Contract Marriage with My Secret Partner in Crime-Chapter 137: Wandering, Not Lost

Feeling embarrassed by what she had just remembered, Zephany stayed silent and pretended she hadn’t heard him.

Kendrick let it go, assuming it was nothing.

For a while, they remained silent.

They stood side by side, gazing down at the stretch of town beneath them. The view was stunning. Rows of white-bricked buildings with red tile roofs, specks of moving people like ants. The late morning light spilled warmly over everything.

Kendrick snapped a photo. Then another. Then... he turned the camera toward them.

"Selfie?"

Zephany leaned slightly in. "Sure. But I get to pick the filter later."

Click.

The photo caught them mid-laugh.

As they strolled back down the winding hill, the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the stone path. The silence between them had softened, replaced now by a steady rhythm of teasing conversation.

Zephany remembered the titles of Kendrick’s paintings when she sent pictures of them to Kaelion.

"So," she said, nudging Kendrick with her elbow, "explain to me again why every title of your art pieces sounds like a dramatic breakup text."

He snorted. "Excuse me, they’re interpretive."

She squinted at him. "You literally had one called ’It Wasn’t Meant to Last but I Held On Anyway’. That’s not interpretive, that’s just sad."

"That piece spoke to the impermanence of connection and the fragility of—" he waved a hand dramatically—"emotion in urban chaos."

Zephany stared at him, unimpressed. "It was a crumpled subway ticket glued to a canvas."

"It was conceptual."

"It was recycling."

He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "Fine, then what would you call it?"

She smirked. "’Oops, I Dropped This in the Trash but Then Made It Art.’"

"I hate how catchy that actually is."

"Admit it," she said, "you’d absolutely hang that in your studio."

"Only if I can say it was satirical commentary on capitalist waste culture."

"Oh wow, big words," she teased. "Do you eat a thesaurus for breakfast or just inhale poetry when I’m not looking?"

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned onto the main road leading toward the town center. A few tourists passed by, fanning themselves, maps rustling. Zephany pulled out her own and turned it upside down, frowning.

"Why is this map fighting me?" she muttered.

Kendrick leaned over, squinting at the paper. "Because you’re holding it like it’s an ancient scroll."

"I’m trying to orient it."

"You’re trying to read it like it’s got subtitles."

Zephany pointed at a nearby building. "That’s the old library. It says it’s north."

Kendrick glanced up. "That’s west."

She blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. The sun rises in the east. See? That side’s east, so that’s west."

She slowly turned the map around and scowled. "I hate this."

He grinned. "You have many strengths, but navigation is not one of them."

"Shut up, I’m a GPS in human form."

He raised an eyebrow. "A GPS that constantly reroutes and insists, ’Turn left now’ into a lake."

Zephany flipped the map closed and stuffed it in her bag. "You’re lucky I like you."

Kendrick suddenly realized how much Zephany was like Eclipse, terrible with directions. He didn’t catch what she had just said, too lost in his own thoughts.

Because if he had, he’d probably be blushing right now. Or maybe even jumping for joy. What she said... it almost sounded like a confession, even if she hadn’t realized it herself.

---

They passed a small kiosk with handmade postcards and antique trinkets. A weathered old man sat behind the counter, humming a tune. Kendrick pulled out his phone and groaned when he saw the signal icon blinking.

"Still no reception?" Zephany asked, peeking at his screen.

"Nope. It’s like the void out here."

She turned to the vendor. "Excuse me, do you sell Wi-Fi in a jar?"

The old man blinked. "Sorry?"

"Wi-Fi. Preferably vintage. Like, something with dial-up squeals and emotional baggage."

The man let out a confused chuckle. Kendrick nearly doubled over, laughing. "Please tell me you’re writing a stand-up routine."

"Nope," she said, grinning. "Just trying to survive your mood swings when you’re offline."

He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few coins on the counter. "Two iced teas, and emotional therapy for me, apparently."

They found a shaded bench nearby and sat down, sipping from the sweating paper cups. The tea was sweet and slightly floral, with a citrusy finish.

"This isn’t bad," Zephany admitted. "Tastes like chamomile had a fling with lemon."

