WHEN THE TIDE TURNS

The sea had its own kind of silence in the off-season. No children shouting on the beach, no lovers laughing beneath umbrellas. Just the wind combing the tide, and the distant groan of a ship making its lonely way beyond the cliffs.

Elena stepped out of the car and closed the door softly behind her. The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she looked up at the villa. Weathered stone, green shutters, and ivy crawling like veins up its sides. It looked almost abandoned-exactly what she needed.

Inside, the air was cool, touched faintly with salt. She dropped her bag on the entryway bench and let herself sink into the silence. The art retreat she'd signed up for had promised seclusion and "inspiration." But the truth was, she hadn't painted in nearly a year. She wasn't sure why she'd come.

A movement near the kitchen startled her.

A man stepped out, shirt rolled up at the sleeves, wiping his hands on a towel. Mid-thirties, maybe a little older, tall and dark-haired with a sun-warmed complexion and a gaze that met hers directly.

"You must be Elena," he said. His voice was low, not unfriendly, but reserved. "You're early."

"I like beating traffic," she replied.

He nodded, tossing the towel over a chair. "I'm Marc. I run the place."

There was something about him-solid, grounded, as though he belonged to the walls of this place, to the sea just beyond it.

"You're an artist?" he asked.

"Trying to be again." She smiled, though it felt a little uneven. "And you?"

"I fix things. Mostly wood and stone." He gestured to the old beams overhead. "And I cook."

"A man of many talents."

He shrugged, his eyes flicking to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. "You'll find the studio out back. Meals are at seven. You're the only guest this week."

She blinked. "Really?"

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "No one else signed up. Guess they don't like the storm season."

She did. Storms were honest. Raw. Like her work used to be.

Elena carried her bag upstairs, heart ticking in a strange rhythm. Alone in a beautiful villa by the sea... with a man who could build things with his hands and wasn't afraid of silence.

She unpacked slowly, opening the windows to the sound of gulls and the scent of rain on stone. Then she wandered out to the studio, a little cottage half-covered in vines. Inside, the light was soft and pale, diffused through cloudy skylights. Empty easels waited like skeletons, silent and expectant.

She touched one, her fingers brushing the smooth wood. Could she still do this?

Behind her, the door creaked. She turned.

Marc stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in one hand. "Thought you might want this."

She took it from him, their fingers brushing briefly. A flicker of heat passed between them-unexpected, electric.

He didn't say anything, just turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with the mug and the echo of something unnamed.

That evening, they sat across from each other at a wooden table in the candlelit kitchen. The food was simple-grilled fish, roasted vegetables, a white wine that tasted like sunlight. They ate mostly in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

"So," Marc said eventually, "What brought you here, really?"

Elena sipped her wine. "I needed to get away. I was... blocked. Artistically. Personally. You ever have that?"

He nodded slowly. "More than once."

She liked his honesty. No sugarcoating, no false charm. He watched her carefully, not like a man trying to seduce, but like someone who noticed everything.

"You seem comfortable in the silence," she said.

"I live alone," he replied. "Out here, the wind and the waves are enough conversation most days."

They looked at each other a long moment. The candlelight danced on his cheekbones, softened his edges.

Then she stood, her chair scraping softly. "Thanks for dinner. I think I'll try to paint tomorrow."

"Good," he said, standing too. "Let the sea do the work. You just listen."

As she passed him, their shoulders brushed. Not an accident.

She didn't look back.

That night, the storm came.

Thunder rolled over the sea like a drumbeat from the gods. Rain lashed the windows. In her bed, Elena tossed under the linen sheets, the air thick with scent of salt and rain.

She rose, wrapped herself in a blanket, and went downstairs barefoot.

The kitchen was dark. Only the storm outside lit it in flashes.

She turned-and found Marc standing in the doorway, shirtless, damp hair curling at his temples. He must have been out in the rain.

"You're awake," he said quietly.

"So are you."

"I couldn't sleep." He looked at her, really looked. "Storms do that to me."

She stood there, blanket clutched around her, the air humming with unspoken things. He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.

"Storms stir things up," she said.

"Yes," he murmured. "They do."

And in that moment, it wasn't clear who moved first-but the space between them vanished. His hand found her waist beneath the blanket, warm and strong. She tilted her face up, lips parted.

They didn't kiss.

Not yet.

But the air between them pulsed like the sea.