Fifty Two

Aria

I was already tired—the kind of soul-deep exhaustion that sank into your bones and made every step feel like I was wading through waist-deep water.

I’d just come from yet another failed interview at a dry cleaner's and was mentally calculating whether a single pack of instant noodles could realistically stretch for another four meals.

I scanned my ID card, the electronic beep echoing in the hall, pushed the heavy glass door open—and froze.

Marcel was sitting near the windows, bathed in the golden, late-afternoon light.

That alone would have been enough to knock the air from my lungs. But he wasn’t alone.

A girl was perched on the edge of the seat beside him, close enough that their thighs touched in a seamless line, her shoulder leaning into his chest with a practiced ease, like it belonged there.

She was laughing at something he’d murmured, her fingers absently brushing the fabric of his sleeve in a gesture that was comfortable, familiar, and deeply possessive.

Something sharp