Three Means 1

Chapter 6: Smokey Bath

   Pierre arched an amused eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his gaze. "What do you mean? She went there specifically for you?"

    Angelo rolled his eyes, strolling leisurely toward the couch and sinking into it with an exaggerated sigh, clearly savoring the drama of the story. Dulce and Pierre followed, taking their places on the floor like attentive listeners. Angelo leaned back in a self-satisfied sprawl, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a rolled cigarette, the earthy, unmistakable green of it familiar to Dulce by now.

    "The first word out of her mouth when she walked into the shop? My name—she practically yelled it," Angelo said, lighting the cigarette with a flourish. "Claude had to tell her to lower her voice, for God's sake."

    Dulce, intrigued, leaned forward. "Why was she so upset?"

    Angelo's brow furrowed in mild exasperation, as if the answer were evident to all but her."Why do you think? I haven't seen her, haven't spoken to her in weeks. No explanation, no warning," Angelo muttered, taking a deep drag.

    Dulce bit her lip, embarrassed for not realizing sooner. She'd been lost in their secluded little world—one that dulled her awareness of anyone beyond its walls. Had they truly been so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world simply fell away?

    "I wasn't sure what you two had going on anymore," she offered in her own defense. Angelo let out a dry chuckle, exhaling smoke through parted lips. "Oh, she made that very clear today. She went off the rails." He laughed darkly, eyes glinting as he took another pull on the cigarette.

    Pierre snickered, his voice laced with playful teasing. "What were you expecting? Roses?"

    Angelo smirked, an air of weary indulgence in his expression. "No, you don't get it. She jumped over the counter—grabbed a handful of treats I'd just baked and smeared them all over me. Thank God I was wearing an apron; she slapped me with them, too!"

    "Oooo, kinky." Pierre teased, his voice low and flirtatious as he threw a sly, knowing glance at Dulce. She felt the warmth rise to her cheeks, a blush she couldn't hide as Pierre's knee brushed hers. Emboldened by her reaction, he slid a little closer, the faintest pressure of his leg against hers making her heart race.

    "Claude started yelling, customers were leaving... total madness," Angelo continued, shaking his head with a sigh.

    "What was she saying?" Pierre asked, gesturing for the cigarette. Angelo handed it to him, their fingers brushing as Pierre took it, inhaling deeply. Angelo rolled his eyes, his voice taking on a mocking, high-pitched tone as he mimicked Fleur. "You heartless bastard! You've ignored me, avoided me, refused my calls! How could you do this to us?"

    Pierre threw his head back, a bit of laughter spilling out as he exhaled smoke. "God, you're such a bastard for that."

    Angelo chuckled, pressing his hands to his face in shame. "I know—I was a complete ass to end things like that. I can admit it. But honestly, I'm glad it's over."

    Dulce blinked, surprised. "I didn't realize you wanted to end things with her."

    "I didn't, at first," Angelo said, almost wistfully. "But when I looked at it closely, I understood she isn't my soulmate. I've finally come to know what that means, and she... she isn't it. I already have it. They complete me."

    At this, he went quiet, his gaze softening. Dulce's breath caught at the sincerity in his voice, the conviction so rare and so pure that it startled her.

    Soulmates—was there such a thing, a soul so intertwined with your own that its very presence filled you, fulfilled you, with a completeness that left you breathless? They say true soulmates don't merely cross paths; they imprint themselves upon your soul, making you feel as though, in their absence, a part of you remains forever missing. They ignite something deep and unspoken, something that transcends mere passion or romance. To find such a person is to find the other half of oneself, the part that has always been searching, yearning, until fate decides to intervene.