The kitchen door slams so hard the glass rattles.
I turn.
Noah is standing there with his jaw locked and his eyes blown wide, his hand clenched around a fistful of paper so tight it’s crumpled into something damp and ruined. His face is flushed, a deep, ugly red creeping up his neck like something crawling.
For half a second, neither of us speaks.
The air feels thick. Pressurised. Like the moment before a storm breaks something in half.
“What the fuck is this?” he snaps.
He throws the papers onto the counter. They skid, fan out.
My stomach drops.
I know them instantly.
Kai’s handwriting is unmistakable—sharp, angular, violent. The ink heavy in places where the pen pressed too hard, like it couldn’t contain him.
Letters.
Not notes. Not scraps.
Letters.
“You went through the bathroom,” I say.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Calm. Flat. Like I’m already bracing for impact.
Noah laughs.
It’s not humour. It’s hysteria wearing teeth.
“I went through the trash, Scarlett,” he says. “Because I was looking for a fucking razor blade, and instead I find a love letter manifesto from a psychopath.”
He grabs one, waves it in the air.
‘You wear his ring but you still dream in my name.’
My throat tightens.
“Did you read them?” I ask.
That stops him.
Just for a second.
His face twitches. His grip tightens until the paper tears.
“Of course I fucking read them,” he explodes. “What do you think I am? An idiot?”
He steps closer. The kitchen suddenly feels too small. The counters too sharp. The exits too far away.
“You hid these,” he continues, voice rising, cracking at the edges. “In my house. In our bathroom. Like some kind of sick little shrine.”
“They weren’t hidden,” I say quietly.
He freezes.
