Anton
I don't believe in miracles. Not anymore.
They died twenty-two years ago, along with my ability to taste.
Back then, the doctors had smiled too kindly, their voices dripping with pity and false hope. "Your sense of taste will return, Anton. You're young. The brain heals."
Bullshit.
I learned early that life doesn't pause for a boy who lost his sense of taste. It barrels forward — brutal, indifferent, and deaf to grief.
At seven, I understood loss better than those who tried to comfort me. At twenty-nine, I've perfected detachment.
Food is fuel, nothing more. Sweet, sour, bitter, spice — these are words, not sensations. I've spent years chewing, swallowing, smiling politely while tasting nothing at all. It's long become a part of me.
My mother still prays though. She clings to miracles, her faith a force of nature that stands tall, surpassing even Mount Everest. I let her. But I've long stopped pretending to believe her gods care.
Faith is a crutch for those too soft to face reality.
And, taste, after all, is overrated when everything else leaves bitterness behind.
Until her.
The gray-eyed woman. The one who mistook my car for an Uber two nights ago. The one who barked orders like she owned the place, then vanished before I could ask her name.
Now, she stands before me again, bold and trembling, all in the same breath.
And then she kisses me.
For one suspended heartbeat, I'm still.
Anger comes first, sharp and instinctive. No one touches – or kisses – me without consent. Especially not strangers.
This is probably one of her reckless games — seducing strangers for attention, dragging chaos wherever she goes. I've seen women like her before: messy, emotional, desperate.
I'm already thinking of ways to punish her — the security footage and witnesses will nail her. I consider the cleanest solution possible; have her arrested. Make her pay.
But then—
Something happens.
A rush of sweetness hits the tip of my tongue. Faint at first, then it spreads; slow, consuming, until every nerve in my mouth flickers back to life.
I taste her.
I don't know what the flavor is; mildly sweet, slightly tangy, but it's real. Lingering on her lips like something she'd consumed recently.
And I want more of it.
Not because of her. Because of what it means.
Twenty-two years of sensory silence… undone by a stranger's mouth.
My mind stalls. Not in awe but in disbelief.
This shouldn't be possible. Neurological ageusia doesn't just reverse itself. Not without medical intervention. Not because of a kiss.
And yet, here I am — lips against hers, every deadened nerve waking like it never went dormant.
It's disorienting. Unacceptable and yet undeniable.
I should push her away. Call security. Have her charged with assault and removed from my sight.
Instead, my hand finds her waist.
I pull her closer, not out of want, but to test the limits of what I'm experiencing. To confirm I'm not hallucinating.
The kiss deepens. My lips move against hers, slow but precise, not searching for emotion, but for clarity.
The flavor doesn't fade.
Every second it lingers, the tight hold I have on my world loosens.
I don't like it. But I don't stop.
And I won't stop until I understand why she makes me feel what no one else has.
Not in twenty-two years.
The world narrows until only her breath, her heartbeat, and that impossible taste remain.
When we break apart, the restaurant noise crashes back in. My pulse is off balance. Her eyes are wide, breath shaky, she's staring deep into my eyes and I can't seem to look anywhere else except at her eyes.
Then, the spell breaks.
Her ex-boyfriend, Luke's chair screeches harshly against the floor as he bolts upright, eyes burning with rage.
Mabel, that's what I learned her name to be, turns to face him, a smirk curling on her lips. "Now do you believe me?" she taunts.
Her voice laces with bravado but I catch the tremor beneath it. She's playing brave, but her hands are trembling.
Luke's jaw clenches tight, rage burning in his eyes. "I wonder what your father will say when he hears about this," he growls. "And I'll make sure he does."
For a split second, fear flickers behind her eyes. Then she straightens her shoulders and snaps back, "Go ahead. Tell him. That's about all you can do right now, cry to my father because your ego got bruised. Man child!"
Luke's face flush with humiliation as he storms out of the–my–restaurant, followed closely by that overdone woman.
Silence falls over the restaurant.
Mabel turns to me, the bravado gone, melted into mortification. She looks vulnerable, unnerved. "I don't even know how to start apologizing," she mumbles, voice shaky. "I don't usually kiss random strangers. I swear. I just… needed to put that jerk in his place. I'm sorry. I'll do anything to make it up to you."
I watch her — the nervous rambling, the flushed cheeks, the way her fingers twist the hem of her dress. She's being sincere.
