Ava didn't go home after the café.
She wandered. Her heels clicked against the pavement like a metronome—steady, purposeful, but not headed anywhere in particular. The streets of London whispered stories to her. She passed the corner store where he used to wait for her after classes, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, pretending not to care but eyes lighting up the second she appeared. She passed the flower shop where he once bought her a lavender bouquet that lasted two days but sat in her memory for years.
She hated that she remembered.
The breeze tugged at her coat, and with it came a scent—warm, woody, familiar. His cologne? No. It was just the city. Just her mind playing tricks.
She walked faster.
—
She was home by evening. Adrien was out. The flat felt too quiet, too big. She kicked off her shoes and walked straight to her room, yanked open the bottom drawer of her dresser, and there it was.
The perfume. Lavender & Smoke.
The bottle was half-empty, dusty around the nozzle. She hadn't worn it in years. Not since…
She uncapped it.
The scent hit her like a scream.
Suddenly, she was nineteen again, standing in their tiny shared apartment, wearing his oversized hoodie and spraying the perfume on her wrists before he came home. Back when he used to smile at her like she was the whole world. Before the anger. Before the bruises.
Before she stopped recognizing him.
She almost dropped the bottle. Her hands trembled.
But she didn't wash it off.
She sat on the edge of her bed and let the scent cling to her like ghosts. Lavender ghosts. They didn't hurt her now. Not anymore. They didn't own her.
Not anymore.
—
Her phone buzzed. A message from Adrien.
> "Home in ten. Want me to bring anything?"
She smiled. A real, small, aching thing.
> "Just you."
—
She found herself opening a drawer she never touched.
Old photos. One of them, laughing, sprawled on the grass. Her head on his lap, his hand in her hair. They looked happy.
And maybe they were.
But now she could see the cracks even in the smiles.
She didn't cry.
She didn't tear it up.
She placed it back inside and closed the drawer.
> "You don't get to be my peace again." Her voice was steady. Sharp. Final.
"But I'm not afraid of your memory anymore."
The scent still lingered. But it didn't control her.
Not anymore.