Scarlett
The house is too quiet when I step out of the bathroom, that fragile smile still painted across my face. I expect voices, the sound of the TV, the clink of glasses from the kitchen—but instead, there’s only the soft flicker of light.
Candles.
Dozens of them lined neatly along the floor like a trail of stars, their glow trembling across the walls. My breath catches, a lump rising in my throat as my eyes follow where they lead—back toward the living room.
Rose petals scatter over the carpet, crimson against the pale fibres, a deliberate path marked out just for me. My heels crunch faintly against them as I step forward, slow, hesitant, every nerve in my body unsure.
It feels unreal. Like I’ve walked into someone else’s night, someone else’s romance. A fairytale stolen from a girl who deserves it more. And yet—I can’t stop the way my lips part, the way my chest aches with something soft and dangerous.
For one wild heartbeat, it’s almost enough to make me forget the phone hidden beneath the towels. Almost enough to drown out Tyler’s words still clawing at the edges of my mind.
The petals pull me onward, each step a question mark, each flicker of flame a whisper I can’t ignore. Confusion curls with something sweeter, quieter, something I shouldn’t want but do.
I pause just shy of the living room, the glow spilling wide and golden ahead of me. My hand presses to my chest, trying to still the frantic flutter there.
The glow hits me first—soft and golden, spilling out from the living room like the house itself is bleeding light. My steps falter. My heart does too. I follow the petals, my breath stuck in my throat, until I see him.
Kai is standing there, framed by a hundred flickering candles. Their flames paint him in gold and shadow, his face carved sharp, his eyes dark, unreadable, and all for me. My mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
“You… you did this?” My voice is barely a whisper, cracking against the silence.
He tilts his head, the faintest curve touching his lips, not quite a smile—something darker, more dangerous, more tender all at once. “I’d pull the stars out of the night sky for you if I could,” he says, his voice low and steady, “but I had to settle for candlelight.”
The words slam into me, dizzying, so heavy I can’t breathe through them. My knees threaten to give, but I stand rooted, staring at him like he’s not real.
“Where’s Mum and Dad?” I manage, my throat tight.
“Gone to bed.” His answer is simple, unshakable. Then his gaze sharpens, pinning me where I stand.
“So what is this, Kai?”
He moves—slow, deliberate—closing the space between us. His hand brushes my wrist, tugging me gently but firmly, pulling me deeper into the room, into the glow, into him. My pulse hammers like it knows the truth before my mind dares to speak it.
And then I see it.
The petals spiral across the floor, up onto the couch, onto the table covered in something I can’t fully process because it’s so impossibly beautiful, so wrong and right at the same time, like stepping inside a dream I never admitted I wanted.
His mouth grazes my ear, his breath warm, his voice wrecking me. “This,” he murmurs, “is your fantasy, baby.”
The air tastes like wax and sugar, smoke curling up from a hundred tiny flames that dance on every surface.
My bare feet whisper against the carpet as I follow the trail of petals, crushed velvet red against pale cream.
My chest won’t stop heaving, like my ribs can’t contain my heart, like it knows I should turn back—but I don’t.
He reaches past me, slow, like I’m too fragile to touch. His hand brushes mine, only a whisper of skin, and then he tilts his head toward the far corner.
“Look.”
And I do.
The television isn’t there anymore. It’s draped in white gauze, glowing faint with hidden lights behind it, like starlight caught in fabric.
A makeshift canopy of sheer silk falls from the ceiling, petal-strewn cushions piled beneath it.
It looks nothing like this house, nothing like my life.
It looks like a secret dream carved out of the dark just for me.
My throat clogs. My eyes sting. I hate him, I swear I do—but no one’s ever done something like this for me. No one’s ever made fantasy real.
The threshold doesn’t hold me long. My feet move before my mind can catch up, before the sane part of me screams to turn back.
The carpet is soft under my soles, rose petals sticking to my skin as if they don’t want me to leave either.
The glow of candlelight paints everything gold, a flicker against the walls, against Kai’s face, against the sharp shadows that make him look both like salvation and sin.
I melt into it—into him.
His eyes drag over me, slow and consuming, and it’s enough to buckle the tension I’d been clinging to. The phone hidden upstairs, the texts, the fear—none of it follows me here. Only the heat of his gaze, the careful way he’s built this fantasy, like he knew I’d need something to drown in.