But, sincerity or not, it doesn't change a thing. I'm not ready to let her walk away.
I need answers.
"If the kiss was a mistake," I say, voice flat, "then what about the ride? Do you usually jump into people's car demanding they drive you home in a not-so-polite way?"
Her cheeks flare red this time as she bow her head unable to look me in the eye. "About that–" she began saying but I weren't interested in hearing. I know I'd passed the message I'm trying to.
"I don't do excuses." I cut in. "Sit." I take the seat Luke had vacated.
Startled, she raise her head to stare at me, hesitating. Then, silently, she obeys, sitting across from me like a student awaiting judgement.
For a moment, I say nothing as I study her intensely like she's some sort of puzzle.
Maybe it's the dimly lit back seat of my car that night, the earlier chaos with her boyfriend not giving me the time to focus on her facials, or something else entirely, but looking at her now, a dull familiar ache stirs in my chest.
Those gray eyes, the faint dimples when she frowns, the curve of her lips — they're haunting reminders of someone I thought I buried deep.
Camille.
The resemblance is faint but cruel. It steals the breath from me, slows my pulse, tightens my jaw.
Guilt I thought long dead claws at me. I failed her. I couldn't save her.
I shove the memory down. It won't break me again.
"What's your name?" I ask, my voice level.
"Mabel," she replies, cautious, like saying it might break something. "Mabel Grayson."
Her surname cools my tone, a name I can trace. "You know, I could have you arrested for assault, Mabel Grayson."
Her eyes widen. "I—I know. I'm sorry."
I lean back, my unwavering gaze not leaving her eyes. "But I won't."
Relief floods her face immediately, and she exhales shakily. "Thank you so mu—"
"Don't thank me." I cut her off. "I haven't forgiven you."
She frowns, dimples deepening. "Then… what do you want?"
I pull out my phone, sliding it across the table. "Your number."
She blinks, stunned. "My—what?"
"Your number," I repeat, slow and deliberate. "I'll call when I decide what to do."
Her hesitation lingers too long before she inputs it and hands back the phone. I save it and dial immediately. Her phone rings with a childish anime tune that doesn't fit her and she flushes crimson.
She laughs awkwardly, ending the call.
"That's me," I say flatly. "Save it."
"What name?" she asks.
"Anton."
Saying this name of mine tastes strange, like digging up a part of me I buried long ago.
"When I call," I add, eyes locked on hers, "you'd better answer. If not, the next time we meet will be in court."
Her jaw drops slightly. "You're joking, right?"
I'm not.
And I think she can see that.
She laughs nervously. "No worries, Mr. Anton. I'll answer on the first ring."
"Good. You can go."
"Thank you, Mr. Anton."
She stands quickly, eager to escape, like this whole conversation has been suffocating and she needs to step away to breath. I should let her. But my voice slips out before I can stop it.
"Wait."
She freezes, turns.
"What did you have before the kiss?"
Her brows furrow. "A strawberry smoothie. Why?"
"No reason." My tone hardens again. "You may leave."
I don't wait for her to go. I stand up and turn away, heading deeper into the restaurant, the taste of her still vivid in on my tongue.
Inside my office, I sit behind the desk, fingers steepled beneath my chin.
I can still taste her.
The faint tang of strawberries lingers on my tongue, proof it wasn't a hallucination. I've kissed women before. Dozens. Maybe more. None of them ever tasted like anything.
But she did.
My mind spins. Could it be possible? Could the doctors have been wrong all these years? Has my sense of taste finally returned?
For the first time in twenty-two years, I feel something. Not grief. Not numbness. Something else.
It should terrify me but it doesn't.
"Joe." I call out.
My assistant straightens from where he'd been trying to make himself invisible. "Yes, sir?"
"Find out everything you can about the woman from earlier. Mabel Grayson."
Joe hesitates. "You mean the one who kissed you, sir?"
I shoot him a warning glare.
He nods quickly. "Right. On it." He disappears quickly like smoke.
I lean back in the chair, eyes shut, the memory of our kiss looping endlessly behind my lids. The taste, the jolt, the feel of her lips.
My pulse stirs once. Then again.
If miracles won't come to me, I'll hunt them down myself.
Whatever she is — an anomaly, glitch, answer — I'm not letting her disappear.
Not again.