Chapter 16
1923 Words
Familiar Strangers and Forgotten Dreams
LUCIAN POV
He saw her before she saw him.
It was nothing, really—a flicker of movement by the entrance, a shimmer of gold under the strobing lights. But even through the crowd, even before he registered her face, Lucian felt it.
That feeling.
Like a chord had been struck in a song he didn’t know he’d forgotten.
He was mid-laugh, some offhand joke from Kian making the whole booth lean back in amusement, when he caught the flash of her silhouette out of the corner of his eye. A woman walking in, hesitating, scanning the crowd.
Lucian turned his head to look—just as she turned toward him.
Their eyes didn’t meet.
Not quite.
He looked away too fast, instinctively, like he’d been caught doing something indecent. He didn't know why. He just knew he couldn’t keep looking.
But it was too late. The impression had imprinted itself into his chest.
The shape of her. The way she moved. The way his body responded before his brain had time to argue.
He reached for his drink, but his hand missed the glass.
“Dude, you good?” Kian asked, brows raised.
Lucian nodded. “Yeah. Just… thought I saw someone I knew.”
But he didn’t know her.
He was almost certain.
Almost.
And that was the problem.
At the bar, he felt her before she bumped into him.
“Oops,” she said, a little too casually. Her fingers brushed his forearm—light, deliberate. Like someone who knew how skin could speak.
He turned.
Saw her properly.
And the déjà vu hit like a wave.
She had those eyes. Wide, watchful. The kind you could fall into, or maybe get lost in. Her smile was smooth but not rehearsed. Effortless.
Dangerous.
For a second, he thought: I’ve kissed you before.
Then he blinked.
She was still a stranger.
“Sorry,” she said, settling next to him at the bar. “Didn’t mean to crash into you.”
He offered a smile. “No worries.”
Her laugh was low, conspiratorial. “That’s a dangerous kind of charming voice to have in a place like this.”
Lucian arched a brow. “Is it?”
“Absolutely. You could order a water and still sound like a seduction.”
It caught him off guard—her rhythm, her confidence, the way she wielded words like flirtation was second nature.
He chuckled, nodding once. “Then I guess I’ll be careful what I order.”
He turned back to the bar, but something in his chest refused to quiet down. A low, persistent thrum—like the aftershock of a song that had ended but left its melody behind.
She felt like a memory.
Not just a passing resemblance or a flicker of coincidence. No—something older. Quieter. The kind of memory that lived in muscle and bone, not logic. The kind that surfaced when you touched something familiar and your body remembered what your mind had forgotten.
It unsettled him.
Not because it felt wrong—but because it felt right. Too right.
Like recognition blooming in the dark.
Lucian shifted his weight, trying to focus on the music, on the sweat-slick bar top, on the clink of glasses and the low hum of voices. But her laugh echoed in his head. Low, husky, like someone who found joy in irony.
He didn’t even know her name.
And yet—he could’ve sworn he knew how she took her coffee. That she hummed while she painted. That her silence was the kind that invited you to stay.
He forced himself to walk away.
But as he did, he stole one last glance over his shoulder—just a flicker, a theft of a second.
And in that moment, Lucian felt something tighten in his chest. A longing that didn’t belong to this timeline. A softness that had no origin.
It was ridiculous.
He didn’t know her.
He shouldn’t care.
But for the first time in a long time, something inside him stirred—not from lust, not even curiosity, but from the quiet ache of almost.
And it scared him more than he wanted to admit.
And Lucian didn’t sleep well that night.
--
The lecture was a week later.
He didn’t know she would be there. Of course not. Why would he?
But the moment he spotted her in the second row—sketchbook open, hair down, red lips—something clicked in his chest like a lock finding its key.
Again.
“Again,” he thought, stepping up to the podium.
There she was. Front row this time.
He tried to shake it off. To reset his mind like he always did before speaking—anchor himself in rhythm, purpose, lines and layers.
Sustainable materials. Community spaces. Design as emotional language.
But she was right there. Smiling to herself, a slight curve at the edge of her lips like she already knew the ending to a story he hadn’t started telling yet.
And she was sketching.
At first, he assumed it was notes. Some urban sketch of the design plan. But her pencil didn’t move like someone drawing lines and scale. It moved in soft, curved motions. Deliberate. Careful.
She was sketching him.
Or something near him.
Or—God, was she just doodling?
Lucian couldn’t tell, but the not-knowing lingered in the back of his thoughts even as he spoke about ancient arches and inner courtyards.
And damn it, he noticed.
More than he should have.
Her gaze didn’t just look. It lingered. Not like someone curious. Not like someone learning.
Like someone remembering.
There was a familiarity in her stillness. In the way she tilted her head, as if she'd heard his voice before and was listening for something beneath the words.
