Ready to see if she’d throw a punch or fall apart in my arms.
Probably both.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not for me.
Not yet.
I shift my weight, tucking one hand into my pocket, the other brushing along the bark of the tree beside me. The rough texture grounds me, stops me from going after her too soon, too fast.
You can’t rush hunger like this.
You let it simmer.
You let it grow teeth.
You let it ache until the person on the other end feels it too.
And she does.
Every step she took into these woods was pulled by me.
Every curse she screamed was aimed at me.
Every breath she lost was because of me.
She thinks that’s anger?
That’s a call.
A fucking invitation.
She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
Wind shifts—subtle, soft—and her scent trails back through the branches.
Warm skin.
Adrenaline.
Salt from tears and sweat.
And underneath it…
The scent she used to leave on my shirts.
My jaw flexes.
“Christ, Scarlett. You smell like you want a fight.” Then quieter—“Or something worse.”
The forest listens like it’s afraid to move.
Four years in a cage made me patient but not soft and whatever leash I’ve been pulling on?
It’s fraying.
She’s spiralling.
