Two years later, my life had finally become peaceful again.
Or at least aggressively adjacent to peaceful.
I had:
- returned to accounting,
- stopped having panic attacks every time I heard helicopters,
- and completed an advanced certification in trauma-informed bookkeeping for spiritual entrepreneurs.
Which honestly felt huge for me.
I now worked remotely for a consulting firm specializing in financial compliance for wellness influencers.
Most of my clients were women named things like:
- Celestia,
- Moon Orchid,
- and Jennifer but spelled illegally.
Life was calm.
Predictable.
Safe.
No explosions.
No assassins.
No emergency river plunges.
And, most importantly:
No Aries.
Granted, for the first six months after returning home, I'd experienced what my therapist described as:
"severe hyper-vigilance."
Which was apparently therapist language for:
checking every parked car for sniper rifles.
But eventually things settled.
Mostly.
Okay, occasionally I still found myself staring suspiciously at men in airports.
And yes, I technically still knew how to identify three forms of tactical surveillance.
But honestly, growth isn't linear.
It was raining the night everything went wrong again.
Naturally.
I came home carrying groceries and an iced lavender matcha while ranting aloud to myself about a client who'd attempted to classify "vibrational crystals" as livestock.
"I'm sorry," I muttered while unlocking my apartment door, "but spiritually resonant quartz is not agricultural equipment."
I stepped inside.
Stopped immediately.
There was an envelope sitting on the kitchen counter.
Cream-colored.
Heavy paper.
Gold embossed.
My entire nervous system left my body instantly.
"No," I whispered.
The envelope simply sat there radiating expensive international consequences.
Slowly—very slowly—I approached it.
There was no stamp.
No address.
Just my name written in Aries's sharp aggressive handwriting.
Pisces.
"Oh my God."
I stared upward at the ceiling.
"You son of a bitch."
Because there was absolutely no normal explanation for this.
Either:
- Aries had broken into my apartment,
- a spy had entered my home,
- or both.
Which, historically, had been the same thing.
I opened the envelope cautiously.
Inside was a single card.
Care for dinner in Doha?
— A
Silence.
Complete silence.
Then I looked upward like I was personally addressing God.
"Absolutely the fuck not."
Nothing happened.
The apartment remained quiet.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
"...Aries?"
No answer.
I spun suddenly toward the hallway.
"DON'T YOU DARE SPY-NINJA YOUR WAY OUT OF MY AIR VENTS."
Still nothing.
I pointed angrily at the ceiling anyway.
"I HAVE DONE THE WORK."
Silence.
"I went to therapy."
Nothing.
"I HAVE HEALTHY BOUNDARIES NOW."
A pause.
Then, from somewhere impossibly nearby:
"You kept the jacket."
I screamed so violently I dropped the groceries.
An avocado rolled directly under the couch.
Aries stood near the balcony doorway wearing a black coat and the exact same emotionally devastating expression that had ruined my life repeatedly across multiple countries.
I stared at him in horror.
"Oh my GOD."
"You look good."
"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN MY APARTMENT?"
"A few minutes."
"A FEW MINUTES?"
"You were talking to yourself."
"I PROCESS OUT LOUD."
Aries's eyes flicked briefly toward the counter.
"You didn't answer the invitation."
I folded my arms immediately.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Pisces—"
"Absolutely not."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"It would only be dinner."
"That is what you said about Croatia."
"In fairness, Croatia was mostly fine."
"WE GOT SHOT AT ON A BOAT."
"Only briefly."
I pointed aggressively at him.
"No more:
- secret identities,
- helicopters,
- tactical forest suffering,
- tranquilizer darts,
- or emotionally destabilizing Middle Eastern invitations."
Aries looked almost amused now.
"So that's a no to Doha."
"That is a no to ALL nouns."
A long silence settled between them.
Rain shimmered beyond the balcony lights.
For a brief second, something softer crossed Aries's face.
Almost wistful.
"You really don't miss me?" he asked quietly.
I stared at him.
Then immediately:
"No."
A beat.
"...Okay maybe a little."
Another beat.
"But in the way people miss cocaine."
Aries actually laughed.
Which was deeply annoying because it still did something catastrophic to my cardiovascular system.
He stepped backward toward the balcony.
"You know," he said calmly, "most people would be curious."
"Most people don't have international trauma."
"Fair."
Then, because apparently he remained committed to being the most psychotic man alive—
he climbed over the balcony railing.
I lunged forward.
"OH MY GOD."
Aries balanced there effortlessly six stories above the street like gravity itself had signed a waiver.
"You are literally proving my point right now."
"I'll disappear again after tonight."
"GOOD."
"But if you change your mind—"
"I WON'T."
"—Doha. Friday."
I stared at him in disbelief.
Then pointed furiously toward the fire escape.
"Use the STAIRS like a divorced adult."
Aries smiled once.
Small.
Real.
Then vanished into the rain.
I stood frozen in the apartment for a long moment clutching the invitation.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Then my phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I closed my eyes immediately.
"No."
Another buzz.
I looked anyway.
P.S. The avocado rolled under the couch.
— Aries
I stared at the message for a full ten seconds.
Then whispered to myself:
"...I fucking hate that man."