Scarlett
Idon’t know how long it’s been.
The world feels hushed—softened—like I’ve been drifting inside a dream I’m not meant to wake from. My body is heavy, wrecked, every nerve raw. I can’t move, but I can feel him—Kai—still inside me, still wrapped around me as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, I’ll disappear.
His chest rises against my back, steady and uneven all at once, his breath hot at my ear. His hand moves through my hair in slow, trembling passes, like he’s memorising every strand. It should be comforting. It is comforting. And yet it burns.
“Scar…” His whisper threads through the quiet, broken and soft, like he’s speaking to himself as much as to me. “You don’t know how much I hate myself for this. For touching you. For wanting you like this. I was supposed to protect you.”
The words cut, even as his lips press tenderly against the back of my shoulder. He sounds guilty, shattered—but his arms only tighten around me. He strokes again, brushing damp strands from my temple, his fingers so careful it makes my chest ache.
“You should hate me,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against the side of my face. “But I can’t stop. I can’t let go. I ruined you, Scar. I ruined everything.”
I blink, vision swimming, throat thick. I should push him away. I should tell him he’s right. But my body betrays me, melting back into him, seeking his warmth.
He keeps whispering, each word tearing him open. “I’m no good for you. I’ll never be. But fuck—” his voice cracks “—I’d die before I let anyone else touch you again.”
My stomach twists, guilt tangling with something darker—something that makes me clutch his arm tighter where it’s banded around my waist.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet.
But his guilt bleeds into me, heavy and suffocating, until it feels like we’re both drowning in the same poisoned tide.
His words cut deeper than his touch ever could. The way his voice shakes when he whispers, “I ruined you… I’ve ruined everything,” like he believes it with his whole heart—like he’s already carved it into stone.
I can’t take it. I can’t let him believe that.
“Kai.” My voice cracks, softer than a breath, my fingers curling tighter into his shirt. His chest is damp against my cheek, his heartbeat thrashing beneath my palm like he’s about to split apart. I force myself to lift my head, even when everything in me wants to hide from the mess we’ve made.
“You didn’t ruin me,” I whisper, the words trembling out, almost a sob. “You… you saved me. You keep saving me, even when I don’t deserve it.”
His jaw flexes, his eyes bloodshot when they flicker down to mine. I see the fight there—the fury at himself, the disbelief—but I don’t let go. My hands rise to cup his face, thumbs brushing the rough stubble, holding him like he’s the one breaking now, not me.
“I want you,” I tell him—and this time it doesn’t sound like shame. It sounds like truth, ripped raw out of my chest. “No matter how wrong, no matter how fucked up—it’s you. It’s always been you.”
For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then his forehead falls against mine, his whisper ragged and sharp. “Don’t say that unless you mean it, Scar. Don’t—don’t give me hope when I’m already drowning.”
“I mean it,” I whisper back, my tears streaking hot between us. “I mean it with everything I have.”
His whole body shudders against me, like I’ve just cracked him open.
His hands are different now. No bruising grip, no punishing strength—just a thumb stroking my cheek, soft, as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter beneath him. His lips find my eyes, my temple, the damp trail my tears left behind. Kisses so gentle they make my chest ache worse than his cruelty ever did.
I close my eyes and let myself melt into it, my hands sliding up the sides of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.
He smells like smoke and sin and something that’s only ever been him, and I whisper into the hollow of his throat, “You’re not poison, Kai.
You’re the only thing keeping me breathing. ”
He freezes—just for a heartbeat—then kisses my jaw, slow, lingering. His touch trails down my arm, his fingers threading between mine, and it feels like he’s anchoring himself to me even as I try to tether him back to earth.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” I breathe, words spilling without filter now. “You didn’t ruin me. You’re the reason I’m still here. You’re the reason I get up every day. Don’t you see that?”
He pulls back just far enough for me to see the war in his eyes, the sharp blue dulled by guilt. I kiss his lips—sweet, desperate, clumsy—and he lets me. He lets me guide the tenderness for once.
“You’re not my sin,” I whisper against his mouth, shaking. “You’re my salvation.”
His forehead rests against mine again, his breath ragged, almost broken. His hands cradle my face like I’m something holy instead of something damned, and for the first time tonight, his silence feels like he’s listening instead of punishing.
His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten—locking me against him as though he’s terrified I’ll slip through the smallest crack.
His lips find my temple, then the crown of my head—slow, trembling presses of his mouth that don’t feel like the boy who breaks me against walls.
They feel like the boy who’s drowning and clutching me as his only air.
I let him. I melt into him, fingers tangled in his shirt, breathing him in—smoke, sweat, salt—wrapped around me until it feels like he’s the only thing left in the world. For the first time in days, I let my eyes drift closed, and for a heartbeat, it feels safe.
But then his voice cuts through the quiet—not loud, not rough—just a whisper that tastes like ash.
“I shouldn’t touch you like this,” he murmurs against my hair, his breath hot and broken.
“I shouldn’t want you the way I do. I should’ve protected you.
That’s what I was meant to be. Not this.
Not…” His chest shudders beneath my cheek.
“I’m not good for you, Scar. I’ll destroy you. And I can’t stop.”
My fingers curl tighter in his shirt, clutching, refusing to let him slip further into that darkness. “You won’t destroy me,” I whisper, my voice shaky but sure. “You can’t. I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever.”
He goes still. So still I can hear the uneven drag of his breathing, the unspoken war in his silence.
Then his lips press hard against the top of my head—fierce, desperate—like a vow. “Don’t leave me,” he rasps. “I couldn’t survive it. Don’t ever fucking leave me.”
I swallow, my heart cracking beneath the weight of him. “I’m not leaving.”
The words are fragile, but they’re all I have.
And in the hush of that promise, I feel his guilt coil tighter around us—like a shadow that will never loosen its grip.