The morning after the gallery, Mara woke to silence.No rain, no Eli, no lingering warmth of connection—just the quiet hum of her apartment and the faint scent of wet pavement carried in through the cracked window.
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to tell herself she didn't care. But every time she thought of him—Eli, with his storm-colored eyes and awkward smile—her chest tightened in a way she didn't like.
And she hated that she missed him.
Eli, on the other hand, had spent the night replaying every moment, every word, every look. He knew he'd messed up—how could he not? Mara deserved truth, not fragments or excuses. Clara deserved closure, not lingering guilt.
By mid-morning, he had made a decision. He needed to find Mara. Not to beg. Not to explain everything at once. But to show her that the present—the connection between them—wasn't a shadow of the past.
He arrived at Brew & Bloom just as she was leaving, the bell over the door jingling behind him. She froze.
"Eli," she said, cautious, wary, her voice steady even though her heart wasn't.
"I know I've made it complicated," he began, taking a careful step closer. "And I can't erase the past… but I can't stop thinking about the present, either. About you."
Mara folded her arms, the tension in her shoulders like armor. "And Clara?"
He swallowed. "Clara needed me to let her go. I've done that. Not because I'm over her—because I needed to be honest. Honest with her, with you, with myself."
Her eyes softened, but only slightly. "And why should I believe you?"
He took a breath, and for the first time, he spoke without hesitation. "Because every moment with you feels like… the first time I've ever really seen color again. You make me want to stay. You make me want to try."
Mara's chest tightened, caught between hope and fear. She wanted to believe him—oh, how badly she wanted to—but the memory of Clara lingered like a shadow across his smile.
"Then prove it," she said finally. "Not with words. With time. With honesty. With showing up."
Eli nodded, determination settling into his eyes. "I will. I promise."
Over the next few weeks, they met in quiet cafés, walked under soft rain, shared long conversations that ended in laughter and sometimes in silence. Mara began to paint again, her brushstrokes freer, brighter, filled with fragments of him in the light and the shadows.
Eli stayed. No grand gestures, no rushing, just presence—a quiet insistence that some connections are worth the storms they bring.
One evening, as the city glittered beneath a drizzle, Mara glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"You know," she said, "I never thought someone could make me want to stay in the rain."
He reached for her hand, warm and certain. "I think," he said softly, "the rain was just waiting for us."
And for the first time in a long time, Mara believed it.