5: The Taste of Almost

Morning light spilled gently into the bedroom, painting soft shadows across the walls. Aria stirred beneath the sheets, slowly opening her eyes to the quiet stillness around her. Her hand reached out to the other side of the bed, fingers brushing cool linen.

Empty.

Of course.

A small sigh escaped her lips as the illusion faded. It was just a dream, she told herself. She thought she had heard him—Lucien—moving in the kitchen. She thought she'd smelled something warm and savory drifting into the bedroom.

But dreams could be cruel like that.

Pushing away the covers, she sat up and shook the thought from her head. “Don’t start again,” she whispered, brushing her hair back. Reality was waiting. She had work.

She moved through her morning routine mechanically—shower, dressed, tied her hair, gathered her things. Piece by piece, she folded away the lingering traces of her dream and tucked them somewhere quiet.

As she passed the kitchen, she paused, glancing in without meaning to.

“But it feels like real,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes.

There was nothing out of place, no dirty dishes or lingering smells. But something felt different. Drawn by a sudden curiosity, she walked to the fridge and pulled the door open.

She froze.

It was full. Fresh vegetables, bottles of juice, eggs, cheese, Lucien’s favorite almond milk. Groceries she hadn’t bought.

Her lips parted in disbelief.

“It was true,” she said, a slow smile forming.

She stood there for a beat longer, the edges of her heart lifting with something tender and unexpected. Then, still smiling, she grabbed her keys and stepped out the door—hope tucked quietly in her chest like a secret only the morning knew.

The morning air smelled like spring and fresh coffee. Aria’s white coat fluttered behind her as she strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, her steps light and rhythmic. She hummed an old lullaby, fingers curled around a warm to-go cup, her stethoscope tucked into her satchel. The hospital stood just a few blocks ahead — familiar, steady, a second home.

She wasn’t in a rush. Not today. Not with the sun on her skin and a good dream still lingering in her mind from the night before.

Then, as she reached the corner, distracted by a set of blooming lavender in a planter across the street, she stepped off the curb—

Tires screeched. A horn blared.

Someone shouted her name — “Aria!”

Suddenly, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, yanking her back to the sidewalk as a truck thundered through the red light, missing her by inches.

Her coffee exploded across the pavement, the cup rolling into the gutter.

“What the—?!” she gasped, her heart in her throat.

She looked up — and there he was.

Lucien.

Of course it was Lucien.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath his jacket, eyes wide with adrenaline — and that maddening, stupidly heroic expression he wore whenever he’d just done something dramatic. His hair was tousled from the wind, and he looked annoyingly good for someone who had clearly been stalking her walk to work.

“What are you doing here?” Aria snapped, pushing at his chest, her voice sharp. “You can’t just show up like some dramatic action hero!”

Lucien blinked, still catching his breath. “I just saved your life. You’re welcome?”

“I had it under control,” she muttered, brushing down her coat and pretending she wasn’t still trembling. “You scared me more than the damn truck.”

He tilted his head, that slow smirk spreading. “Right. You totally saw it coming while staring at flowers and humming to yourself.”

She glared at him, lips tight — but her heart was beating so fast, not from fear anymore, but from him. The way he still knew where to find her. The way he always showed up. Even when she pretended she didn’t want him to.

“I was coming to surprise you,” he said more gently now. “Maybe take you to breakfast. I... missed you.” He sweetly whispered in her ear..

Her eyes flicked away, but a flush rose in her cheeks.

“You’re infuriating,” she said under her breath.

Lucien leaned in, voice low and warm. “But you're glad I came.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she bent to pick up her coffee cup, then paused as he knelt down too, their fingers brushing over the ruined lid. A small, traitorous smile tugged at her lips.

“...Just don’t make a habit of saving me in traffic,” she murmured, standing.

“No promises,” he said, straightening up beside her, his voice soft. “If it means I get to see that smile again.”

She rolled her eyes, but this time... she didn’t walk away.

--

The café across from the hospital had just opened its patio for spring. Aria sat at a small wrought-iron table beneath a striped umbrella, nursing a new cup of coffee Lucien had insisted on buying her after “the whole near-death experience.”

She picked at a croissant, her legs crossed, eyes narrowed across the table. Lucien sat across from her, leaning back, effortlessly smug — like the morning had gone exactly as planned.

“You really thought breakfast would fix things?” she asked, raising a brow.

“I thought not dying would soften you up a little,” he replied, grinning. “Baby steps.”

She sipped her coffee slowly, intentionally. “You always do this.”

“Save you?” Lucien moves his face a little closer to hers.

“No. Show up, unannounced, mess with my head, then act like everything’s fine.”

His smile faltered just slightly, and for a moment the air between them grew quieter. More honest.

“I didn’t come to mess with your head,” he said gently. “I just... missed you, Aria. Missed us. Just like a few hours ago.” He reminded her.

Her eyes flicked down to the table. “You can't keep showing up every time you remember I am your wife.”

“That’s the thing,” he said, voice low. “I will always be your husband.”

She opened her mouth, ready to fire back something clever — or cruel, she wasn’t sure — but the words stalled when he reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, and something in her chest caved just a little.

She didn’t pull away.

They sat there, silence stretching between sips of coffee and stolen glances. The tension shifted — from sharp to soft. Maybe something worth rebuilding.

And just as Aria thought she might let herself enjoy the warmth blooming behind her ribcage—

A cold wave of sticky citrus hit her square in the chest that stop her fantasize. She gasped, lurching back, blinking in shock. Her lap was soaked. Juice dripped from her coat and soaked into the front of her shirt. She looked up, heart racing — and locked eyes with a woman standing beside the table, still holding the empty cup in her hand.

Tall. Red lips. Designer sunglasses and a fury that cut sharper than glass.

“You,” the woman hissed, eyes flicking between Aria and Lucien. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Lucien stood immediately. “Sophie—what the hell are you doing?”

“Sophie?” Aria bitterly mumbled. She felt like her heart was sinking under invisible weight, each breath shallower than the last, as if something had curled up inside her and refused to leave.