It was the version of Kai that lives in my head, the ghost I can’t kill, the shadow that grows every time I try to forget.
Noah sees the flicker in my eyes.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s the look.”
His hand slides up my arm, slow, possessive. “The look that says he still has you.”
I pull away.
He grabs my wrist—not painfully, but firmly enough that I feel it everywhere.
“We are not done talking,” he says.
“I am.”
“No.” His voice is quiet. Deadly. “You don’t walk away from me when you’re like this.”
I wrench my arm free.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Noah’s chest rises, falls—once, twice—with the kind of restraint that looks like it hurts. His voice turns cold.
“Go upstairs,” he repeats. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”
I stand there.
Frozen.
Shaking.
Breathing too fast.
He waits.
And the worst part?
I’m not scared of Noah.
I’m scared of what happens if I stay.
So I turn.
And walk up the stairs.
Each step creaks under the weight of something inevitable, something violent, something that feels like the beginning of an unraveling I can’t stop.
Behind me, Noah doesn’t follow.
He just stands there.
Watching me with a fury that feels a lot like fear.
I slam the bedroom door behind me so hard the frame shudders.
The room is too quiet, too clean, too staged—like it’s mocking me with every perfect surface. I pace once, twice, the sound of my heels sharp against the hardwood, anger burning under my skin so hot I can barely breathe.
Everything I feel is wrong.
