After haggling with a cheerful vendor and securing two hefty boxes of beer and a generous slab of pork belly, the trio made their way back to the van parked under a swaying coconut tree.
Ben groaned as he lifted the first box of beer into the trunk. "Why are these so heavy? Is this beer or liquid regret?"
Jane was already tossing the pork into the cooler with flair. "It's called hydration, Ben. It builds character."
Ben struggled with the second box, his face contorted like he was lifting ancient treasure. "I think my spine just filed for early retirement."
Asha stood nearby, quietly handing him the last six-pack. She didn't say much, but her calm presence made the chaos feel oddly balanced.
Ben took it with a sigh. "Thanks, Asha. At least someone here respects my fragile constitution."
Jane snorted. "Your constitution is made of mashed potatoes."
Ben straightened up, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. "I'm a delicate man, Jane. I was not built for manual labor. I was built for snacks and soft lighting."
Jane clapped her hands. "Perfect! Then let's go explore the stalls before the party. Snacks await!"
Ben groaned again. "I just did a workout. Now you want me to walk?"
Jane grabbed his wrist. "Yes. And chew. And smile. Come on, you big baby."
Asha followed quietly, her steps light, her gaze drifting toward the lantern-lit market ahead. The scent from earlier had faded, but something in her chest still hummed with quiet unease.
For now, she walked beside her chaotic companions—Jane leading the charge, Ben complaining with every step, and Asha, as always, quietly going along.
The night market glowed like a festival of lanterns, each stall lit with warm bulbs and flickering candles. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, sweet glazes, and the occasional daring whiff of fermented shrimp paste. Locals and tourists mingled in the narrow paths, laughter rising like steam from the food carts.
Jane was in her element.
"Okay, first rule of night market survival," she declared, dragging Asha and Ben behind her like mismatched luggage. "You must try everything. No excuses. No regrets."
Ben stumbled over a decorative coconut husk. "I already regret being born into this moment."
Jane ignored him, pointing at a stall with sizzling skewers. "Look! Pork barbecue with pineapple glaze. That's edible poetry."
Asha accepted a stick quietly, nodding her thanks to the vendor. Ben sniffed his suspiciously.
"Is this pork or a prank?"
"It's pork," Jane said. "And if it's a prank, it's delicious."
They moved from stall to stall—Jane leading the charge, sampling everything from sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves to deep-fried quail eggs with spicy vinegar. She narrated each bite like a food critic possessed by a game show host.
Ben trailed behind, chewing dramatically. "This one tastes like betrayal dipped in honey."
"Good!" Jane chirped. "That's the flavor profile!"
Asha stayed quiet—tasting, watching. Her senses were half on the food, half on the crowd. The scent from earlier hadn't returned, but something in her chest still hummed, like a string pulled taut, waiting.
At one stall, Jane gasped. "Ben! Asha! Look! Fried ice cream!"
Ben blinked. "That's illegal."
"It's innovation," Jane corrected, already ordering three.
They sat on a low bench under a string of paper lanterns, the night warm and buzzing with music from a nearby speaker. Jane was mid-rant about the superiority of coconut jelly when Ben interrupted.
"I think I ate something spicy, and now I can see colors emotionally."
Asha handed him a bottle of water without a word.
Jane leaned back, satisfied. "This is the life. Food, friends, and mild gastrointestinal risk."
Asha smiled faintly, her gaze drifting once more toward the crowd.
The scent hadn't returned. But the night was still young.
By the time the last skewer was tasted and the final sticky rice ball devoured, the trio had declared their food hunt complete—well, Jane declared it. Ben was already halfway into a food coma, and Asha, as always, simply followed.
They made their way back to the villa under a sky streaked with orange and violet. The van's headlights blinked on as they approached, casting long shadows across the gravel.
Ben trudged behind them, arms swinging like overcooked noodles. "I think I'm dying. I've eaten too much joy. My stomach is filing a complaint."
Jane rolled her eyes. "You said that after the third rice cake. You're still standing."
"Barely," Ben groaned. "If I collapse, tell Marina I died doing what I feared most—walking."
Jane was about to suggest another detour—something about grilled corn and a mysterious dessert called 'ice scramble'—when Asha, quiet until now, spoke up.
