It was Serena's idea to spend the weekend at the lake house.
A sudden text, bright and breezy:
Let's get away. Just you and me. Like old times.
For a moment, Malik had simply stared at the screen, barely breathing.
There it was—the glimmer of hope he'd been desperate for.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe she missed him after all.
He responded without hesitation: Of course. I'll clear my schedule.
He cleared it, completely.
Saturday morning, Malik packed the car carefully, folding clothes with military precision. Serena swept through the apartment tossing silk dresses and oversized sunglasses into a weekender bag with a careless grace.
She was radiant that morning—dressed in simple jeans and a thin white blouse that clung to her frame in the right places. No heavy makeup, just a flush of natural beauty that made her seem almost untouched by the coldness that had crept between them.
Malik drank her in quietly, imprinting her on memory. The Serena he loved. The Serena he still believed, stubbornly, might reach back for him if he just held on a little longer.
The lake house sat two hours north, nestled against a private bank of clear, cold water. He had bought it for her birthday three years ago—designed every inch himself. Open ceilings. Exposed beams. The wide deck facing the sunrise, because Serena once said morning light made her feel alive.
The drive was quiet but not uncomfortable.
Serena sang along to the radio in soft hums.
Malik stole glances at her profile—the high cheekbones, the slope of her nose, the long fingers tapping absently on her thigh.
She was devastatingly beautiful.
She always had been.
At the lake house, they settled in quickly. Malik lit a fire, its glow bouncing off the windows as the sun sank behind the trees. Serena poured wine. She slipped out of her shoes and padded barefoot across the polished wooden floors, the hem of her sundress whispering against her legs.
It was easy, for a little while, to pretend.
They ate by the fire—grilled fish, roasted vegetables. Malik cooked; Serena praised him, laughter sparkling in her voice. She leaned into his side when he opened a second bottle of wine. Her perfume—a soft, woodsy scent he didn't recognize—curled in the air between them.
They talked about everything and nothing: the first house they almost bought. The restaurant they'd loved in Florence. The night Malik had proposed in the pouring rain, ring clutched tight in his fist because he was terrified he'd drop it.
Serena laughed so hard remembering it that she spilled wine across the blanket.
For a moment, it felt like coming home.
Later, on the deck, under a heavy quilt of stars, Malik brushed a loose strand of hair from Serena's face.
She smiled up at him—soft, warm, open.
His chest tightened painfully.
This was her.
This was them.
They could fix it.
"I missed this," he said quietly.
Her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second.
The mask slipped.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away, toward the dark line of the lake.
"I missed it too," she said, voice too bright, too practiced.
Malik caught the lie nestled in her throat.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
He didn't confront her. He didn't ask who she was thinking about when she kissed him later, slow and sweet, her fingers tangling in his shirt.
He just let it happen.
Because for that one fragile night, he needed the illusion more than he needed the truth.
At dawn, Malik woke to an empty bed.
The house was silent.
The smell of coffee drifted faintly from the kitchen. For a moment, a pang of hope sparked in his chest—maybe she was making breakfast. Maybe she was waiting for him at the table, barefoot and grinning like she used to.
He padded through the house quietly.
No Serena in the kitchen.
No Serena on the deck.
Her phone sat forgotten on the counter, screen lit up with a missed call.
He glanced, unwilling, but unable to help himself.
Landon Croix.
Two calls.
Missed.
Malik stood there, barefoot on the cold tile, the morning sun slicing the floor into sharp, merciless angles.
And something inside him—the last, trembling thread of hope he had nursed through all the missed dinners and cold beds and hollow promises—snapped cleanly.
No sound.
No anger.
Just a clean, brutal silence.
By the time Serena returned, carrying fresh flowers from the market and chattering about a new brunch spot a few towns over, Malik had already made his decision.
He smiled, he laughed at her jokes, he took her hand when she offered it.
He kissed her forehead when they packed the car hours later.
But inside, the part of him that believed in them was already ashes.
And ashes didn't rise.
They buried themselves deep into the bones.
Waiting for the wind.