May goes back to his studio

The staircase was old, the wood creaking under their feet. The walls were lined with sketches. The smell of paint dominated. When they reached the attic, Elliott pushed open the door, and they stepped into the attic studio. The space was large and open. Canvases were scattered across the room. There were brushes everywhere. “This is where the magic happens,” Elliott said, walking over to one of the canvases. It was a large, abstract piece, vibrant with color and energy.

“It’s beautiful,” May murmured, stepping closer to get a better look. The painting was alive with movement, as if the colors were still in the process of blending and shifting before her eyes. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the surface. She hesitated, then let her fingers brush against the canvas. The paint was thick and textured under her touch, rough in some places, smooth in others. She could almost feel the passion that had gone into creating it, the energy that Elliott had poured into every brushstroke.

“I miss this,” she admitted softly, more to herself than to him.

Elliott stepped closer, his presence warm and solid at her back. “You don’t have to miss it,” he said, his voice a whisper.

May closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. She wanted to believe him. Another part of her knew that it wasn’t that simple. Life had a way of complicating things, of pulling you in directions you never intended to go. There was work, and dinners, and step-daughters, and in-laws, and so many different people demanding attention and effort and giving nothing back. It wasn’t her fault that she had stopped working. Her husband needed a partner, not a muse.

But here, those complications seemed distant, almost unreal. She turned to face Elliott, her eyes searching his. His hand touched hers, and she realized she recognized the look in his eyes. He was hungry.