when the heart ❣️ remembers

Chapter 1 – The First Sight The gallery smelled faintly of turpentine and polished wood, the kind of scent Adrian Hale instantly disliked. People strolled around with glasses of red wine in hand, murmuring in low voices, pretending they understood the meaning of every brushstroke. Adrian stood near the back, tall and rigid in a perfectly tailored grey suit. His hair, dark as midnight, was slicked neatly back, his sharp jaw unsoftened by even the faintest smile. He looked like he had walked out of a boardroom and into the wrong place. “Mate,” Lucas muttered beside him, “try not to look like you’re attending a funeral. It’s art, not accounting.” Adrian checked his watch, expression blank. “You dragged me here, Lucas. Fifteen minutes. Then I’m leaving.” But then he saw her. --- She stood in the centre of the room with a canvas taller than herself, painting in wild strokes that looked like chaos until you looked closer and saw a storm coming alive on the canvas. Her hair — chestnut brown with streaks of copper that caught the lights — spilled down her back in messy waves. She wore a loose black slip dress that looked carelessly thrown on, paint smudges staining the fabric, her arms, even a streak on her cheek. Her beauty wasn’t delicate. It was dangerous. Untamed. The kind that made people stare and whisper. She was smiling, completely unbothered by the eyes on her. Adrian stopped breathing for a moment. --- “That’s Elena Marlowe,” Lucas whispered. “The star tonight. They call her ‘the wildfire painter.’ She doesn’t sketch, doesn’t plan. She just… burns.” Adrian’s gaze stayed fixed on her. And then it happened. Her eyes — dark brown, alive with something untouchable — lifted from the canvas and met his. He didn’t look away. Neither did she. Her lips curved into the faintest smile before she returned to her painting, brush flying like her heart was spilling through her hand. Adrian Hale, the man who measured everything, suddenly had no measure for what he was feeling. --- Later, when the applause rang out and people surged forward to see the finished storm on canvas, Elena stepped back, wiping her hands on a rag. Her eyes found him again. And then she walked straight toward him. “Did you like it?” she asked. Adrian blinked, caught off guard. Up close, she was even more magnetic. That smudge of paint across her cheek looked like it belonged there. Her lips, full and careless, were stained red — not lipstick, but probably wine. “I don’t usually come to galleries,” Adrian said, voice even. “But yes. It was… bold.” Her laugh was a melody, light and sharp. “Bold. That’s the polite way of saying ‘messy.’ You look like the type who irons his socks.” His brows lifted. “And you look like the type who doesn’t own an iron.” “Correct.” She grinned. “Wrinkles tell better stories.” Lucas reappeared with two glasses of wine, grinning like he was watching theatre. “Elena, this is my friend I told you about. Adrian Hale, architect. Man who works more hours than the sun shines.” Elena’s eyes sparkled as she took the wine. She didn’t stop staring at Adrian. “Architect, huh? That explains the edges.” Her finger traced an invisible line in the air, as if outlining his jaw. Adrian shifted, his throat tight. “And you… paint like you’re trying to set the world on fire.” Her voice dropped, teasing but almost serious. “If art doesn’t burn, it doesn’t live.” --- They ended up tucked in a quieter corner of the gallery, the crowd fading behind them. She leaned against the wall, eyes still glimmering like she knew secrets about him already. “So, Mr. Architect, do you always look so serious? Or is tonight special?” “I wasn’t serious,” Adrian said. “Just… observing.” “Observing me.” He allowed a tiny smile. “You noticed.” “I notice everything.” She tilted her head, studying him openly. “You build walls, don’t you? Glass walls. People can see you, but they can’t touch you.” Her words hit closer than he wanted. He deflected smoothly: “And you’re fire. Beautiful, dangerous, and always asking to be touched.” Elena’s breath stilled. For the briefest second, her eyes softened. Then she smiled like a challenge. “Touché.” --- They talked. About art, about architecture, about the way she believed in feelings over logic and he believed in lines and numbers. Opposites in every way, but the current between them only grew. At one point, she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. “Tell me, Adrian,” she whispered, “do you ever stop calculating? Or are you measuring the dimensions of this wall right now?” He held her gaze, something stirring in his chest. “Only the distance between us.” Her lips parted, caught off guard by his sudden boldness. A slow smile spread across her face. “Careful. That almost sounded poetic.” He didn’t look away. “Maybe you bring it out of me.” Her laugh was softer this time. Almost shy. --- When the night ended, Adrian found himself walking her to the gallery doors. The rain outside misted the pavement, streetlamps glowing like halos. Elena pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, paint still staining her fingers. “So… are the architect and the wildfire going to meet again?” Adrian hesitated. He never promised things he couldn’t control. But her eyes — fearless, burning — made something reckless rise in him. “Yes,” he said simply. She grinned, stepping backward into the doorway light. “Good. Don’t keep me waiting too long.” And just like that, the door closed. Adrian Hale walked into the damp London night, his suit dampened by mist — but for the first time in years, his chest burned, not from loneliness, but from dangerous possibility. ---