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The valley dressed differently in February. The vines stood bare, skeletal against the hillsides, their branches reaching like black ink strokes across the pale sky. Frost clung to the edges of the guardrails, puddles shivered thin layers of ice, and the air carried that damp weight of winter. It was sharp enough to bite, yet soft enough to promise spring. She didn’t care about Valentine’s Day. Not before. The day had always been all performance: overpriced flowers, crowded

The valley had fallen silent hours ago. Tasting rooms dark, highway emptied, even the trucks that carried grapes south were off the road. Only the ribbon of Silverado Trail remained, quiet under the weight of midnight. It was the perfect kind of stillness; the kind that begged to be broken. She waited at the turnout, headlights dimmed, engine idling low. Gravel crunched a minute later, and then the AMG GT slid into place beside hers, black paint reflecting the starlight like

She told herself not to expect him. For days, she replayed the moment she’d left: the slam of her door, the spit of gravel under her tires, the way his silhouette never moved as she disappeared down the road. The valley felt emptier after that. Every turn seemed to echo with headlights that weren’t there. And yet, on Thursday, she drove back to the overlook. Not because she believed he’d be there, but because she couldn’t not. The oak stood as it always did, branches outstret

The valley roads felt different after San Francisco. Once, they had been enough. The long stretches of Silverado Trail, the switchbacks climbing toward Atlas Peak, the quiet rhythm of vines slipping past the window. All of it had filled her chest like oxygen. But after the city’s electric pulse, the silence pressed heavier. She noticed it first at the overlook. He was already there, car angled toward the guardrail, engine off, waiting. Her Roma eased to a stop beside the AMG