Red Wine for Breakfast

The clink of glass echoed through the vineyard as Elena uncorked a new bottle. The scent of aged Merlot filled the cellar-oak, berries, and bitterness. She poured a glass, not for tasting, but for courage.

The past had returned with the shape of a man and the eyes of a ghost.

Marco stood just outside the cellar doors, framed by moonlight and the storm's afterglow. His shirt clung to him, damp from rain or sweat, and his presence-uninvited-filled the space like a forgotten song.

"You've aged," Elena said, her voice sharp but low. "But your lies must still be fresh."

He didn't flinch. "I deserve that."

"No, you deserve the silence you left me in."

She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his chest. It was supposed to be a cold move, a deliberate snub. But she felt the heat rise under her skin-anger or longing, she wasn't sure.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he said, following.

"Then you should've written a damn poem about it," she snapped.

"I did," Marco replied quietly, pulling a weathered notebook from his coat. "Hundreds."

Elena's hands trembled, but she didn't take the notebook. She stepped back, wine glass still in hand, watching him like one might a wildfire-dangerous, consuming, beautiful.

He closed the distance.