“I thought…” My voice breaks, too fragile for how much is inside me. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Kai steps closer, the air tightening, the soft rasp of his breath louder than the crackle of candle flames. His hand comes up, not rough this time, not cruel—just his fingertips brushing my jaw, steadying me like he doesn’t trust I’ll stand on my own.
“You never will.” His whisper scrapes against my skin. “Not while I’m breathing.”
The words pierce deeper than any threat he’s ever spat. My chest caves, ribs aching as I press into him, like I could dissolve here if he let me. His palm slides to my waist, warm and anchoring, pulling me until the space between us disappears.
And I let it. I let him.
Because maybe for tonight, under this candlelight, I don’t want to remember the outside world. I don’t want to feel strong or scared. I just want to melt.
The glow feels too soft for the way his eyes cut through me. My chest tightens when he leans down, lips grazing my ear like a secret he shouldn’t say aloud.
“Do you remember, Scar?” His voice is velvet and gravel, wrapping me tight. “That fantasy you told me once.”
I freeze, lashes lowering. The heat crawling up my neck is instant, shame and want curling together. “Which one?” I manage, though my throat is too dry. “You mean the one about—”
“Not that one,” he cuts in, low and sharp, his thumb pressing into my waist. “Not the innocent bullshit. The filthy one.” His mouth ghosts the line of my jaw, each word a strike. “The one where you wanted me to fuck you while Mum and Dad were asleep down the hall.”
My lungs stumble. The room spins with candlelight and memory. I never thought he’d remember, let alone throw it back at me like a weapon.
“Kai…” I whisper, but it’s barely a sound. My knees are weak, my body betraying me, because just the mention has me burning.
He doesn’t give me space to deny it. His forehead presses to mine, breath hot, eyes locking me in place. “Say you remember, Scar. Say it out loud.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, nails digging crescent moons into my palms. “I don’t… I didn’t mean it, I never—”
The denial scrapes raw against my throat, but it’s all I have, this flimsy armour of shame.
My chest burns because I can still hear myself.
That night I told him the words, drunk on my own reckless imagination.
I thought he’d laugh, dismiss it, let it vanish into the dark.
But he didn’t. He kept it. He polished it sharp. And now he’s cutting me with it.
His fingers tighten at my waist, dragging me closer until the candlelight wavers between us. “Don’t lie to me, Scar.” The command is soft, almost tender, but it coils with danger. “You remember every filthy word.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head harder, my voice breaking. “Stop. Please—just stop.”
But he won’t. His thumb lifts, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is steady, dark, unrelenting, like he’s peeling my soul apart.
“You think shame will save you?” His breath brushes my lips. “It won’t. Shame only makes you wetter.”
The words detonate inside me, shame flooding deeper, hotter. I want to slap him. I want to collapse. I want to disappear. But my thighs press together on instinct, betraying me.
“Say it,” he whispers again, forehead pressing to mine, his voice breaking with hunger. “Say you remember.”
My lips tremble, the words strangled in my throat. I want to bite them back, to bury them where they’ll never touch air again, but his eyes hold me—unyielding, merciless, begging and demanding all at once.
“I… I remember,” I choke out, the admission spilling like poison, like a confession. My lashes are wet, my whole body trembling as though speaking it aloud makes it real, makes me filth itself. “I remember every word.”
The silence afterwards is brutal. His thumb strokes along my jaw, not gentle, not cruel—just claiming. The flicker of the candles feels too bright, like they’re exposing me, like the whole house is listening.
“I told you,” I whisper, shame burning my chest, “I told you I wanted… that I wanted you to—” My voice breaks, collapsing into a sob. “—to fuck me while they were home. While Mum and Dad were just down the hall.”
The words taste like ash and fire. My shame, my sickness, out loud between us. I can’t even meet his eyes anymore.
I try to pull back, to hide my face, but he doesn’t let me. His forehead presses harder to mine, his breath hot, shaky, almost reverent.
“Fuck, Scar,” he murmurs, voice cracking like he’s both ruined and worshipping me. His fingers dig into my waist, pinning me there, as if that confession alone just sealed us into hell together.
His hand slides up, rough and certain, until his palm covers my mouth. The candles flicker across his face, painting him half-saint, half-devil, the curve of his lips soft even as his eyes blaze.
“Shhh,” he breathes against my cheek, close enough that his words melt into me. “Careful, baby. You want them to hear?”