edge of the yard, arms folded across his chest, was the most intimidating man you had ever encountered in your life.

He was tall. Very tall. Dark hair, sun-streaked brown, fell across his forehead with the kind of careless disregard that made him look like he'd just stepped off a fishing boat. His beard was neatly trimmed, his jaw set hard. A black T-shirt clung to his shoulders, dusted with what looked like flour. His arms, crossed defensively, strained the fabric at the sleeves.

He was watching you approach with an expression that could only be described as suspicion.

The car shuddered to a stop. You killed the engine.

Silence. The goat bleated somewhere in the distance.

The man did not move.

He simply stood there, a monolith of disapproval, waiting for you to prove you had any right to be on his land.

You grabbed your bag and got out of the car. The heat hit you like a wall.

He made no move to approach you.

Behind him, the farm buzzed with life. A small boy—all dark curls and scraped knees—peeked around the corner of the taverna, watching you with wide, curious eyes. When he saw you looking, he ducked back out of sight, but you could still hear him whispering to someone.

He still hadn't unfolded his arms.

The goat bleated again, louder this time. A pained, desperate sound that cut through the heat.

Alexios's expression shifted. Just barely. The suspicion remained, but something else flickered beneath it. Worry, maybe. Or impatience.

He turned without a word and started walking toward the barn, clearly expecting you to follow.