Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE: THE BEAUTY UNDERNEATH
The Mysterious Girl
Milk exists.
She doesn’t know how, or why. She doesn’t remember where she came from, or if she was ever alive to begin with.
She simply is.
She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She drifts, untethered, slipping through people and things like she’s made of mist. She isn’t sure if she’s a spirit, a phantom—or something else entirely.
But she’s a fashionable phantom, thank you very much.
Not that anyone ever sees her, but she still dresses up every day, snapping her fingers to change outfits as she pleases. It makes her feel human, even when she knows she’s not.
Milk likes to watch people. The way they rush through their lives—some talking on the phone, some walking hand in hand, some completely lost in thought. It makes her feel like she’s part of something, like she belongs somewhere.
Even though she doesn’t.
She is strolling through Regent’s Park when she sees her.
Short. Auburn-haired. Moving quickly, dodging through the crowd, heading toward the underground. The golden light catches the strands of her hair, and for a single moment, Milk forgets how to exist.
A jolt.
A deep, vibrating recognition.
Her whole being reacts—heart pounding, phantom palms sweating even though she shouldn’t have a heartbeat, shouldn’t have sweat.
I know her .
She doesn’t know how she knows her. But she does.
Milk moves before she can think, weaving effortlessly through the rush hour crowd. She slips between people like a shadow, following.
The woman takes her usual seat on the underground, eyes flicking over messages on her phone, unaware that someone is watching her.
Milk stands in front of her.
She forgets how to move, how to breathe—if she even does.
And then—her eyes lock with Love’s.
A tear slides down Milk’s cheek. Overwhelming. Crippling.
A kaleidoscope of emotions bursts inside her—an aching joy, a terrible longing, a bittersweet pain so strong she almost doubles over from the weight of it.
She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t have memories, doesn’t have a past, but her body—her soul —knows this woman.
She shouldn’t be able to touch anything.
She never has.
But the pull toward her is too strong.
Milk lifts a hand before she can stop herself.
Contact.
Her fingers graze warm, soft skin.
A spark. Something real.
Milk freezes—heart slamming against her ribs.
The woman shivers. A breath catches in her throat.
Milk jerks her hand back, staring.
She felt me.
The woman’s fingers lift to her cheek, pressing against the spot where Milk’s hand had just been. Her brows knit together, her lips part slightly.
She felt it.
She glances around, searching for someone who isn’t there.
Milk holds her breath, waiting—hoping.
But then—
The woman shakes her head and dismisses it.
She turns back to her phone.
Milk should leave. She should disappear into nothing like she always does.
But she can’t.
She watches the woman’s hand linger against her cheek. Watches the way her breath catches for a fraction of a second longer than it should.
She felt me.
I know her. I have to know her.
The thought cements itself, solid and unshakable.
Milk isn’t sure if this woman is a piece of her past, or something even more important—but she’s sure of one thing:
She needs to follow her.
She needs to understand.
She needs to be closer.
Milk watches Love—heart slamming against her ribs.
And in that moment— so does Love.
Love’s POV: The Unseen
Have you ever had the feeling of being watched?
That prickling awareness at the back of your neck, the invisible weight of someone’s gaze peeling you open?
Love sure does.
It started on the train.
She had been walking home, moving through the rush of bodies, the mindless rhythm of the city. She had slipped into her usual seat at her usual station, pulling out her phone—just another evening.
And then—
A presence.
It was different from the usual glances she got.
This wasn’t casual or passing.
This was deep. Digging into her.
Not looking at her—into her.
She glanced up, scanning the train, but no one paid her any attention.
Still, she felt it. Lingering. Unshakable.
A shiver crawled up her spine.
And then—
A scent.
Faint, but familiar.
Not floral. Not perfumed.
But fresh. Clean, warm. A whisper of white musk, the brightness of orange blossom, the grounding comfort of cedarwood.
It didn’t cling to the air like a stranger’s cologne.
It wrapped around her. Settled deep in her lungs, warm and safe, like she’d breathed it in a thousand times before.
A scent that didn’t just pass her by—but pulled her back.
To what? To who?
Her breath caught.
It smelled like home.
It reminds her of something.
Or someone.
Her breath catches.
The feeling coils tighter, like the memory of a touch before it happens.
And then—
A touch.
Soft. Almost imperceptible.
A warm caress brushing over her cheek.
