Still Want You

Elena stopped in front of the mansion.

The iron gate creaked as it closed behind her, and silence enveloped her like a warning. The wind stirred the tops of the tall trees, and the gray sky began to darken, as if time were turning back with every step she took.

Everything was the same. The same immaculate garden. The same modern facade. The same damned buzzing in her chest every time she breathed near it.

She hadn't thought going back there would be like this. Not so real. Not so soon. Not so... violent to the heart.

A message, unsigned, had brought her back.

"Urgent restoration. Down payment: 15,000. Absolute discretion. Address attached."

I'm taking the job for money.

So she told herself.

But the knot in her stomach said otherwise.

The front door opened with a barely audible click. Inside, the white marble reflected the faint evening light that streamed in through the large windows. A familiar scent floated in the air: wood, expensive incense, something masculine that lingered on her skin.

"Come in," a voice said.

Deep. Unmistakable.

Elena stopped.

It couldn't be him.

Not with that calmness, not with that certainty. After all?

"You have my attention, but not for long," he said from the living room.

Then she forced herself to move forward. Her heart pounded as if to warn her she was making a mistake.

Six years earlier.

"Why are you running away from me?" Alejandro asked, leaning against her doorframe.

"I'm not running away," Elena lied, her hair still damp from the rain.

"Yes, you are. You do it every time I get too close."

She didn't respond. He took her by the waist, and for a second, the world shrank at his touch.

"Tell me you don't feel anything," she whispered.

But she couldn't.

She never could.

Alejandro was still the same.

Or almost. His dark suit made him look more adult, colder. But those eyes... they still had the same intensity as the first time he saw her naked under the lights of his studio.

"Years have passed," Elena said, not looking directly at her.

"And yet, you still know how to fill a room," he replied.

She bit her tongue. She wasn't going to fall for that game. Not again.

"Where is the painting? I came to work, not to talk about the past."

He led her down the hallway without another word. His steps were firm. Controlled.

He led her to a large room with walls covered in bookshelves and a soft light falling from the ceiling. In the center, covered by a white cloth, was the oil painting.

"It's a portrait," Alejandro said, without emotion. "Of my mother."

Elena carefully lifted the cloth. The large canvas depicted a woman with a serene expression, dull green eyes, and a melancholy expression that seemed to speak.

The paint was cracked, with areas darkened by moisture. But the overall structure was intact. Restorable.

"It's deteriorated," Elena murmured. "But not irreparable. I'll need at least a month. And the freedom to work alone."

Alejandro nodded.

"You can use the studio in the east wing. It has good light."

"I'd prefer to stay in a hotel."

He looked at her for the first time, directly. That look that had once disarmed her just by crossing the street.

"I haven't forgotten what happened, Elena."

"Nor have I," he replied without thinking.

A heavy silence fell.

"Then stay," he said. "Face it, if you can."

She gritted her teeth. She could leave. She could say no. But something inside, something she couldn't quite bury, forced her to nod.

"Just for work."

"Sure," he said with a half smile. "Just work."