"See? That’s how you should name art," Kendrick said. "Call it ’The Infusion of Forbidden Herbs.’"

She laughed. "No, no. That one’s called ’Tea That Fixes Marriages’."

He raised his cup in mock salute. "To Wi-Fi in jars and tea-fueled truces."

They clinked cups and took another sip, the breeze ruffling their hair as laughter lingered between them.

Both were equally surprised by their unexpected playfulness.

At lunch, they settled at a street-side diner that sold local dishes. Kendrick ordered confidently, while Zephany poked at a laminated menu.

"Just pick one," he said.

"You don’t understand. I have a reputation with food."

"You’re scared of spicy, aren’t you?"

"I have trauma," she replied with a straight face.

He held up the menu and pointed. "This one’s safe. It’s got cheese and rice. No danger zones."

She looked skeptical. "Swear on Caesar the Poodle."

He laughed. "Swearing on my upcoming commissions now?"

After lunch, they wandered into a quirky local art gallery. Kendrick was a riot.

"This one looks like my 3 a.m. insomnia," he said, gesturing at a splatter painting.

Zephany pointed at a sculpture. "That’s me after one of Pia’s pep talks." fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

They ended up laughing so loudly that the gallery assistant gave them a polite but firm stare.

Outside, they stumbled across a photo booth by the plaza.

"Come on," Kendrick said, grabbing her hand.

"What? No, I have like, zero nice expressions on command."

"That’s perfect. We’ll document the awkward."

They squeezed into the booth, making ridiculous faces, one normal smile, and one that ended in surprise when Zephany sneezed mid-click.

"We look like we’re being kidnapped by laughter," she said as the strip printed.

Kendrick tucked it into his wallet without a word.

---

As dusk crept in, they sat on a bench near a small fountain, the air cooling slightly.

Zephany looked up at him. "You’re not that bad to hang out with."

Kendrick leaned back. "You’re not too terrible yourself."

She smiled, small but real. "I had fun."

"Same."

Silence settled, comfortable now. Their shoulders nearly touched.

They stayed on that bench a little longer, then eventually rose and began wandering again.

The streets grew quieter as evening settled in, and lanterns swayed gently above narrow alleyways lined with hand-painted signs.

Every step was slower now—not because they were tired, but because neither of them really wanted to go back just yet.

They passed a gallery with a closed sign in the window. Kendrick paused, squinting at the painted flyers taped to the glass.

"Wait," he said, "there’s an open studio here tomorrow morning. Locals come in, paint whatever they want. Free coffee, apparently."

"Tempting," she admitted. "But we’re supposed to catch the early train back tomorrow."

He looked at her. "Unless we don’t."

Zephany raised an eyebrow. "You suggesting we go AWOL?"

"I’m suggesting," Kendrick said, stepping back from the gallery window, "that maybe we hang out a little more. We barely go on trips anyway."

It was reckless. Mildly irresponsible. And completely appealing.

Zephany looked down the empty street, then back at him. "You really want to paint tomorrow?"

Kendrick gave her a boyish grin. "Why not?"

Then he tilted his head slightly. "So... poodle painting tomorrow?"

Zephany laughed. "Only if you let me name it."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

They sat there until the town lights began to flicker on, one by one.

---

They booked a room at a tiny inn above a used bookshop. The clerk gave them one key, a smile, and a plate of lemon shortbread cookies "for late-night snacking."

Their room had a slanted ceiling, mismatched quilts, and a single window overlooking the square. It felt like something from a fairytale.

Zephany collapsed onto the bed. "This place is too cozy. I might never leave."

Then, as her head sank into the pillows, a sudden realization hit her. Her eyes widened, and she sat bolt upright.

Kendrick, who had just placed his bag down by the chair, paused and looked over at her. The moment their eyes met, it clicked for both of them.

This was the first time they’d ever shared a room.

Sure, they lived under the same roof. But they had always slept in separate bedrooms. Married, yes—but more out of necessity than romance.

And now, thanks to every travel cliché in the book, they’d walked into a "just one room left" situation. The clerk had even handed them a single key with a knowing smile. Typical.

Zephany cleared her throat and smoothed her coat unnecessarily.

Kendrick rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the room, awkwardness thick in the air like fog.

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