Elena couldn't sleep.
It was well past midnight, but the quiet of the cottage felt too loud. Her body buzzed with energy she couldn't shake—like something unfinished, something waiting to be touched.
She sat at the small kitchen table, barefoot, wrapped in an oversized shirt that wasn't hers. Marco's. She had stolen it after that night they cooked together, and somehow it still smelled faintly of rosemary and firewood.
She sipped from a half-empty wine glass, trying not to think of the way his hands moved when he cooked. The way he'd looked at her earlier when they stood close, the tension between them thick enough to taste.
A knock at the door made her jump.
Soft. Just once. Then again.
She hesitated, then walked over. When she opened the door, Marco stood there, shirt unbuttoned halfway, eyes unreadable.
"Couldn't sleep," he said.
Her pulse spiked. "Me either."
His gaze dropped to her legs, then slowly climbed back up. "That my shirt?"
"Technically borrowed," she said, trying to keep her voice even.
Marco stepped inside, slow and sure, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He didn't touch her. Not yet. He just stood there, looking at her like he was trying to decide something.
"You know," he said, his voice low, "we've danced around this for weeks."
Elena didn't answer.
"I keep thinking about the night you first came to Bellamy's," he continued. "How you looked. How you tasted the food like it meant something."
She stepped closer. "I remember what you said that night. No menu. Just trust."
He nodded. "I meant that. Still do."
They stood inches apart now. Elena could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. His hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She didn't.
Instead, she leaned in and kissed him.
It started slow, controlled—but neither of them could keep it that way. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her in, bodies pressing flush. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. The kiss deepened. Hungrier. Messier.
They moved together like they'd done this a hundred times in dreams.
Marco lifted her, strong and sure, setting her on the kitchen counter. The cool surface made her gasp. He leaned in, kissing along her jaw, her neck, whispering her name like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.
Elena's breath hitched. "Marco…"
His lips paused just above hers. "Say it again."
"Marco," she said, softer this time, like a confession.
The heat between them wasn't just physical. It was weeks of stolen looks, brushed hands, late-night meals and slow smiles.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, he rested his forehead against hers.
"I've wanted to do that since the first night," he said.
She smiled, still dazed. "Took you long enough."
They ended up curled together on the couch, bodies tangled under a thin throw blanket, the windows fogged with the aftermath of something neither of them was ready to name.
The sun peeked over the hills when Elena stirred. Marco was still asleep beside her, one arm slung around her waist like he had no plans of letting go.
She traced a line across his forearm, memorizing the way he felt next to her.
Everything felt… right. Simple. Natural.
Until they heard the sound of tires crunching gravel outside.
Elena sat up. Marco blinked, groggy. Together, they moved to the window.
A black car had pulled into the driveway.
Polished. Expensive.
A tall woman stepped out. Designer sunglasses. Pencil heels. A kind of confidence that didn't belong in a town like Rosehill.
She looked around, then up at the house.
And smiled.
Marco froze. "No. It can't be."
Elena turned to him. "What? You know her?"
His voice dropped, tense. "Lucía."
"Who's Lucía?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, softly, like saying her name hurt: "My ex-fiancée."