At the bookstore that afternoon, he found her arranging poetry volume." Brought you something," he said, holding out a paper bag. Inside was a set of oil paints, the same brand she'd used a decade ago -rich ultramarine, fiery cadmium red.
Elena's eyes widened."Marcus, I can't -"
" You can . No strings . Just...try it . For old times."
She took the bag , fingers brushing his. Electricity sparked, mild but undeniable. "Why now?"
"Because i see it in your eyes.
That fire's is still there, Elena.
"Buried, maybe but not gone."
They sat by the window with tea, watching the rain streak the glass. Marcus shared his stories of his travels-typhoons off Alaska, sunset in the Caribbean, but his voice softened when he spoke of regrets. "I thought adventure was out there. Turns out home was the real journey."
Elena listened her heart thawing.
Tom had been kind and reliable but never ignited her like Marcus.
Still trust was a fragile thing.
"You left once. What's to say won't leave again?"
He leaned closer, not touching, but near enough she felt his warmth."I'm not that boy anymore. Stayed away too long, but I'm here now."
Days turned to weeks, their encounters weaving the into routine.
Marcus helped repair a leaky roof at the bookstore, his strong hand wielding hammar and nails while Elena handed him the tools, their laughter echoing.
One evening, as dusk painted the sky in the bruising purples, he convinced her to walk the beach.
The sand was cool underfoot, waves lapping gently. "Show me," he said, nodding at the paints trucked under her arm -she'd brought them, unbidden.
Elena hesitated, then knelt, dipping a brush into the Crimson. With Swift strokes on driftwood canvas, she painted the dying light -a flame rising from the sea, wild and free. Marcus watched, mesmerised,"Beautiful," he murmured, not of the painting.
She looked, paint smudging her cheek, their eyes met, and he reached out, thump gently wiping the streak away.
Time suspended. His touch lingered, a question. Elena didn't pull back.
That night over dinner at her cottage -fresh clams he'd caught, bread from from the bakery -they talked until stars wheeled overhead. Marcus confessed his failures: a failed business, a string of shallow flings, "None like you. You were the flame i lost."
Elena shared her grief over Tom, the numbness that followed. "I stopped feeling. Stop creating. It was safer."
He covered her hand with his.
"Safe isn't living,"
Winter crept in, frost glazing the cliffs, but warmth bloomed between them.
They explored hidden coves, Marcus pointing out starfish and sea glass, Elena sketching the scene.
One stormy afternoon, holed up in the bookstore with hot cocoa, she unveiled her first full canvas in years: THE LOST FLAME, a swirl of orange and blue depicting a heart reignite against a tempest.
Marcus traced the frame," It's us."
She blushed. "Maybe."
Their first real kiss happened then, spontaneous as a wave.
Thunder rumbled outside, and Elena turned from hanging a lantern.
Marcus stood close, drying dishes from lunch, "Elena," he said, voice rough.
She stepped into his arms, their lips meeting softly, tasting of cocoa and salt. It was gently, exploratory -a rekindling, not a blaze.
His hands framed her face, hers clutched his shirt, and for her first time in years, her heart raced with possiblity.