After the talk, when he spotted her standing near the cheese table—alone, eyes skimming the room like she belonged to it—he moved before thinking.
She didn’t pretend.
She didn’t startle or overplay her surprise.
Just smiled, steady and amused, as if they were characters in a joke only she understood.
And the sketchbook?
Still closed under her arm.
He almost asked what she'd drawn.
But didn’t.
Because deep down, he already knew the answer might undo him.
She reached out first this time.
“Rhea,” she said, as if daring him to forget her again.
“Lucian,” he replied, his hand closing around hers.
Warm. Familiar. Wrongly familiar.
He didn’t let go too quickly.
Her energy was electric. Flirty, but not desperate. Like she already knew the ending and was just indulging him in the prologue.
“You’re strange,” he told her.
She beamed. “Thank you. It’s my defining trait.”
He almost stayed longer. Almost asked if she wanted to get coffee then and there.
But Cam appeared with reminders, and Lucian had to leave.
Still, as he walked away, he muttered to himself, “It’s weird.”
“Being around you feels like déjà vu that hasn’t happened yet.”
That night, he sat in his apartment with a glass of wine, scrolling mindlessly through emails until one subject line stopped him cold:
Proposal: Design Collaboration – GreenSpace Urban Retreat
From: Rhea Devlin
Company: RHE.Art Studio
He stared.
Then opened it.
The concept was brilliant—raw, emotional, visually ambitious. He read every word. Twice.
Then he read her name again.
“Rhea.”
Said it aloud. Just to feel the weight of it.
It felt familiar in his mouth.
Too familiar.
He hadn’t expected her to come in person.
When his assistant said, “Ms. Rhea’s here,” Lucian looked up like the name had been carved into the air.
She stood in the lobby like she belonged there. Crisp white shirt, sleek trousers, and a smile like she’d painted it on herself with care.
He led her to the meeting room, trying not to stare. Trying not to feel that thing again. That buzzing under his skin.
She made jokes. Bantered. Pitched her idea with the ease of someone who knew how to own a room without raising her voice.
And he listened.
More than that.
He felt.
And when their fingers brushed—he froze.
Because his body reacted like it remembered.
And it terrified him.
After she left, Lucian stayed in the meeting room.
Sat down in the chair she’d occupied.
Her scent still lingered—jasmine and something citrusy. Light. Inviting.
He ran a hand down his face.
What was happening?
He’d seen her twice. Three times, technically.
But he felt like he’d spent whole seasons with her.
He picked up her proposal again. Flipped to the final page where her signature sat like a promise.
“Do I really not know you?” he whispered.
The room didn’t answer.
But his chest did.
With a slow, aching yes.
Somewhere beneath the surface, he did know her.
Or he would.
Soon.
--
He was in an apartment he didn’t recognize—warm light filtering through linen curtains, the soft patter of rain against the glass. Barefoot, he stood near the kitchen counter, fingers curled around a cup of tea. Chamomile, maybe. The kind that tasted like quiet.
Behind him, a laugh echoed—light, unguarded, spilling through the space like music that had always belonged there.
He turned.
Rhea.
But not the version he met at the nightclub. Not the one from the lecture.
This one looked… lived-in. Familiar in a way that made his heart ache. She wore a hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves half-swallowed over her hands. Her hair was a mess. No makeup. No armor.
Just her.
She looked at him like he was something she chose—again and again. Not with awe. With certainty.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she.
He walked toward her slowly, like the gravity between them had rules of its own.
She didn’t move away.
When he reached her, he lifted his hand to her face, fingers brushing her cheekbone, then curling behind her neck. Her skin was warm. Her eyes didn’t waver.
She leaned into him.
Their breaths met first—his, slightly uneven. Hers, steady, already knowing.
Then he kissed her.
God, he kissed her.
Not with caution. Not with hesitation.
But like his mouth already knew the shape of hers. Like it had missed the taste of her.
The kiss started soft. Searching. But the second her hand slid up his chest—fingertips grazing the curve of his jaw—something inside him broke open.
He deepened it.
One hand tangled in her hair. The other at her waist, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him like he was afraid the moment might end too soon.
She gasped softly into his mouth. He swallowed it.
The kind of kiss that blurred time. That made his knees feel loose and the world fade at the edges.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by inches.
Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes—God, her eyes.
He knew them.
He didn’t know how.
But he knew them.
Lucian woke with a jolt, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. The sheets clung to his skin, damp with sweat.
His palm pressed flat over his heart.
Still racing.
Still aching.
“Who are you?” he whispered into the dark.
No answer.
Just the rain outside. And the echo of a kiss that shouldn’t have felt so real.
- Writer
