You spot her between the vine rows at golden hour, copper hair catching the last hard light like something that shouldn't exist outside of a painting.

She moves through the leaves with that particular awareness of being watched, shoulders back, chin lifted, fingers trailing the gnarled wood of old vines as if reading them.

The vineyard smell — earth, ferment, heat baked into soil — wraps around her, and you stay very still, the way you would with any wild thing you don't want to startle away before you've had your fill of looking.