Love’s breath hitches.
Her skin tingles, a strange heat left behind.
Her hand flies to her face, fingers pressing against the lingering warmth.
Her eyes dart around, searching.
But there is no one.
It was crazy.
But the feeling of being watched—the touch—felt real.
Too real.
She was being ridiculous. She'd been exhausted lately, juggling auditions, taking on extra shifts to make ends meet, dodging texts from her ex, pretending everything in her life was perfectly fine, barely sleeping.
That was all this was.
A hallucination. A stress-induced lapse in reason.
But still—
She pressed her fingers to her cheek, to the exact spot where the warmth lingered.
It didn’t fade right away.
It lingered.
Like a memory that hadn’t fully settled.
Her chest ached.
A deep, unfamiliar pull.
Like she was mourning something she couldn’t name.
Like she was missing something she never had.
Love knew loss.
She had lost roles, lost money, lost time, lost love.
But this—this was different.
This loss didn’t feel like something that had left.
It felt like something that had been taken.
She didn’t know why she thought that.
She just did.
The train doors hissed open, and she forced herself to move.
She forced herself to dismiss it.
But the feeling never went away.
It followed her.
It seeped into her quiet moments, curled around her when she was alone.
And strangest of all—
It didn’t feel like a haunting.
It felt like sunlight settling over her skin.
Like something unseen was watching over her.
Keeping her safe.
And that night—she dreamed.
Dream Sequence—Love’s POV
Sunlight. A field of wildflowers. The wind weaving through her hair.
She isn’t alone.
A presence—warm, familiar, beloved—wraps around her.
A shiver rolls down Love’s spine, though she isn’t cold. She’s never been warmer. Strong arms pull her close, pressing her against a body that fits against hers so perfectly it’s as if they were carved from the same soul.
A feeling of home settles deep in her bones.
The hands on her body are gentle but unrelenting, sliding up her spine, mapping her, memorizing her. A soft hum vibrates against her skin—a sound of recognition, devotion.
Her breath hitches.
She knows this touch. She knows it.
But she doesn’t know why.
And then—
A scent.
It fills her lungs, warm and safe.
Not floral. Not perfumed.
Fresh. Clean.
A whisper of white musk, the brightness of orange blossom, the grounding comfort of cedarwood.
It doesn’t just cling to the air.
It wraps around her. Settles inside her.
Like she’s breathed it in a thousand times before.
Like it belongs to her.
And then—
Lips.
Hovering.
Teasing.
Brushing—so, so close—
A plea escapes her lips before she can stop it, a needy sound breaking free from her throat.
And then—contact.
The kiss starts soft, hesitant, like a question neither of them dares voice.
But Love—Love chases it.
A soft sigh spills from her, her fingers fisting into their hair, into fabric, into something—someone—she refuses to let slip away.
Their scent is everywhere now. It clouds her senses, makes her dizzy, makes her ache.
They kiss her back, just as hungry, just as desperate.
Like they’ve been waiting just as long.
Their lips part, breath mingling, and the next kiss—
The next kiss ruins her.
It’s deeper, fuller, burning with something unsaid.
A slow, aching pull, a devotion so fierce it trembles through her ribs.
Love whimpers against their lips, her entire body melting into the kiss.
Heat blooms in her chest, slides lower, coiling between her thighs, aching, consuming.
She wants to be closer. She needs to be closer.
She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, drinking them in like she’ll never have the chance again.
Her nails scrape against the back of their neck, pulling, grounding, begging them not to disappear.
A whisper of a name ghosts across her lips.
She feels herself say it, breathless, reverent—
But she can’t hear it.
Who?
Who are you?
She doesn’t know.
But she loves them.
Knows she belongs to them.
And then—
She wakes up.
A sharp inhale.
A reaching before she realizes—
There’s nothing there.
Love lies there, panting, trembling, the sheets tangled around her legs, her skin still burning, her lips still tingling—like the kiss never fully faded.
Like it’s still lingering somewhere, just out of reach.
Her bed is empty.
The warmth is gone.
The scent is fading, but it’s still there—clinging to her skin.
A whisper of white musk. Orange blossom. Cedarwood.
Love’s eyes snap open.
The underground.
The day she felt the phantom touch.
It’s the same scent.
Her pulse kicks up, a wild rhythm she doesn’t understand.
She doesn’t know what this means—
But suddenly, she feels less alone.