Chapter 2: She Tasted Like Trouble And Felt Too Familiar II
Aria stiffened at first, caught off guard, but then melted into there embrace, returning her hug with a slow, measured pressure, letting herself be held, letting herself feel.
When they finally pulled apart, Jules lingered, stepping closer, her eyes searching Aria's. "Can I…?" she whispered, though her lips already leaned in before the words could finish.
Another kiss. Gentle, deliberate. Nothing rushed, nothing clumsy. Just two people trying to memorize the other, trying to hold on.
Aria's breath hitched sharply, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she parted her lips just enough to let Jules in, to meet her halfway. Every second stretched, charged, delicate.
A soft moan escaped Aria's throat, almost unconscious, like her body agreed before her mind could object. Jules' hands lingered on her waist, steadying, grounding, matching there slow rhythm of the moment.
They stayed like that, suspended, like the room itself had paused to watch them. Every heartbeat, every exhale, a quiet testimony of connection, raw and unspoken.
Finally, Jules drew back slightly, brushing her nose against Aria's, whispering with a tenderness that made Aria's chest beats faster: "Night, Aria."
And then she stepped out.
The door clicked softly behind her, leaving Aria standing there, fingers still gripping the doorknob. Her heart pounded, echoing in her chest louder than it had any right to, every beat a reminder that Jules had just been there — and that somehow, in that fleeting moment, she had never really left.
The next morning, Aria was multitasking like she always did — scrolling through her phone with one hand, sipping coffee with the other, a buttery croissant half - eaten on the table in front of her. The sunlight was weak, filtering through the blinds, painting the kitchen in pale gold.
Her phone buzzed. Jules.
Library still standing. Barely. You coming by today?
Aria didn't even glance down at the screen. She took a deliberate bite of croissant, swallowed, and typed back without looking.
Maybe tomorrow. Dust dragons await.
A moment later, a thumbs - up emoji appeared, followed by a gif of a yawning cat. Aria felt a small smile tug at her lips. Tiny gestures. That was Jules' way — always enough to nudge her heart without breaking it wide open.
By 7:10, she was dressed. Black hoodie, soft and worn, paired with frayed jeans. Her favorite scarf was wrapped twice around her neck, the weight of the fabric comforting even though the morning air wasn't truly cold. Layering, she thought, was like armor — a quiet way of reminding herself she existed, that she was real.
The walk to the bookstore took exactly thirteen minutes. As usual, she counted the cracks in the sidewalk. Forty - seven. Same as yesterday. Some routines, she realized, were as comforting as breathing.
She passed the flower shop on the corner. The bell jingled as the door opened, and Mrs. Leva's hand waved through the fogged glass.
"Morning, sweetheart," the old woman called, pushing the door open with her elbow. "Need something bright today?"
"Maybe tomorrow," Aria said, tugging her scarf a little higher.
"You say that every day," Mrs. Leva teased, shaking her head.
Aria smirked. "And one day I'll mean it."
Mrs. Leva laughed, her breath a small cloud in the crisp air. "Be careful out there. Weird energy today."
Aria tilted her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Isn't it always?"
When she reached the bookstore, the front lights were still off. Inside, Niko crouched behind the counter, muttering under his breath.
"Forgot the freaking breaker again," he cursed, eyes narrowed in frustration as she pushed the door open.
"You okay?" Aria asked, stepping inside.
"I'm fighting a war with old wiring. And Losing," he replied, rubbing a hand over his face.
She flicked the switch, and the overhead lights sputtered on, casting long shadows across the stacks. "Need backup?" she offered.
Niko's eyes flicked up, measuring her. "You bring coffee?"
"Nope," she said, leaning against the counter.
"Then no," he said, returning to the tangled mass of cords.
Aria grinned faintly, letting the quiet of the shop settle around her. Even in small, ordinary mornings like this, there was a pulse to life that only she seemed to notice — the way Jules' texts lingered in her chest, the way Mrs. Leva's laughter warmed the foggy air, and the stubborn hum of an old bookstore waiting to wake.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that. The store was narrow, shelves leaning a little too far with secondhand fiction, occult guides, poetry chapbooks, and oddly specific memoirs no one asked for — but somehow, they sold.
