The onions are black now. Smoking.
Ruined.
Just like the quiet life I tried to build on top of a lie.
Behind my ribs, something old and feral stirs.
And for the first time, I don’t wonder if Kai will come for me.
I wonder how much blood Noah is going to spill trying to stop him.
“Noah—”
I barely get his name out before he moves.
He crowds me, backing me into the counter so hard my spine rattles against marble. The pan behind me screeches as it tips, oil spitting like it’s furious too.
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t say my name like you still get to soften this.”
I can feel him shaking. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Rage that’s been looking for permission.
“I tried to give you space,” he continues, voice tight and sharp. “I tried to be patient. I told myself everyone has history, everyone has ghosts.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the letters again, slamming them down between us.
“But this?” he says. “This isn’t history. This is an obsession.”
I shake my head, tears already burning.
“It’s not what you think.”
He laughs — loud, hollow, ugly.
“Oh, it’s exactly what I think,” he says. “You don’t keep letters like this unless you’re feeding something.” He leans closer, his face inches from mine. “So I’ll ask you once.”
His eyes flick to my throat. My chest. Like he’s looking for evidence carved into me.
“Did you fuck him?”
The word hits like a gunshot.
I stop breathing.
Everything stops.
Noah watches it happen — the way my face goes blank, the way my mouth opens without sound, the way my eyes betray me before I can build a lie fast enough.
His pupils dilate.
“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh fuck.”
He straightens slowly, like something inside him just locked into place.
“You did,” he says. Not a question now. A verdict. “You fucked him.”
“Noah, I?—”
