"Mostly?"
"My father wasn't the most detail-oriented guy." He moves to a shelf, pulling down a box. "But he cared about this land. Everything he did was in its best interest, even if the paperwork didn't always reflect it."
I hear the defensiveness in his voice. The same tone from earlier, but rawer now. More honest.
"I'm not here to punish your family," I say.
He turns. We're standing closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. The rise andfall of his chest. The way his gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up.
"Then why are you here?"
"To do my job."
"Which is what, exactly?"
"Making sure operations like yours are sustainable. That the land is protected. That fifty years from now, there's still something left." I lift my chin. "You think I want to shut you down? I don't. I want to find reasons to let you keep operating. But I can't do that if the records don't support it."
He stares at me. Something in his expression cracks open. I see exhaustion. Worry. The weight of generations pressing down on his shoulders.
"Three generations," he says quietly. "My grandfather built this. My father bled for it. I'm not going to be the one who loses it."
"Then help me prove you deserve to keep it."
The basement is silent except for our breathing. He's so close. I could reach out and touch the stubble on his jaw. Feel whether it's rough or soft. Let my fingers trace the line of his neck to his chest to the hem of his shirt.
His hand lifts. For a moment, I think he's going to touch my face.
His phone buzzes. Loud in the quiet.
He steps back like I burned him, pulling it from his pocket. Frowning at the screen.
"I have to take this." His voice is rough. "Your room's upstairs. There are towels in the closet."
He's gone before I can respond, climbing the stairs two at a time, leaving me alone in the basement with thirty years of records and a heartbeat I can feel in my throat.
I press a hand to my chest.
What the hell was that?
