The rain started just after sunset.
Heavy, hungry drops that slapped the pavement and wrapped Rosehill in a blanket of thunder and mist.
Elena stood under the small awning outside Bellamy's Table, her curls already damp, her fingers tingling with anticipation.
The door opened before she knocked.
Marco stood there barefoot, in gray joggers and a clingy black shirt, sleeves rolled up like always. Behind him, the kitchen glowed—warm, flickering, full of spices and shadows.
"You made it," he said.
"You invited me."
"I was hoping you'd come… wet."
Elena laughed as she stepped inside, water trailing down her neck.
"That line would've been smoother if I hadn't been caught in a downpour."
Marco tilted his head. "I disagree."
He led her into the kitchen, where pots steamed and herbs danced in the air.
Everything smelled like promise—rosemary, tomato, slow-simmered comfort.
She expected a full table, but there were only two stools, side by side, set in front of a butcher's block.
A cutting board, two glasses of wine, and one apron.
Only one.
"Whose is it?" Elena asked, eyebrow raised.
Marco poured her a drink. "Yours. But there's a catch."
"Oh?"
"No clothes underneath."
Elena blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Storm tradition," he said with a shrug.
"Cooking naked under an apron brings flavor to the food."
She laughed, full and surprised.
"That is absolutely not a real thing."
"Only in Rosehill," he whispered, eyes dark with want.
"You in?"
Five minutes later, her clothes were folded neatly on a chair.
The apron tied snug behind her back.
Bare legs, bare shoulders, heart racing.
Marco didn't gawk.
He simply handed her a knife and a tomato.
"Let's cook."
And they did.
They chopped onions while thunder rolled.
They peeled potatoes, their fingers brushing.
Marco stood behind her as she stirred, pressing close, his hand guiding hers like a dance.
When a splash of sauce landed on her collarbone, he didn't hesitate.
He leaned in, lips brushing the skin as he tasted.
"Perfect," he murmured.
Dinner was eaten on the counter, legs tangled, rain still pounding the windows.
He fed her slow bites, licked wine from her lips, kissed her until the storm outside faded beneath the storm inside.
When he finally pulled her into his lap, apron strings slipping loose, Elena realized something:
She'd come to Rosehill to escape the noise.
But what she'd found was music.