CHAPTER 108: THE PAINTING

The afternoon softened around them, the town stretched out in a golden haze, the air heavy with lemon blossoms and slow time. After winding through a narrow alley scented with fresh linen and blooming vines, Nicholas and Ella found themselves in a quieter square tucked behind an old chapel.

There was a fountain in the center, its stone worn smooth from time and weather, and a few café chairs scattered beneath an olive tree whose branches danced lazily in the breeze.

And just off to the side—almost hidden by shade and ivy—was a painter.

An older man, long-limbed and loose-jointed, with wild silver hair and a straw hat tilted low over his brow. His easel was crooked, his paints sun-warmed and thick with use. He had three canvases lined against the wall beside him—small, romantic scenes of couples walking through town, pausing by fountains, sitting on stairs in soft embrace.

Ella slowed. "Wait... look at these."

Nicholas followed her gaze. "Oh. Wow."

They were beautiful in an imperfect kind of way—brushstrokes loose and dreamy, full of motion and heat. He captured moments, not details: the tilt of a woman’s head in laughter, the light on someone’s collarbone, the exact shade of summer sky between two lovers’ shoulders.

The painter looked up when he noticed them. "Ah," he said, smiling through a thick Italian accent. "Yes. You two. Come. Let me paint you."

Ella blinked. "Us?"

"You have the look," the man said, gesturing with a paint-streaked hand. "The thing. The glow."

Nicholas chuckled. "The glow?"

The man nodded seriously. "Amore. You have it. It’s in your skin. Sit. Sit."

Before Ella could protest, Nicholas was already pulling out one of the folding chairs, motioning for her to take it. "Come on," he said. "Let’s be muses."

She gave him a look. "This is a tourist trap."

"It’s a romantic trap," he corrected. "And besides, if I’m going to stare at you for hours, we might as well let someone else capture the experience."

Ella hesitated, then sat—only after Nicholas did first.

The painter studied them for a moment, then directed Nicholas to angle slightly toward her, one arm over the back of her chair. He told Ella to rest her hand on his thigh. "Natural," he said. "Like you’re just... being."

Nicholas leaned in and whispered in her ear, voice teasing and warm, "I am just being. Madly, publicly, irrevocably in love with you."

Ella rolled her eyes, cheeks flushing. "If you keep talking, I’m going to start laughing."

"Wouldn’t that make a great portrait?" he murmured. "You laughing, me lovesick."

The painter didn’t stop working, but he smiled as he caught their movement—her biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing, Nicholas’s thumb idly tracing the side of her hand.

They sat there for a long while, sunlight dappling the cobblestones around them. The square was quiet, save for the splash of the fountain and the occasional hum of conversation drifting in from the café around the corner.

Nicholas took advantage of the stillness.

"Do you know what I’d paint if I could?" he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on her instead of the artist.

Ella didn’t turn her head, just murmured, "What?"

"You. Right now. In that dress. The shadow of your lashes. The way your mouth softens when you’re calm like this."

"You’re such a flirt."

"Accurate," he said. "But sincere."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You like watching me."

"I always have." He smiled. "Even when you were just walking into the café and didn’t know I existed."

"That’s a lie."

"It’s not. You had this look in your eyes like you were surviving on pure stubbornness. I admired that. I still do."

She didn’t reply, but she squeezed his fingers where they were tangled in her lap.

When the painter finally set down his brush and wiped his hands on an old cloth, Nicholas leaned forward, peering at the canvas.

The portrait was soft. Loose. Romantic.

Ella’s profile caught in golden light, her hand resting gently over Nicholas’s thigh. His head was turned slightly toward her, like he was about to say something—but hadn’t yet. There was tension between them in the painting, but it wasn’t conflict. It was anticipation. Like a kiss waiting to happen.

"It’s beautiful," Ella said quietly.

Nicholas nodded, voice a little rough. "Yeah. It really is."

The painter smiled, pleased. "You like? I can wrap it for you. You take home."

"We’ll take it," Nicholas said without hesitation.

He paid without flinching, and when the man handed him the rolled, parchment-wrapped canvas tied with twine, he held it like it was something sacred.

As they wandered back into the sun, the canvas tucked under Nicholas’s arm, Ella peeked up at him from under her lashes.

"Did you really mean what you said?" she asked. "That you’d paint me?"

Nicholas stopped walking and turned to her fully.

"Every inch of you," he said. "Every curve, every smile, every moment I’ve wanted to bottle."

Ella laughed, but it was soft. Vulnerable. "You’re incorrigible."

"I’m in awe," he said simply.

She kissed him then—right there in the middle of the cobblestone street—hands in his shirt, heat simmering under skin and silk and sunlight. The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t shy. It said: We’re here. We’re real. And I want you, in every version of this day.

When they broke apart, Nicholas was smiling like he’d just won something.

"Okay," Ella said, breathless. "You get one painting. But if you try to hang it above our bed, I’m hiding your toothbrush."

"That feels fair," he said. "But only if you let me paint you one day."

"You paint?"

"No," he said, grinning. "But I learn fast when I’m inspired."

They kept walking, lazily now, past an antique bookshop and a storefront filled with hand-painted ceramic tiles. Nicholas stopped suddenly, pulling her back gently by the wrist.

"What?" she asked.

He pointed through the shop window. "There."

Inside, on a stand beneath the glass, sat a pair of small matching rings—simple, delicate bands with tiny hand-engraved constellations.

One had a sunburst. The other, a crescent moon.

Ella tilted her head. "They’re beautiful."

Nicholas was already pushing the door open, the bell chiming softly above them.

Five minutes later, they walked out hand-in-hand, the rings nestled in a little paper box in Nicholas’s palm.

"For now," he said quietly, brushing his thumb across the lid, "just something to wear. No promises, no pressure. Just... us."

Ella looked down at the rings. Her chest swelled.

And then, with a soft smile, she said, "Put it on me."

He did. Gently. Slowly. Like every part of her was something to be handled with reverence.

They didn’t speak much after that. They didn’t need to.

The town stretched before them in all its sun-drenched beauty, but the moment they carried would last far longer than any postcard or souvenir.

They were here. Together.

And this—this was the kind of day you remembered for the rest of your life.