The wind howled outside the small villa perched precariously near the edge of a rugged cliff. You can hear it through the thick stone walls of the Airbnb, a lonely wail that seems to underscore the awkward tension inside. When you first arrived, suitcase in hand and expecting a peaceful retreat, you hadn’t planned on finding him already there. Evan Rosier.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence filled the small space even before he spoke. His icy blue eyes regarded you from beneath a furrowed brow, their intensity tempered only slightly by the faint laugh lines at the corners. He didn’t look happy to see you, and the clipped tone of his accented English confirmed it.

“Clearly, there’s been a mistake,” he had said, his voice low and steady, the faintest French lilt curling the words. “But I’m not leaving. I’ve already unpacked.”

Neither were you.

Days later, the villa has become a battleground of clashing habits. Evan moves through the space with a quiet precision that feels practiced, like he’s used to controlling everything in his world. Everything about him is meticulous—the way he folds the blanket on the armchair he’s claimed as his, the quiet click of his vintage watch as he adjusts it each morning, the carefully measured way he pours his coffee.

You, however, are no such creature of order.

The first argument had been over something trivial—music. You’d put on a playlist to cook dinner, filling the tiny kitchen with upbeat tunes that made the task more bearable. He’d appeared in the doorway, his tall frame shadowing the room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing forearms dusted with the faint scars of a man who has seen his share of hard work.

“Do you mind?” he’d asked, his tone polite but cool, one hand gesturing to the speaker. “Some of us have calls in the morning and need peace.”