Elena told herself she would just drive by.
Nothing more, nothing less just a quick glance at the house Marcus had bought for them, the one she'd abandoned along with everything else. But her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, gripping the steering wheel tighter as she turned down Elm Street.
The road hadn't changed much in five years. Old oaks lined the sidewalks, their branches heavy with rain, dripping onto the pavement. Children's bicycles leaned against porches, a dog barked in the distance, and flowerbeds overflowed with late-summer blooms. Millbrook was suspended in time, unchanged and stubbornly familiar.
And then there it was.
The Morrison place.
Her breath caught.
It was more beautiful than she remembered. The craftsman-style house stood proudly on its lot, its wide front porch gleaming with fresh paint. The oak tree in the yard stretched high, its roots twisting into the earth like guardians of memory. Marcus had kept the promise he'd made that night in the restaurant he'd restored the house with care. The shingles looked new, the windows sparkled, and the garden out front was a riot of color.
She pulled over, heart hammering. For a long time, she just sat there, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. Memories flooded her: Marcus describing the porch where they'd drink coffee in the mornings, the room he said would be perfect for her sewing, the kitchen window that overlooked the garden.
A future that had slipped through her fingers.
Before she could change her mind, she opened the car door and stepped out. The air smelled of damp earth and cut grass. Every step up the walkway felt like walking deeper into the past.
The porch creaked under her weight as she climbed the steps. She hesitated, hand hovering over the doorbell. She didn't even know if Marcus was home. What if he wasn't? What if he was and what if someone else answered the door?
The thought twisted her stomach.
But before she could decide, the door swung open.
Marcus stood there.
He wore jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, his dark hair damp as though he'd just showered. A paint smudge streaked his forearm, and his expression froze in shock when he saw her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Elena."
Her name left his lips like an exhale, equal parts surprise and inevitability.
"Hi," she managed, her voice shaking. "I… I was just passing by. Thought I'd… see the house."
His gaze swept over her, unreadable. Then he stepped aside. "Come in."
She followed him into the entryway, her heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.
The house was warm and alive. Sunlight streamed through wide windows, illuminating polished wood floors and carefully chosen furniture. The scent of fresh paint lingered faintly, mingling with coffee and something citrus. Every corner bore Marcus's touch the sturdy bookshelf in the living room, the photographs of landscapes and family, the worn leather armchair by the fireplace.
It wasn't just a house. It was a home.
Her chest tightened. This was supposed to have been their home.
Marcus gestured toward the sofa. "Sit, if you want."
She perched on the edge, feeling out of place, like an intruder in her own life. He sat across from her, leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees.
"You wanted to see it," he said. "So… what do you think?"
Elena let her gaze wander again. The room glowed with warmth, the kind of space built with intention and care. "It's beautiful," she admitted. "You've done an incredible job."
A shadow flickered across his face. "It's what I always wanted it to be." His tone carried weight, as though the words were meant for more than just the house.
Her throat tightened. She looked toward the window, where the garden blazed with color. "The flowers are beautiful too."
"I planted them the year after you left," Marcus said quietly. "I needed something to keep me busy. Something that wouldn't walk away."
The sting of guilt was sharp and immediate. She turned back to him, desperate to bridge the chasm between them. "Marcus, I never stopped thinking about you. About us. Not once."
"Thinking about me isn't the same as staying." His eyes locked on hers, steady and unflinching. "You left me with nothing but questions, Elena. I thought I wasn't enough. I thought I'd done something to drive you away. Do you know how many nights I tore myself apart trying to figure it out?"
Her breath hitched. "I thought I was protecting us. I thought leaving was the only way to keep from hurting you down the line. But I see now that I was wrong. I hurt you worse than I ever imagined."
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Marcus leaned back, crossing his arms. His face softened, but his voice was still guarded. "Five years, Elena. Five years of silence. And now you're here, sitting in the house that was supposed to be ours, telling me you never stopped thinking about me. What am I supposed to do with that?"
Tears blurred her vision. "I don't know. I just know that I'm sorry. And that this house it's more perfect than I ever dreamed. You made our dream real, even without me."
Marcus's expression flickered, pain mingling with something else something like longing. "It wasn't the same without you."
Elena's heart lurched. She wanted to reach for him, to bridge the distance, but fear held her back. She'd already broken him once. Could she risk doing it again?
She stood, unable to sit still any longer. Her feet carried her down the hallway, Marcus silently following.
Every room was a revelation.
The kitchen, bright and airy, with a wide window that framed the garden exactly as he'd described. A spare room converted into a workshop, shelves lined with tools. A guest room painted a soft, welcoming blue.
And then the room.
Her sewing room.
The walls were painted a warm cream, the light perfect. A sturdy table stood near the window, an empty mannequin waiting in the corner. Fabric scraps rested neatly in baskets. The room radiated readiness, like it had been waiting for her all along.
Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears spilled freely now. "You… you made this for me."
Marcus's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "I made it for us. I couldn't bring myself to change it. Every time I thought about it, I told myself maybe one day you'd come back and fill it with your things."
The weight of his words crushed her and lifted her all at once. He had been waiting. Even when she thought she'd erased herself from his life, part of him had held space for her.
She turned to face him, her voice breaking. "Marcus…"
He met her gaze, raw emotion flickering in his eyes. Anger, love, hurt, hope all tangled together. "Why are you really here, Elena? Is it just for Rosa's funeral? Or are you here for more than that?"
She couldn't answer. Not yet. Her heart screamed yes, but fear coiled tight around her chest. She had a life in Manhattan, responsibilities that wouldn't simply disappear. Yet standing in this room, surrounded by everything she'd once dreamed of, she couldn't deny the pull.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I want to find out."
Marcus studied her, his jaw tense. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Then you'd better be sure this time. Because I can't survive losing you again."
The words hung heavy in the air, a warning and a plea all at once.
Elena stepped closer, her hand brushing the edge of the sewing table. "I don't want to run anymore. Not from this. Not from you."
For a moment, hope lit his eyes, tentative but real.
And in that fragile silence, standing in the room that was once only a dream, Elena realized something she had been avoiding for years her unfinished business wasn't in Manhattan. It was here. With him. With them.