#119: Fallen: Fire and Redemption - What a Feeling

#119: Fallen: Fire and Redemption - What a Feeling
Violet

The city seemed way too awake for a Thursday night. Madison was buzzing with lights blending into a mix of voices, food trucks parked like urban constellations, and handwritten signs announcing the names of chefs you’d only hear about if you were actively involved in the scene.

There was a lot of buzz about our world, but in a bubble Julian and I never seemed interested enough to break into. There, though, it was gastronomy in party mode, but still had that charming festival vibe, like every corner could transport us somewhere else because of the culinary variety.

It was beautiful.

The car was still warm when Julian turned off the engine and rested his chin on the steering wheel, looking toward the hotel where he’d managed to book the cabin with a view of Lake Monona. I could swear he did that just to rub it in later, with that "I’m the perfect boyfriend" attitude of his.

He was having fun with it, like he was playing house for the first time. But I could tell he genuinely liked it—it was something he had wanted, and now he finally had it. With me, and that was still wild to think about.

“You just gonna sit there admiring the view or help me with the bags?” I teased, getting out of the car and tugging at my coat, which kept getting stuck in the seat every time we traveled.

“I’m setting the mood. You just don’t get the poetry of the moment, you have to savor it… slowly.”

“The only poetry here is the smell of fried food coming from that stand—look at that, delicious! I’m starving!”

“You get hungry in the sexiest way I’ve ever seen.”

“And you keep trying to win me over even when you don’t have to, huh?” I smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I’m yours, love. Relax.”

Julian smiled and grabbed our bags from the trunk while I watched the people moving around the hotel. It wasn’t fancy, but it had personality and was exactly how I’d imagined inside—exposed brick walls in a warm orange hue. Copper pendant lights hanging in the lobby and a pine scent that was probably intentional, but pleasant.

We went up with few words. The road-trip fatigue still clung to our bodies with every movement, but there was good energy in the air. The kind that comes before something new. Something that, this time, felt solid and made sense.

As soon as the door to our room shut behind us, I threw my coat on the armchair by the window and kicked off my boots with an exaggerated sigh. My toes must’ve been glued together from being in those tight boots so long.

“I’m this close to rethinking going out to eat. The bed is looking at me with tempting intentions.”

“You’re the only person who could make a bed feel shy,” Julian said, dropping the suitcase in a corner and walking over to me. “But I get it. Long trip. We can hit the crowd some other time if you want.”

“I liked it—it’s noisy in a way that makes me want to stay for a while.”

“Does five days count as ‘a while’?”

“With you, even two minutes count. And that wasn’t even romantic, just practical.”

“And yet it’s still cute. You think you’re insulting me, but I just fall harder.”

“Ridiculous.”

He just smiled and flopped onto the bed, sprawled like a lazy cat. I sat on the window ledge, watching the street below light up as two more vendors rushed in, clearly last-minute arrivals.

The stands were being prepped for the opening night of the event, which they called the “Sensory Preview”—a name that sounded like it was pulled from a pretentious food reality show episode, but it worked for me.

“You really want to go out tonight?” Julian asked, eyes still closed.

“I do. But not like an Instagram review. I want to really eat, get my hands messy with sauce, not think about calories until this trip ends.”

He opened one eye, watching me.

“So that’s all you want from Madison? Just that?” he pouted.

“I want you and good food. Not necessarily in that order.”

He laughed and got up to grab his jacket from the backpack.

“Then let’s go. But no high-heeled boots. Tonight we walk till our feet beg for mercy. Tomorrow you can wear something fancy and make me look even poorer than I already am.”

“You have investments, remember?”

“Don’t ruin my narrative of being a humble man in love.”

We went down and walked to the main street, dodging vendors trying to get us to taste ridiculously expensive fruit by the pound, because all I was after was greasy, umami-rich snacks and a sweet, boozy drink to get me tipsy-happy.

“This is paradise,” I practically moaned after trying an artisan bread filled with smoked pumpkin and goat cheese.

Julian licked his fingers after tasting a spicy kimchi pickle reinvented with green apple—he loved Asian food.

“If paradise smells like this, I’m ready to die now.”

“Don’t die. I still want to try that cheese variation you spotted on the map, please.”

We walked more. Between stalls, our hands brushed by accident, catching me off guard as we exchanged glances and quiet flirty smiles. He passed me utensils, lightly touched the small of my back, acting like we were just getting to know each other. It felt different, warm… made me want to play along.

At one stand, a young chef recognized him. I already kind of knew that story because my dad had mentioned it vaguely—something Julian had hidden from me and I almost wanted to kill him for not telling. He was afraid I’d go digging for old videos online—not realizing there barely was internet back then.

“That guy’s staring at you,” I said, still eyeing the flavored brownies at the dessert booth.

Julian, already staring back, looked like he was ready to pick a fight. But I knew he was just wary. It was kind of funny. When the guy came over, I understood what he wanted. He seemed like a fan—I thought it was cute.

“Julian Kauer? From the Main Cuisine show?”

“Main Cuisine?” I asked with a smirk.

Julian looked away, embarrassed, and then I got it.

“Yeah, he was paired with my dad—Jordan Novack, remember?” Julian nodded. “It was a show from the 90s for amateur chefs, but they didn’t make it far. I recognized you because my dad took me to Julian’s once, but you weren’t there.”

“That was me. In another life. Nowadays, I just follow the real best chef around,” Julian said, after greeting the guy and sending regards to his dad, pointing to me.

The guy looked at me, surprised.

“You’re…?”

“Violet. Just Violet. But if you want, I can drop by your booth and act like a professional judge,” I joked.

He laughed, nervous, and offered us a tasting. It was good—not amazing, but honest. Julian gave one or two technical notes, always kind, and we moved on.

Toward the end of the night, we stopped on a wooden deck overlooking the dark lake. The night was especially black, making the event lights shine even more, reflected in the water like highlights from a beautiful impressionist painting.

“It’s not Paris,” he said, leaning on the railing after sipping his cold pineapple beer, “but Madison has a sweet charm, don’t you think?”

“It does… and it has you. That already changes everything.” With our hands free, we laced our fingers, feeling the texture of each other’s cold skin while the rest of us warmed with a simple touch.

“You’re romantic tonight,” he said, a goofy side-smile and eyes glowing like they were asking for more.

“I’m happy.”

“Me too.”

We stayed there for a few more minutes, calm and getting slightly drunk after sampling beer and wine, not needing to rush. No ghosts haunting me with constant agony or doubts ruining the moment.

It was the first night, and it already felt like something had shifted inside me, like a warmth pushing from the inside out. Guiding my actions, my words, my mood. I felt different, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was something else.

The sweet charm of Madison, maybe. But it felt like a freshness, something that gave me a spark.

And in that delicious atmosphere, full of fleeting pleasures with the man who loved me, I felt a craving for something more.