In the heart of Prague's Old Town, where history lived in the cobblestones and time moved at its own will, there stood a small, forgotten shop called V�tor's Timepieces. It sat like a secret, tucked behind ivy-covered archways and narrow streets dusted with age. The air smelled of rain on stone, roasted chestnuts, and the quiet hum of stories waiting to be told.

Amelia Hart didn't come to Prague for love. She came to escape it.

Thirty-two, fresh off a brutal breakup with a man who traded tenderness for ambition, she was sent by her magazine to write about "Europe's Vanishing Artisans." Clockmakers, bookbinders, glassblowers - the kind of souls who still believed beauty required patience. She arrived with a suitcase, a broken heart, and no intention of letting anyone close again.

Until she stepped into his shop.

It was like walking into a dream. Dim light filtered through amber glass, catching the brass gleam of clocks in every shape and size. Time stood still - literally. Each clock frozen at a different hour, as if someone had paused their life mid-breath.

Behind the counter, a man looked up. He had strong, calloused hands stained with oil and polish, and eyes the color of dark molasses - warm, deep, and unreadable.

Elias V�tor.

He wore a fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a leather apron over his broad chest, and a voice like smoke and velvet.

Amelia asked, half-teasing, "Why don't any of these clocks work?"

"They're waiting," he said with a hint of a smile. "For the right moment."

She smirked. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," he said, walking toward her slowly, "some things aren't meant to move until you're ready to feel them again."

Amelia returned the next day. And the next.

Each visit, the air between them thickened with something unsaid, until silence itself felt charged. He'd show her how to polish gears, how to wind the delicate balance of a pendulum. His hands would brush hers - briefly, always deliberately - and she'd feel it in places she'd long forgotten.

One late evening, the city cloaked in rain, Elias invited her upstairs for tea.

His apartment above the shop was dimly lit, all amber and shadows. Heavy books, half-assembled clocks, and velvet drapes made the space feel like a sanctuary from the world. He poured her tea, but neither of them drank it.

Instead, they talked - about time, about memory, about the kind of love that breaks you open.

When she stood to leave, he walked her to the door. She turned, suddenly breathless under his gaze. His hand brushed a loose curl behind her ear, lingering on her cheek.

"Say something," she whispered.

"I want to kiss you," he said, his voice low, rough. "But only if you want more than that."

She leaned in. Their lips met - soft at first, testing, but full of hunger barely contained. Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against the lean, hard line of his body.

They didn't make it to the bed.

Elias lifted her onto the workbench. Tools scattered. Her blouse slid from her shoulders. His mouth traced the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. She gasped when his tongue found the edge of her bra, her fingers clutching his shirt as he unclasped her like a secret.

"God, I've wanted this," he growled, his voice ragged.

"So take it."

He did - slowly, reverently, until her breath hitched and her thighs trembled against his hips. She felt unraveled, laid bare in every way that mattered. And when he entered her, it wasn't a rush - it was worship. Every thrust, every kiss, was a promise:

I see you.

I want all of you.

Time is ours now.

Later, tangled in his sheets, bare skin brushing in the dark, he whispered, "You changed something in me."

She turned to face him, brushing her thumb over the scar above his left brow. "What did you promise that day your golden clock stopped?"

He hesitated. "That I'd never love again."

She held her breath. "And now?"

He looked toward the window, where the rain had finally stopped.

The golden clock downstairs ticked once.

Then again.

One year later?

Amelia's book, The Time Between Heartbeats, became a quiet sensation.

She returned to Prague - not to forget, but to remember. She walked into V�tor's Timepieces and found the shop alive with ticking. The golden clock now kept perfect time.

And Elias stood at the door.

"I kept your seat warm," he said.

She dropped her bag, ran to him, and kissed him with all the hours they'd lost.

Time, at last, caught up.