She was 48. Divorced for six years, she had long stopped thinking about love — let alone desire. Marina spent her summers in the countryside villa she had inherited from her grandmother. Roses bloomed wildly there. Life was quiet.
Until he arrived.
Luka was 24. Her best friend’s nephew. A film student, full of curiosity and soft rebellion, who came to stay for a few weeks. He offered to help with the garden. She said yes, mostly out of politeness.
But it started slowly — glances held a little too long. He noticed the way she tied her hair up while pouring wine. She noticed how he’d pause before speaking to her, like she mattered more than other women his age.
One night, the power went out from a storm. They lit candles. She wore a thin linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to invite questions.
“I used to be afraid of thunder,” Luka said, sipping wine.
“Now?” she asked.
“I think… now I’m afraid of wanting things I shouldn’t,” he said, eyes on her.
She smiled. “Maybe you should stop being afraid.”
The silence crackled louder than the lightning. When he leaned in, she didn’t move. Their lips met softly, like a secret neither of them could believe they were telling.
Later that night, wrapped in linen sheets and heavy breath, she touched his cheek and whispered, “You make me feel…alive again.”
And he kissed her shoulder and said, “You make me feel like a man.
