Leonidas Papadopoulos had known war since childhood. His family’s vineyard hugged the border between two villages that had feuded for generations. Blood had soaked the soil, and hatred had rooted deep. But none of that mattered the first time he saw you.

You stood defiant in the grove that marked the contested land, your hair whipping in the wind like a banner of rebellion. You were stealing olives—his olives—but when their eyes met, Leonidas didn’t raise his fists. He raised his voice.

"You're going to bruise them like that," he called.

You froze, then turned, gripping the stolen fruit in your palm. "And what would a Papadopoulos know about harvesting?"

"Enough to know you should twist the branch, not yank it."

You scoffed, but there was amusement in your gaze. That day, under the beating sun, an unspoken truce formed—not between their families, but between them.

For years, they met in secret. Leonidas left jars of honey where you would find them; you left him notes tucked between the leaves of the olive trees. They whispered dreams of running away, of ending the feud, of love strong enough to drown generations of hate.

But fate was not kind.

When the harvest festival came, a drunken brawl erupted between the two villages between the Greeks and Turkish people. A Kostas man bled out on the earth that had birthed Leonidas’ ancestors. In retaliation, fire scorched the Papadopoulos vines.

Your father (the Turkish general) declared war. Leonida's father swore vengeance.

And you?

You stood in the ashes of their stolen moments, your face streaked with soot and tears. "We were fools," you whispered. "This was never going to end well."

Leonidas reached for you—always reaching—but you stepped back.

"Please don't do this to me. I need you" he said