"We should go back. Marina might be waiting."
That stopped Jane in her tracks. "Ugh, fine. But only because you invoked the Boss Card."
They reached the villa just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was cooler now, the breeze brushing against their skin with the scent of salt and charcoal. As they approached the parking area, a sleek black car pulled up beside their van.
A man stepped out.
He was tall, dressed in a dark suit that didn't quite match the beach setting. His movements were smooth, deliberate. He adjusted his cufflinks with the kind of precision that made Ben whisper, "Okay, who invited the secret agent?"
Jane squinted. "Maybe he's here for the wine. Or the drama."
But Asha had stopped walking.
She wasn't wearing her mask—hadn't been since the food stalls. The night air was rich with smells: grilled pork, sea breeze, Jane's coconut lotion, Ben's lingering whiff of vinegar chips.
But the man in the suit?
Nothing.
Not a trace. Not even the faintest scent of skin, sweat, cologne, or breath. Just… absence. A blank space where a person should be.
Asha's brow furrowed slightly. Her sense of smell was never wrong. It was her gift, her curse, her compass.
And this man smelled like nothing at all.
Which, for someone like her, was the strangest scent of all.
As the trio walked toward the villa, arms full of pork and beer, the suited man from earlier happened to be walking the same path—his stride calm, his gaze unreadable.
Jane squinted, then gasped. "Wait—that's Theo!"
Ben blinked. "Theo who?"
"Marina's older brother!" Jane said, pointing with a dramatic flourish. "I knew I recognized that 'I-own-a-vineyard' energy."
Theo gave a polite nod as he passed, heading toward the villa's garden without a word.
Asha watched him closely.
The garden outside the villa was buzzing. Fairy lights tangled in the palm trees, the grill hissed with pork belly, and someone had rigged a speaker to blast upbeat pop songs that kept skipping every third beat. The employees had split into teams—some mixing cocktails with flair, others prepping food, and a few brave souls rehearsing a ukulele number that was either charming or chaotic, depending on your distance.
Jane stood on a stool near the buffet table, wielding her spoon-microphone like a queen of chaos.
"Alright, folks! First game of the night: blindfolded coconut bowling! Winner gets a rice cooker! Loser gets emotional damage!"
Ben groaned. "Why do I feel personally targeted?"
"Because you are," Jane grinned. "Now spin!"
Ben was spun three times, staggered forward, and launched the coconut straight into the cooler.
"Ten points for hydration!" Jane declared. "But the winner is—Rico, our beloved pet groomer, with a perfect strike!"
Rico raised his hands in triumph. "I bowl for rice!"
Ben slumped. "I don't even own rice."
Next up: the flip-flop relay with a spoonful of rice and interpretive dance halfway through.
Liza, the barista from Marina's coffee shop, danced like a caffeinated flamingo and crossed the finish line with rice still intact.
Ben tripped on his own flip-flop and crab-walked dramatically across the sand.
"Is that… interpretive?" Jane asked.
"I'm expressing defeat," Ben wheezed.
"Winner: Liza! She gets an electric fan!"
Ben wiped his forehead. "I need that fan. I'm emotionally overheating."
Trivia followed.
Jane: "What's the capital of Iceland?"
Ben: "Iceville."
Jane stared. "Ben. No."
Tomas, the clinic's receptionist, answered correctly and won a blender.
"I was close," Ben muttered. "Spiritually."
Charades came next. Ben mimed a confused crab for 'washing machine.'
"I was the spin cycle," he insisted.
Mariel, the café waitress, nailed 'air fryer' with a dramatic chicken impression and won the actual air fryer.
"I think I'm cursed," Ben said, collapsing into a beanbag.
"You're just not appliance-compatible," Jane said, tossing him a cookie.
Asha sat quietly nearby, sipping a cold drink, her gaze drifting toward Theo. He hadn't joined a single game, hadn't laughed, hadn't touched a drink. He stood near the garden path, speaking briefly with Marina, then retreating to the shadows.
Still no scent.
Still nothing.
Denver's friends mingled and laughed nearby, but Kira was nowhere to be seen.
The party roared on—music, games, and the scent of grilled pork filling the air.
But Asha's attention stayed on Theo.
And for someone like her, that absence was louder than any laughter.