The air smells like damp earth and rosemary.
I love this garden.
I love how peaceful it is in the mornings.
I set my mug down and run my fingers over the leaves of the lavender bush.
I didn’t expect to love living here so much.
I love the quiet hum of the house. I love the way the kitchen fills with sunlight in the afternoon. I love that there’s always fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter because Jake insists on it.
And I love painting here.
I love standing at the easel in the late-morning light, brush in hand, music playing softly, knowing he’ll come home eventually.
Grumpy.
Exhausted.
And I’ll be the one who makes him smile.
With that thought, I turn back to the canvas. It’s almost finished.
I paint for hours.
Losing myself in color and movement and the quiet scratch of bristles against canvas.
Time slips by unnoticed until I hear the front door open and the soft thud of Jake’s bag hitting the floor.
A low sigh.
Then his voice. “It smells like paint.”
I smile and turn.
He’s leaning in the doorway, still in practice gear, hair damp,expression tired.
And then he sees me fully. His mouth curves.
There it is. The smile. Warm. Unfiltered.
I did that.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Long.”
“Did you behave?”
He snorts. “Mostly.”
I set my brush down and wipe my hands.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Jake takes a quick shower while I start dinner.
