Romances de Naya

By Monday morning, the cold rain over the New Town had cleared into a sharp, brittle autumn sky.The George Street office was no longer an empty shell. Over the weekend, three heavy oak drafting tables had arrived from a local workshop, set up along the high arched windows where the pale sun poured across the drawing boards. The concrete floor smelled of warm polish, and the long trestle table in the center was now stacked neatly with leather trace cases, reference binders, and two new desktop monitors.I stood over my drafting table, leaning on both hands, a pair of dark rimmed glasses resting on my nose. Spread across the white board were the preliminary elevations for the Leith waterfront commission.I held a red fine tip pen over the structural section of the east gallery, checking the load tolerances against the site engineer's updated bedrock report.Footsteps sounded behind me—slow, steady, and unhurried.Ethan stopped right beside my table. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit

The high ceilinged bedroom was quiet, filled only with the soft, muted light filtering through the linen blinds.In the corner stood a massive nineteenth century oak wardrobe that Ethan and I had spent two hours positioning against the far wall earlier that morning. Its brass handles were tarnished, and the heavy doors smelled faintly of beeswax and old timber.I sat on the edge of the mattress, my legs crossed, watching Ethan lift a stack of my folded wool sweaters out of the second box. He moved with a quiet, deliberate care that made my heart ache in the best possible way unfolding each piece, smoothing the fabric with his broad palms, and placing them side by side on the deep wooden shelves."You don't have to unpack my clothes for me," I said softly, a faint smile touching my lips as I leaned my chin in my hand.Ethan didn't pause. He reached into the box for my heavy charcoal coat, shaking it out gently before sliding a wooden hanger through the shoulders."I want to," he said,

Chapter 68: The DeliveryBy Friday afternoon, the heavy sea mist had rolled in off the Firth of Forth, wrapping Stockbridge in a thick, quiet blanket of dark grey.I sat on the edge of the linen sofa in the drawing room, a mug of tea cooling in my hands, staring at the empty space beside the fireplace. Every time a heavy vehicle rumbled over the cobbles of Carlton Street below, my posture went rigid, my ears straining for the sound of air brakes or a horn.Ethan came out of the kitchen, wearing a dark navy wool jumper, his hair slightly damp from the shower. He didn't say anything to fill the space. He walked over to the sofa, sat down beside me, and stretched his long arm over the back cushion, his fingers gently brushing the nape of my neck."It's only three o'clock," he said quietly, his thumb trailing down the curve of my shoulder. "The courier window runs until six.""I know," I murmured, resting my head against his chest, breathing in the clean scent of soap and cedarwood that c

The wind coming off the Firth of Forth was razor sharp, whipping across the wet concrete pier and cutting through the layers of my heavy wool coat.I pulled my yellow hard hat tighter over my head, holding my clipboard against my ribs so the site sheets wouldn't tear free in the gale. Beside me, Ethan stood with his feet braced wide on the muddy gravel, his slate grey overcoat buttoned to his chin, his clear grey eyes squinting up at the exposed stone face of the nineteenth century warehouse."The structural timber on the second floor is worse than the initial core samples showed," I yelled over the roar of the wind and the rhythmic thudding of a nearby pile driver.Ethan turned his head, stepping an inch closer so his shoulder blocked the worst of the spray blowing off the harbour basin. He reached out, his gloved fingers taking the edge of my clipboard so I didn't have to fight the wind alone."Show me," he said, his voice deep and steady right beside my ear.I pointed a gloved fing

The rain had tapered off into a fine, freezing mist by seven o'clock when Ethan and I walked down the steep, cobbled descent of Bell’s Brae into Dean Village.The air down in the hollow smelled rich and old—wet moss, ancient stone, and the rushing, dark water of the Leith churning over the weir below us. The half timbered nineteenth century buildings stood wrapped in yellow streetlights, looking like something carved out of another century entirely.Ethan had his arm looped tightly through mine, his broad shoulder pressing against mine as we navigated the slippery stones. He wore a dark slate grey overcoat, his collar turned up against the cold, his posture tall and steady beside me."James’s house is just across the bridge," Ethan said, his voice low against the rushing sound of the river. "He bought it four years ago an old grain mill conversion. It’s mostly open stone and exposed timber."I tightened my scarf around my coat collar, feeling a sudden, familiar flutter of tension in m

The low, steady drumming of North Sea rain against the drawing room windows was the only sound in the flat when the street intercom buzzed at nine in the morning.My heart gave a sharp, sudden thud against my ribs. I stood in the hallway, staring at the brass button on the wall for a second before pressing it to buzz the courier in.I walked down the two flights of cold stone stairs, my bare feet quiet inside my leather slippers, and met the delivery worker at the heavy timber front door. I signed the electronic pad, took the heavy, rectangular cardboard box into my arms, and carried it back up to Flat 2B.The box felt unnaturally solid for its size. Dark brown packing tape sealed every edge, and pasted across the center was a printed label bearing my name and address in my mother’s unmistakable, elegant cursive: Zara Cole, 14 Carlton Street, Flat 2B, Edinburgh.Seeing her handwriting on paper addressed to the life I had built with Ethan made my throat feel dry.Ethan was standing at