4: Strangers in the Same House

The key clicked in the lock with a soft clink, and Aria Vale pushed the door open with her shoulder, a heavy yawn escaping her lips. Her heels echoed against the wooden floor as she stepped inside, setting her bag down with a tired sigh. The house was dark — not just dim, but untouched.

She paused.

Not a single light on. No jacket hung over the back of the chair, no second pair of shoes near the door, no faint smell of cologne or cooking. Everything sat exactly as she had left it that morning — as if time had frozen, or as if no one had come home at all.

Aria flipped the switch by the entryway. Warm light bathed the space, but it only made the silence louder.

Her brows furrowed.

"Not even a note..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the hallway bulb.

She walked further in, scanning the apartment with practiced eyes. Nothing. No sign of her husband. No trace that he ever considered this place — their place — his home.

A dry laugh escaped her lips.

Of course.

She leaned against the wall, letting her head thud gently back against it, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.

He must hate me for marrying him.

The thought didn’t sting like it used to. Not anymore.

"It’s just paper," she muttered to herself, brushing her fingers against the ring on her hand. Cold. Distant. Meaningless.

Her parents were happy — proud, even. That was what mattered. That was the point.

She slipped off her shoes and padded quietly to the bedroom. The silence followed her like a shadow.

And Aria? Aria didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She simply pulled the blanket over her shoulders, turned away from the empty side of the bed… and closed her eyes.

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:17 AM.

Lucien unlocked the door with a quiet click, carefully stepping into the apartment. He closed it behind him, slower than usual — as if afraid the walls might judge him for returning this late.

The place was still. Dark.

Only the soft amber glow of a streetlamp filtered through the curtains.

He sighed as he slipped off his coat, eyes instinctively scanning the small living space. Still no new groceries. Still the same untouched kitchen. He already knew what that meant.

His footsteps grew heavier as he walked down the hall. He paused at the bedroom door, pushing it open just a crack.

There she was.

Aria lay curled on her side, the blanket half-slipping off her shoulder. Her brows slightly furrowed even in sleep, like rest had to fight its way through exhaustion. A familiar ache tugged in his chest.

He knew she didn’t eat. She never said anything, but the empty fridge said enough.

She didn’t know how to cook. And she would never order food at night — too proud for that.

Lucien closed the door with quiet resolve and headed for the kitchen while holding the groceries he bought.

Pots clinked. The faint sizzle of onions in the pan cut through the silence. He moved with the kind of grace that only comes from habit — chopping, stirring, boiling — like muscle memory from another life, a life before cold walls and stranger-wives.

Aria's eyes snapped open at the sound of movement coming from the kitchen. Her heart jumped as she sat up, quickly scanning the room for anything she could use to defend herself. Her fingers closed around a small can of pepper spray on the nightstand.

Moving cautiously, she crept down the stairs, each step careful and silent. The faint glow of light spilled from the kitchen doorway.

She peeked around the corner—

And froze.

A man stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing toned arms and veined hands that moved with practiced ease. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times, and a faint shadow of stubble traced the sharp line of his jaw.

There was a quiet intensity to him — the kind that didn’t demand attention but held it all the same. His eyes, deep and unreadable, flicked down to the pan as he stirred gently, the steam rising to catch the light like a halo.

The curve of his lips was soft, thoughtful — the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner, like he was lost in the rhythm of the moment.

Even in something as ordinary as cooking, Lucien looked like he belonged in a story — like a man carved out of late-night longing and slow-burning mystery.

 “Who are you?” she asked.

Lucien froze mid-stir. He turned around, spoon still in hand.

Aria stood in the doorway, her hair a messy halo around her face, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder. In her hands — a pepper spary, held awkwardly but firmly.

Her eyes narrowed as they scanned him. Sleep still fogged her gaze, but confusion cut through like a blade.

“What do you think you’re doing in my house?” she demanded again, voice low but fierce.

Lucien blinked and smile at her reaction.

She pointed the pepper spray on his face.

“...Seriously?” he asked, softly.

Her eyes flicked over his face — the cheekbones, the tousled hair, the familiar-but-not face.

She narrowed her eyes, squinting at him through the kitchen light, the pepper spray still poised in her hand.

“Wait... are you Lucien?” she asked cautiously, disbelief coloring her voice.

He gave a slow nod, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Nice to know I’m that easy to forget,” he murmured, turning back to the stove without missing a beat.

Aria rolled her eyes as she remembers that dog in their wedding. Her fingers relaxed around the spray as she quietly slipped it into her pocket.

“You... cook?” she asked, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

Lucien glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression unreadable but calm.

“You don’t,” he said simply. “You didn’t eat. I figured someone should take care of that.”

She said nothing — just stood there, staring, as the scent of warm food and something far more complicated filled the room.

Lucien plated the dish — simple rice and stir-fried vegetables, nothing fancy, but warm and fragrant.

He walked past her and set the plate gently on the table. For her.

Their eyes met again — and for the first time in what felt like forever, something passed between them that wasn’t silence, resentment, or duty.

Maybe it was just surprise. Or maybe… the smallest flicker of something else.

“Sit,” he said softly, already heading back to the kitchen to cook another plate.

And this time, she didn’t argue.