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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