Elena had always believed that after the storm came peace—but the skies over her life remained a strange shade of gray.
It had been three days since Adam walked back out of her life, and though her heart should have felt lighter, it didn't. Not entirely. Closure was never clean. It lingered like mist, like a scent on a sweater you thought you gave away long ago.
And then there was Drew—still present, still kind, still looking at her like she was art he hadn't yet fully understood. She was falling. She knew it now. And that frightened her far more than Adam ever had.
That morning, she stood in front of her wardrobe longer than she needed to, holding a summer dress she hadn't worn since before Adam. She hesitated, then slipped it on, deciding she no longer owed her past the power to define her closet—or her life.
The bell over the shop door jingled around ten.
She glanced up and smiled. "You're early."
Drew stood there, holding two coffees and a pastry bag. "You said you like cinnamon."
"And you remembered."
"I remember everything about you," he said, casually enough that it made her stomach flutter.
She took the coffee. "You're dangerous, Drew Marlowe."
He grinned. "I've been told."
They sat together on the back steps of the shop, sunlight warming their legs as they sipped and nibbled. For a while, they didn't talk—just shared the morning.
Then Drew broke the silence. "I'm showing the greenhouse photo."
Elena blinked. "The one you took the day we went?"
He nodded. "I printed it last night. Black and white. The light hit just right."
She sipped her coffee. "How did it feel—turning it into something permanent?"
He exhaled, slow. "Like I was preserving something sacred."
Elena didn't speak, but her fingers brushed his.
Drew glanced at her. "You're the reason I can create again, you know. You woke something up in me."
She swallowed, her voice suddenly tight. "I'm scared of this."
"I know."
"I don't want to be someone's muse. I want to be... me. Just me."
"And I want all of you, not just the parts that inspire me."
The sincerity in his voice made her heart ache.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
He reached over, brushing a stray hair from her face. "So am I."
---
Later that evening, Drew invited her to his loft for the first time.
It was above an old bakery and smelled faintly of sugar and paint. Canvases leaned against walls. Photographs hung in neat rows—some haunting, some radiant.
But what struck Elena most was the life in the space. It wasn't perfect. It was lived in.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," Drew said, watching her take it all in.
"I wasn't sure either," she admitted. "But I wanted to."
He poured wine, and they sat on the floor, backs against the couch, laughter echoing in the warm quiet.
Somewhere between the second glass and a story about his awkward teenage years, Elena leaned her head against his shoulder.
"You make me feel like I'm allowed to start over," she murmured.
"You are."
He kissed her temple, then her cheek.
And when his lips finally met hers again, it wasn't rushed or fiery—it was slow. Honest. A promise whispered across skin.
They didn't sleep together that night.
Instead, Drew held her as she dozed on his chest, both of them wrapped in something tender and untamed.
---
But in the morning, reality found her again.
Elena woke to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen and the soft hum of an old jazz record. She sat up, pulling the blanket closer, eyes adjusting to the morning light.
She wandered barefoot into the kitchen, finding Drew humming as he poured two cups.
"Morning, sunshine," he said.
"Is it always this calm with you?"
He laughed. "Not always. But when it is, I savor it."
She took the mug. "Thank you. For letting me stay."
"You're welcome anytime."
He leaned in to kiss her forehead, but his phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced at it. His face shifted.
"What is it?" Elena asked.
He turned the screen toward her.
A text. From Mel.
> "We need to talk. I'm back in town. Call me."
Elena blinked. "Who's Mel?"
Drew's jaw tensed. "My ex."
"Ah."
He set the phone down. "She was a big part of my life. Two years. We were supposed to move in together before everything imploded."
Elena leaned against the counter. "And now she's back."
"I haven't seen her in over a year. We ended things badly."
"Do you still love her?"
"No," he said without hesitation. "But I'd be lying if I said she didn't leave a mark."
Elena nodded slowly. "Do you want to meet her?"
He studied her. "Not without telling you first. I don't want secrets between us."
"Then meet her. Just... tell me how it goes."
Drew stepped closer. "You sure?"
"No," she admitted. "But I won't be the kind of woman who cages someone because I'm scared."
He touched her face. "You're braver than you think."
---
That night, Elena couldn't sleep.
The idea of Drew with someone else haunted her. Not because she didn't trust him, but because she didn't trust herself not to break again.
She journaled instead—pouring her anxiety into ink, trying to make sense of feelings too tangled to name.
And when Drew called the next evening after seeing Mel, his voice was steady.
"She wanted closure," he said. "She's leaving again next week. It was... intense. But final."
Elena listened quietly.
"I told her I met someone," he continued. "Someone who makes me feel like home."
Her breath caught. "And how did she take that?"
"She said I looked happy. I told her I was."
A pause.
"Elena," Drew said softly, "I don't want anyone else. I don't care about what came before. I care about what we're building. You and me."
Tears pricked her eyes. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
---
At the end of the week, Drew brought her to his gallery.
The greenhouse photo had been enlarged and mounted—its light captured perfectly in grayscale, with tiny flecks of gold leaf woven into the frame.
The placard beneath it read:
"Reclamation."
Elena stood in front of it for a long time.
Drew came up behind her. "It's yours, you know."
She turned. "What?"
"That photo exists because of you."
She smiled faintly. "Then it belongs to both of us."
As
the gallery filled with visitors and chatter, Elena slipped her hand into Drew's.
She wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring.
But for the first time in years, she wasn't afraid to find out.