Aria loved it: the smell of aging paper mixed with dust, the hush that seemed to settle like a blanket, and the way time warped in corners where lives were stacked so densely on shelves you could almost hear their echoes.
Behind the counter, a box waited, taped shut. Niko tapped it with his knuckles. "Estate sale pickup," he said, glancing at her. "Might be haunted."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "Everything in here might be haunted."
"True," he admitted, "but this one… feels different. Weird energy."
She knelt, slicing the tape carefully and flipping open the flaps. Inside were hardcovers and leather - bound journals, their edges yellowed, some with faintly curling pages.
One smelled sharply of cloves and mildew, another had pages stuck together with something she didn't want to identify. She set them aside, handling each item with a reverent care, cataloging silently, letting the faint mustiness of old paper fill her senses.
From the corner of her eye, Piper — Dominic's cat, queen of the bookstore, terror of wandering customers — slithered across the counter with deliberate grace and plopped herself right on top of the stack.
Aria only brought her in sometimes, never every day, but whenever Piper was around she acted like the place was hers by right, a soft - pawed monarch surveying her kingdom of shelves and dust.
"You're in the way," Aria said, lifting one eyebrow, but her tone was part amused, part exasperated.
Piper blinked lazily, stretched like she had all the time in the world, and then knocked a paperback off the counter with a calculated flick of her paw.
Aria pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're fired," she said, voice flat but tinged with affection.
Piper yawned in reply, curling into a perfect circle atop the books as if she'd just completed a highly productive shift.
The bell above the door jingled sharply just before noon. A woman stepped inside, tall and precise, her coat the deep green of frozen leaves pressed tight against her frame.
"Do you have anything that feels like winter?" she asked, her voice crisp, deliberate.
"Genre?" Aria prompted, tilting her head slightly.
"Poetry. Something cold," the woman said, scanning the shelves with sharp eyes.
Aria nodded and moved gracefully toward a narrow shelf, her fingers brushing along the spines until they rested on one. She pulled it free: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it to the woman wordlessly.
The woman flipped it open, letting a soft hum escape. "Mm. You're the quiet kind."
Aria shrugged, keeping her gaze on the counter. "Guess so."
"That's good," the woman said, closing the book with care. "The loud ones never know where the magic is."
She walked out, and the bell's chime lingered like an echo in the narrow store. The stillness thickened around Aria. She wiped the counter, watered the snake plant, and rearranged the occult section by color just because the pattern felt right.
Around two, a child wandered in alone. No jacket. Bare feet dusted with dirt. She looked no older than eight.
"Hey," Aria said gently, kneeling to the child's level. "Are you okay?"
The girl's eyes were enormous, glassy, reflecting the light of the front window. "They're waking up," she said, voice low.
"Who is?" Aria asked, frowning.
The girl pointed toward the street outside. "Underneath."
Aria blinked. When she looked again, the child was gone. She rushed to the door, peering out. The street was empty. No footprints, no voices, just the wind threading through traffic like it carried secrets she wasn't meant to hear.
She paused, studying the glass. The air outside shimmered faintly, subtle and wrong — not heat, not light, just a ripple, like bad reception on a screen. She rubbed her eyes. It didn't vanish.
The shadows beneath the bookstore sign stretched unnaturally long. A nearby streetlight buzzed, blinked out, then flickered on again, splitting into two ghostly lights for a heartbeat before returning to normal.
A man crossed directly under it, humming to himself, oblivious.
Inside, her reflection in the window stuttered. Just for a moment — her image lagged behind her movements, like a delayed feed.
********************
Some goodbyes don't leave when the door shuts —
they stay in the quiet,
in the way air remembers warmth,
in the pulse that keeps answering an absence.
The day moves on, counting cracks and cataloging ghosts,
while something underneath begins to stir.
Even reflections hesitate now,
as if the world is waking before it should.