Chapter 4 Fresh Paint and Old Feelings

By the time the weekend rolled around, the smell of fresh paint and morning coffee had become Olivia's new normal. She found herself waking up before her alarm, slipping into her work jeans, tying her curls into a bun, and waiting for Lucas's knock.

He came every day-sometimes with paintbrushes, sometimes with breakfast, always with the steady presence she didn't know she needed.

This morning was no different.

"Brought cinnamon rolls," Lucas said, holding up a paper bag as she opened the flower shop's front door.

"You keep doing this," Olivia smiled, taking the bag. "Trying to bribe me with pastries?"

"Is it working?"

"Dangerously well."

They shared a quiet laugh, then got to work.

Lucas was in his element-his flannel sleeves rolled up, a streak of white primer across one cheek as he sanded the window frame. Olivia watched him as she wiped down shelves, stealing glances between each swipe.

There was something about him-still calm, still rugged, but with a quiet intensity that made her heart flutter.

They painted in near silence, broken only by occasional teasing.

"You missed a spot," she said, pointing at the trim.

"That's artistic license," he quipped. "You wouldn't understand."

"Oh please. You're not Picasso, you're a carpenter."

"A very artistic carpenter," he added with a grin.

Midway through the day, she stepped back to admire the wall they'd just finished-lavender with soft cream borders. It reminded her of spring. Of her grandmother's laugh. Of hope.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

Lucas looked over at her-not the wall.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."

Their eyes met. For a moment, the world stilled.

The brush slipped from her hand, splattering a trail of paint across her shirt and arm.

"Oh my God," she laughed, looking down at the mess.

Lucas tried to suppress a grin but failed. "You've always been a disaster with a brush."

"Says the man with paint on his face," she teased.

Before he could react, she dipped two fingers in the bucket and smudged a streak across his jaw.

"Olivia!" he barked, half laughing.

"What? Fair's fair."

Then he did something that made her heart skip.

He dipped his own fingers into the paint and reached for her arm. But instead of smearing it, he softly brushed her skin, tracing a lazy pattern on her wrist. His fingers were warm. Slow.

She went still.

"You missed a spot," he murmured.

Olivia's breath caught.

"Lucas..."

He didn't lean in. Didn't move closer.

He just looked at her like she was the most fragile thing in the room-and he didn't want to break her.

She stepped back, pulse racing. "We should get back to painting."

Lucas nodded, but his gaze lingered.

They worked in silence after that, but the air between them had changed. Thicker. Charged.

Later that evening...

The shop was quiet again. Olivia stood behind the counter, stacking vintage postcards her grandmother used to sell near the register.

Lucas walked out of the storage room, holding a folded piece of paper.

"Found this under the floorboards. Looks like another one of your grandma's letters."

Olivia took it from him with a soft gasp.

It was yellowed and torn at the edges, addressed to "My Olivia Rose."

She opened it slowly.

My dearest flower,

If you're reading this, you've come home. I always knew you would. Whatever ghosts chased you away, I hope this place can help you bury them. And maybe, if he's still around, you'll find the courage to say what you never did.

Her fingers trembled.

Don't let pride steal love from you. Don't let fear win. The world is wide, but hearts need roots.

Love always, Grandma June.

Tears stung Olivia's eyes.

Lucas watched her carefully, not pushing.

"She always knew how to say the right thing," Olivia said softly.

"She knew you best," he replied.

Olivia turned to him, emotion thick in her chest.

"Lucas... when I left, I wasn't just scared of the city. I was scared of what I felt for you."

He said nothing, just waited.

"I thought if I loved you, really loved you, I'd never leave. And I wasn't ready to give up on the life I thought I needed."

Lucas took a breath. "And now?"

"Now I don't know what I want," she admitted. "But I know it's something that feels like this."

"Like paint on your shirt and cinnamon rolls at 8 AM?" he teased gently.

She smiled, teary. "Yeah... something exactly like that."

Lucas reached for her hand this time, and she didn't pull away.

He didn't kiss her. Didn't confess anything big or poetic.

Instead, he squeezed her hand-firm, reassuring.

"Then let's figure it out. One brushstroke at a time."