The night hummed softly through the open window, carrying the scent of fresh earth and grass. The festival's lights were far behind them now, no longer more than faint golden flecks in the distance. She leaned her head against the cool glass, listening to the quiet rhythm of the tires against the road.
But the feeling wouldn't leave her. The weight of those eyes, the way strangers had looked at her — it wasn't just curiosity. It was too focused. Too familiar.
Theo's voice broke the silence. "You've been quiet."
She hesitated, her fingers curling in her lap. "I… can't shake the feeling," she admitted. "It wasn't just me being paranoid. It felt like they… knew me. Not in the normal way. Like they'd already seen me somewhere. Like they could see right through me."
Theo glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road. His jaw was tense, but not in anger — in worry. "This isn't the first time, is it? You've felt something like this before."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "Yes," she whispered. "When I was little. And… in that other life." The last words slipped out before she could stop them.
For a heartbeat, she expected him to laugh, to call it strange, to push it aside. But he didn't. He only reached out, resting his hand gently over hers. "Tell me," he said quietly.
So she did. Slowly. Hesitantly. She spoke of strange moments — faces she'd sworn she'd seen before, places that felt too familiar, dreams that bled into waking life. She told him how it felt tonight: that sharp pulse of recognition, like someone had whispered her name without making a sound.
When she finished, Theo didn't speak for a while. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in slow, thoughtful circles.
"I've felt it too," he finally said.
Her head snapped toward him. "What?"
He nodded, eyes still on the road. "Not like you. But there've been people I met for the first time, and it felt like I already knew how their smile looked before they smiled. Or I'd walk into a place I've never been, and my body would just… know the corners. Like it wasn't new at all."
Her breath caught. "You believe me."
Theo gave a small, steady smile. "Of course I do. I've always believed that there are things we can't explain with logic alone. Maybe it's past lives. Maybe it's something else. But what I do know is that what you felt tonight wasn't nothing."
Something warm flickered in her chest, cutting through the cold knot that had formed earlier. He didn't dismiss her. He didn't make her feel foolish.
She turned her hand and laced her fingers through his. "Thank you," she whispered.
The night deepened around them, a cocoon of quiet road and distant stars. For the first time since the festival, the tension in her spine began to ease. But even as warmth spread through her, the memory of those eyes — watching, recognizing — lingered like a faint echo.
And deep down, a quiet voice whispered: This is not the last time.
Warm light spilled gently across the room, catching the soft edges of the curtains and bathing everything in a honey-gold glow. She stirred beneath the covers, her cheek pressed against the pillow that still carried the faint scent of Theo. For a moment, she simply lay there, listening. The distant hum of the kettle. The low, familiar sound of the kitten padding through the hallway, tail high, claws tapping softly on the floorboards.
The world outside felt quiet — too quiet — but inside, it was warm. Safe.
The door creaked open slightly, and the kitten leapt onto the bed in one smooth motion. A small, warm weight pressed against her side, followed by a loud, proud purr. She laughed softly and scratched behind his tiny ears. "Good morning, troublemaker."
Moments later, Theo appeared in the doorway, hair slightly messy from sleep, wearing the dark T-shirt he loved on lazy mornings. He held a mug in each hand — one for her, one for himself.
"Morning," he said softly, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," she murmured back, pushing herself up on her elbows.
He crossed the room, setting the warm mug in her hands. It smelled like cinnamon and coffee — the blend she had mentioned once, months ago, and he had quietly memorized.
"You were restless last night," Theo said as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn't push; he just let the words sit between them, gentle as the sunlight.
She exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I kept thinking about those people at the festival. How they stared at me. It was like… they knew something I didn't."
Theo reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. "Then we'll figure it out together. But not right now." His voice softened. "Right now, it's just morning. Just us. And the little monster who already stole my seat."
The kitten, as if understanding perfectly, stretched luxuriously across the warm spot beside her and yawned.
She couldn't help but smile. It was such a simple, ordinary moment — the warmth of the mug against her palms, the way the light made Theo's eyes look softer, the playful kitten demanding to be the center of attention. And yet it felt so real. So safe. So far from the chaos of the past.
She leaned her head against Theo's shoulder, and he wrapped his arm gently around her, careful and warm.
For a few long minutes, there was no talk of the past or strange looks from villagers. Just quiet breathing. A steady heartbeat. A kitten trying to chew on the blanket corner.
"Maybe," she whispered finally, "this is what a second chance really looks like."
Theo kissed the top of her head. "Then let's make it count."
The sun kept climbing, painting the world gold. And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that life could hold more softness than pain.
The kitchen smelled faintly of roasted coffee and sunlight. She stood barefoot on the cool tiles, the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder as she tied her hair into a messy bun. The kitten was already stationed in the corner, tail twitching with curious excitement, as if it knew something delicious was about to happen.
Theo leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching her with that quiet little smile he often wore when he thought she wasn't looking. But she noticed. She always did.
"So," she said, opening the cupboard and pulling out the flour, "you said once you love cinnamon rolls."
"I did," he said, stepping closer. "But I didn't think you'd actually try to make them from scratch."
She raised a brow. "You underestimate me."
He laughed, the sound warm and low. "No. I just know how messy your 'experiments' can get."
She flicked a little flour at him in mock offense, and he pretended to dodge dramatically. Their laughter filled the kitchen like music.
They began slowly, moving around each other with ease. She measured out the flour, Theo warmed the milk. He mixed the yeast and sugar carefully, while she cracked eggs into the bowl with practiced fingers. Cinnamon rolls weren't complicated, but they required a kind of patience she had rarely allowed herself in her old life. Here, though… there was no rush. No yelling. No fear. Just time.
The dough came together under their hands, soft and warm. Theo stood behind her at one point, guiding her hands as they kneaded. She felt the steady strength of him against her back, and the sound of their quiet breaths syncing together.
"See?" he murmured softly. "Not that hard."
"It is," she teased. "You just make it look easy."
"You're doing great," he whispered.
Something about the way he said it — softly, like a secret meant only for her — made her heart flutter.
After the dough rested, they rolled it out together. She sprinkled cinnamon and sugar, and he drizzled melted butter with an almost comical level of concentration. Then they rolled the dough into a log, laughing when the ends weren't perfect.
The kitten tried to climb onto the counter, determined to be part of the action. Theo gently scooped it up and tucked it under one arm like a loaf of bread while helping her cut the rolls with the other. She laughed so hard she nearly dropped the knife.
Soon the oven filled the room with the smell of warm sugar, butter, and spice. She leaned against the counter, hugging herself while Theo poured more coffee. The sunlight through the kitchen window caught the cinnamon dust on the table, and for a moment it looked like the world itself was sprinkled with gold.
"This," Theo said, setting the mugs down, "is the kind of chaos I could live with."
She smiled, eyes soft. "Me too."
When the rolls came out, golden and perfect, he leaned down and blew on one to cool it, then held it out to her. She took a bite — soft, sweet, melting with warmth — and closed her eyes. For a heartbeat, she forgot every dark thing that had ever happened.
"Good?" he asked, voice low.
She nodded, cinnamon on her lip. "Perfect."
He leaned forward, brushing the sugar away with his thumb, a gesture so gentle it made her chest ache in the sweetest way.
The kitten meowed impatiently, demanding crumbs. They both burst into laughter again, and the kitchen felt alive with warmth — not just from the oven, but from the quiet joy between them.
And in that soft, golden moment, she realized something she hadn't let herself feel in a long time: this was her life now. One she was building slowly, tenderly, piece by piece.
Not someone else's cage. Not fear. Not control.
Just warmth. Cinnamon. And love she could choose.