The silence after Mila left felt heavier than any storm.
Marco leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable.
Elena sat at the table, her coffee now cold.
"So… you were married?"
Marco nodded slowly.
"It ended almost two years ago."
Talia stood by the window, arms folded.
"And now she's back, just like that?"
"She always liked showing up without warning," Marco said.
"It's kind of her thing."
Elena tried to keep her voice calm.
"You didn't think to mention her before?"
"I didn't think she'd matter," he replied, but the words didn't land the way he meant.
Talia scoffed.
"You might want to pick a different sentence next time."
Elena rubbed her temples.
"I'm not mad. I just… want to know what I'm stepping into."
Marco looked at her, finally.
"You're stepping into this.
Not the past.
I'm not interested in her."
"Then why did you take the dinner card?" Talia asked sharply.
"Because if I don't talk to her, she'll just keep coming around.
She doesn't give up easily."
Talia rolled her eyes.
"Lovely."
Elena stood, suddenly needing air.
"I'm going for a walk."
"Wait—" Marco started, but Elena was already out the door.
The sun was high, but the wind had a bite to it.
Elena walked past the herb garden, down the gravel path, and toward the edge of town.
Rosehill was small, but it was full of stories.
Everyone had one.
Now, she had hers too.
She liked Marco.
And Talia.
She liked them—what they were building.
But Mila's sudden arrival felt like a test.
And Elena hated tests.
Back at the cottage, Talia turned to Marco.
"You still love her?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Then don't let her ruin this," Talia said quietly.
"Because whatever this is? It's better than anything I've had in a long time."