Her on the lawn.
Bare feet.
Hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
Face blotched from tears.
Eyes blazing.
Beautiful.
Broken.
Alive.
“You were looking for me,” I murmur. “Don’t even pretend you weren’t.”
I drag my thumb along the edge of the picture.
Slow.
Possessive.
“You want to know what watching you lose it does to me?” I smirk. “You want the truth?”
I lean in, lips inches from her photo, voice dropping into something dark and honest: “It wrecks me. It fucking wrecks me.”
My pulse hammers.
Heat flares through my body—raw, impatient, possessive—but I don’t name it. I don’t need to.
“And you’re not done,” I whisper. “I know you. You’re going to keep unraveling. Keep trembling. Keep pretending you don’t want me tearing through that perfect little life.”
I lift the photo off the wall and rest it against my chest for a second, letting the paper bend with my breath.
“You came outside alone.” I grin. “You screamed for me. You begged for me to step out.”
I return the photo to its place.
My voice softens.
Dangerously.
“I will.”
I back up, hands sliding into the pockets of my jacket, head tilted as I admire the chaos I’ve built in her name.
“But not until you can’t decide if you want to run or fall at my fucking feet.”
I flick off the lantern.
Darkness swallows the shrine, but I don’t need the light.
I know every inch of her face by heart.
“Sleep tight, little sister,” I whisper, heading for the door. “You won’t dream your way out of me again.”
Scarlett
