ILLICIT ROMANCE

The rain came softly that evening — just a whisper at first, like a lullaby on the rooftop.

Zelda sat cross-legged on the floor of her new apartment, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and an open design book in her lap. The place still smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard — half-unpacked boxes leaning against the walls, rolled-up blueprints piled beside the desk she'd yet to assemble. Her sketchbooks were scattered like leaves, and the bookshelf stood half-built in the corner, leaning slightly like it had already given up.

But it was hers. Quiet. Untouched.

Outside, the city blurred behind rain-speckled glass. In here, the world had paused. Her kettle whistled.

She got up, poured steaming water into a honey-ginger tea blend, and stood at the counter, hands around the mug, listening. No Marcella humming down the hall. No Berrett teasing from the kitchen. No Lucien passing silently by, trailing ghosts behind him.

Just the hiss of rain and her own heartbeat. And for now — that was enough.

A knock interrupted her silence.

Zelda blinked.

She wasn't expecting anyone.

Crossing the small living room, she opened the door cautiously — and there stood Ariyah, soaked to the bone, a canvas tote swinging from one arm, a grocery bag clutched in the other, and a triumphant look on her face.

"Before you ask," Ariyah announced dramatically, "no, I didn't die. Yes, I took the bus. Yes, I bought too many vegetables. No, I don't know how to make soup. But I Googled."

Zelda stared for a beat. Then stepped aside, lips twitching. "Come in before you melt."

---

They made soup.

Kind of.

Ariyah dropped a potato three times. Zelda nearly burned the garlic. Neither of them had a decent peeler, so they ended up using a modeling blade from Zelda's toolkit. It was barely functional — but it worked.

"I'm an architect," Ariyah declared as she hacked at a bell pepper, "not a chef. I design spoons. I don't use them."

Zelda laughed, a real, low sound that surprised even her.

"God help your future spouse," she said.

"Oh, they'll be tall, hot, emotionally available, and good with spice levels. I'll build them a sexy kitchen with granite counters and recessed lighting."

The apartment filled with the scent of ginger, thyme, and too much black pepper. They danced around each other in the tiny space, elbows knocking, soup bubbling on the stove like it was laughing with them.

Zelda found herself smiling more than she had in days.

---

They ate on the floor, bowls balanced on their knees, the soup just slightly too thick but somehow perfect.

"This tastes like… effort," Ariyah said thoughtfully.

Zelda raised an eyebrow. "That's your review?"

"I mean it in a good way. Like, it tastes like two women who have no business near a stove but still made magic."

"I'll take it."

Ariyah slurped loudly, unbothered by anything. "So," she said with a full mouth, "what's the deal with your energy lately? You're like… haunted. Not in a tragic way. In a sexy war-torn princess way."

Zelda nearly choked on her soup.

"I'm not haunted."

"Mhm." Ariyah pointed her spoon at her. "You flinch every time someone mentions 'family.' And you sketch like you're trying to exorcise a demon."

Zelda went quiet.

Ariyah didn't push.

After a beat, Zelda spoke. "It's been a complicated summer."

"You don't have to tell me," Ariyah said, softer now. "I'm not here for the trauma dump. I'm just saying — I see you. And I've got soup."

Zelda swallowed, not from the food. But from the feeling.

She didn't owe Ariyah anything. Yet somehow, that made her want to give something back.

"My… family's complicated," she said slowly. "We're close, but not simple. Lines get blurred. Some people don't know when to stay in theirs."

Ariyah nodded. "Mine's the opposite. Distant. Nobody calls unless someone dies or gets arrested. And even then, it's usually just a text."

Zelda blinked. Then laughed.

They talked for hours after that. About school. About what they'd design if money didn't matter. About what scared them. Zelda admitted she was terrified of public speaking. Ariyah confessed she once fainted during a critique because she hadn't eaten in 24 hours trying to finish a model.

Zelda gasped. "You really live on vibes."

"And pity granola bars from strangers, yes."

---

By midnight, they were wrapped in throw blankets on the couch, a candle flickering on the windowsill, a reality show playing on mute.

They invented backstories for every contestant.

"That one's definitely hiding a secret second family."

"Oh, she's plotting revenge for being eliminated last season."

"He has a trust fund but pretends he sells vegan candles."

Zelda laughed so hard at one of Ariyah's theories that she almost spilled her tea.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that without worrying who might hear.

When Ariyah finally stood to leave, she handed Zelda a soup-stained wooden spoon like it was an heirloom. "Keep this. Token of friendship. And culinary bravery."

Zelda smiled. "Thank you. For all of it."

Ariyah winked. "Same time next week? I'll bring dessert."

---

After she left, the silence didn't feel heavy. It felt earned.

Zelda cleaned the dishes in peace, stacked her books, lit another candle. Then sat on the floor by the window, sketchbook in her lap. She didn't draw buildings this time. She doodled a spoon.

Then a sun.

Then a girl with wild curly hair laughing so hard her eyes disappeared.

And slowly, her breath steadied.

---

For the first time in weeks, she wasn't thinking about Lucien's gaze.

Or Marcella's poison words.

She was thinking about soup. And laughter. And safety. And beginnings.

Maybe healing wasn't loud.

Maybe it was midnight soup and mismatched spoons and someone saying:

"I see you. And I brought vegetables."