Thrumming with violence.
My pulse is steady.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
I’ve imagined this too many times to shake.
The upstairs landing is dim, a soft glow leaking beneath the bedroom door. Their bedroom. His bedroom—but she’s in it, so by default it becomes mine.
I move closer.
I don’t open the door.
I don’t barge in like the monster they tell stories about.
I slip through the small gap Noah didn’t fully close.
The room is warm.
Quiet.
Suffocating.
And there she is.
Scarlett.
Sleeping.
Bare shoulder peeking from the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow, breath soft and uneven like she cried before falling asleep.
My lungs stop working.
“Fuck,” I whisper so softly the air barely moves. “Look at you.”
Her face is turned slightly toward me, enough for me to see the faint stress-line between her brows. She looks exhausted. Fragile. Breakable in ways I never allowed.
Something ugly and tender twists in my chest.
I step fully inside.
Noah is on the other side of her.
Arm draped over her waist.
Body pressed too close.
Face buried near her shoulder like he has the right.
I feel my pulse hit a slow, cold rhythm.
“You’re touching what isn’t yours,” I breathe.
Noah shifts in his sleep, tightening his grip around her like he senses me even in dreams. Like animals do before a storm.
Scarlett inhales sharply—a tiny sound, vulnerable and instinctive.
