39. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he house was finally still.
Lena and Sloane curled into opposite ends of the couch. The porch light flickered once, then settled. Outside, the trees cracked softly in the breeze.
The air was cooler now, tinged with wood-smoke and something sweet—maybe spilled wine and leftover cake. The quiet felt earned. Fragile.
Kane had mumbled something about setting an alarm before disappearing down the hall. Rhett had gone up earlier without a word. A bag of chips lay forgotten on the floor between the couches.
I stood in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, drinking lukewarm water I didn’t want. My skin still buzzed from the boat. From Traces silence, Alden’s nearness. From everything I wasn’t supposed to feel.
I opened the door to the porch before I could talk myself out of it.
The wood creaked under my feet. The lake stretched out in shadows, moonlight spilling across the surface. The porch light glinted softly against the curve of someone already out there perched on the railing like he belonged to the night.
Alden.
He was barefoot, hoodie loose over his frame, cigarette pinched between two fingers. He didn’t look surprised to see me.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not even close.”
He offered me the cigarette. I took it, dragged once, handed it back.
“You always smoke after chaos?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Only when it’s real.”
I moved beside him, leaning my forearms against the rail. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just sat there. Familiar. Heavy.
“I wasn’t trying to make him jealous,” I said quietly.
Alden looked past me, tone flat. “Didn’t say you were.”
“You thought it, though.”
He didn’t argue.
“I just needed to feel…”
“Wanted,” he finished.
I nodded.
He turned, finally, and looked at me—really looked. Like he saw past the sharp edges and bravado. “You know, for someone who feels everything so deeply, you’re damn good at pretending you don’t.”
That stung. Because it was true.
I swallowed. “You too.”
He laughed under his breath. Not bitter. Just tired. “Yeah. Well it’s easier when no one expects much from you.”
My heart pulled sideways. “Is that how you feel?”
“All the time.”
I sat beside him on the edge of the porch, tucking my knees up to my chest, arms wrapped tight. “I expect a lot from you.”
He didn’t speak for a second. “That’s what makes it worse.”
The wind stirred again, lifting a curl of hair across my cheek. A ripple broke across the lake in the distance, barely audible.
“You ever feel like we’re all just… playing roles we didn’t audition for?” I asked.
Alden nodded. “Every fucking day.”
We sat in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth like some unspoken promise. He didn’t try to kiss me. I didn’t lean in. But something passed between us anyway—real, warm, heavy.
He walked across the porch, tossing the stub into a cup. “You should get inside,” he said, brushing a hand lightly against my shoulder.
“You’ll freeze out here.”
If he’d moved closer, I’m not sure I would’ve stopped him. Part of me wanted him to kiss me. I needed someone to want me enough to cross that line.
“Sleep good, Love.”
I wouldn’t, but I whispered, “You too.”
And as I walked back inside, my skin still humming, I wondered why it felt like the calm before a storm I didn’t see coming.
***
The air inside was thick with sleep and leftover adrenaline, like the night was still vibrating in the walls. I moved through it reckless, head full of porch smoke and Trace’s stare.
I didn’t turn on the light. Couldn’t stand the idea of seeing myself.
The bathroom door shut behind me with a soft click. Steam filled the air before the water even hit my skin. I stripped in a blur—hoodie, cover up, bikini—all of it hitting the tile like pieces of a past self I didn’t want to carry.
The water scalded. But I needed to burn.
My palms pressed to the tile, forehead resting between my arms. I tried to slow my breathing. Tried to think about nothing.
But my brain was a fucking mess.
Trace. Alden. Trace.
His eyes on me while I danced. Alden’s voice on the porch. The way Trace said “You have no idea what you’re doing” like he meant it, like he did.
I didn’t hear the door open.
But I felt him. Like heat. Like fate. Like something I should’ve run from hours ago.
I turned my head slowly—and there he was.
Trace.
Leaning against the doorframe like a ghost, like a goddamn decision I hadn’t made yet. Shirtless. Muscles cut and gleaming faintly into the haze. Swim trunks hanging low. Eyes darker than the night.
My chest seized. “What are you doing?”
He stepped inside. Slow. Deliberate. Silent. His eyes never leaving mine.
The door shut behind him, sealing us in.
“Trace,” I said, but it came out wrong. Too breathless. Too soft.
He didn’t stop moving.
He pulled off his swim trunks. Slow. Like this was inevitable.
And then he was under the water.
With me.
The water hit his chest, steam curling around us, thick and ghostly. My back hit the wall, hard. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stared, eyes burning through the steam. As if he needed to see the wreckage himself. As if he already knew exactly what he’d done to me—what I’d let him do.
My voice caught. “What the fuck are we doing?”
He stepped closer.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
“You’re going to break me,” I whispered.
“I already am,” he said.
His hands rose—hesitating—before sliding to my waist. My ribs. The back of my neck. His touch was reverent. Desperate. My body responding before my brain could stop it.
Tell me to leave , his eyes said.
Our mouths crashed like punishment. All tongue and teeth and memory. I kissed him like I wanted to ruin him. Like I wanted him to ruin me back.
“Scarlett,” he growled.
“Trace—” My legs wrapped around him, instinct and madness and something that had lived too long in the shadows.
He pressed me into the tile, his hips hard against mine, his breath shaking.
I wanted it.
God , I wanted it.
Wanted him to take me. Wanted to forget everything else. I wanted to disappear in his fucking mouth, in his hands, in the way he used to say my name like it meant something.
But he stopped.
Right when I needed him most.
He froze, forehead pressed to mine, chest heaving.
“Scarlett,” he rasped. “If I do this… I won’t stop.”
I blinked. “Then don’t.”
His eyes closed, then opened. Pain. Lust. A thousand what-ifs.
“You’ll never forgive me.”
“You left me once. That was worse.”
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Angrier. One last taste.
And then he stepped back.
I nearly fell forward.
“Trace.”
He didn’t look at me. Just backed out of the water like it burned.
“I’m sorry.”
And then he was gone.
And I was alone again.
Dripping.
Shaking.
Still fucking ruined.