6. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he fire was lower as I made my way back, glowing embers and lazy sparks floating into the dark.
The others had drifted—some back to the house, some to the dock, some passed out on damp blankets under the stars. I should’ve followed. I should’ve done anything but pour another drink.
The tequila scorched all the way down, raw and wrong, but I liked the way it burned. Something inside me finally matching what I was feeling. My skin was hot, my thoughts loud. I could hear my heart in places I hadn’t before—throat, wrists, hips.
Trace sat down across from me; the bottle of beer barely touched in his hand. The fire casting shadows on his face made the tattoos on his arms flicker—alive in the dark.
Whatever was between us pulsed alive in the look he gave—him on the edge of speaking, me already bleeding.
“Still drinking?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Still watching?”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile.
I tilted my head, bold in a way I knew I’d regret. “What — no ‘Careful, Sunshine’ this time?” My voice came out sharper than I meant.
He shook his head once, slow. “You’ve always enjoyed playing with fire, Sunshine. Figured you didn’t need a warning.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on his. “Maybe I like getting burned.”
Silence stretched between us—hot and thick. Full of everything we weren’t saying.
“Why’d you come back?” I asked.
His jaw flexed. “You know why.”
“No—I really fucking don’t.”
“I never stopped thinking about you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Too plain. Too honest. Like he didn’t know how to make them pretty, so he just let them bleed.
I looked back at the fire, fingers curling into the sand beside me.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
He stood up, walked around the fire, and stopped just behind me. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.
He crouched beside me slowly, his thigh brushing mine. His voice was low, hot against my neck. “No, you don’t.”
I could feel the weight of him without him touching me, and it made me dizzy.
“You want me to leave?” he asked.
I should’ve said yes.
Instead, I looked at him—really looked. His eyes were darker than the night around us, his hair tousled like he’d been fighting himself for hours. He smelled like beer and fire and something that had haunted me for years.
“No.”
He leaned in, just barely. Close enough that his breath hit my cheek. “Say it again.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
His eyes dropped to my lips. But I caught his shift, the kind you make when something burns, and you can’t show it.
Tension building as we sat there, on the edge of something stupid, something selfish. Something we’d both crawl out of bleeding.
And from the shadows of the porch, Alden’s silhouette was still there.
Still watching.