Not a fear.
A want.
Her lips are parted, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded as she blinks at me like she’s seeing only shapes and shadows, but she feels me.
She feels me.
My hands clench on my knees to keep from touching her more than I already am.
“Easy,” I murmur, leaning closer, breath brushing her cheek. “You’re not awake.”
She inhales sharply—like just hearing my voice sends something hot and instinctive through her.
Her fingers slide up again, this time across my wrist, weak and trembling and desperate.
I freeze.
Her hand curls around me—barely a grip, more like a plea.
I swallow hard.
“Scarlett,” I whisper, voice breaking through the edges, “you don’t know what you’re doing.”
But she does.
Not consciously.
Not logically.
But her body knows me like it knows air, like it knows gravity.
Her thighs shift slightly under the blanket, a soft restless motion she probably isn’t even aware of. Her head tips toward me, lips brushing my forearm in a ghosted, accidental touch that feels like a match struck against bone.
My breath comes out low and rough.
She whispers again, softer, slurred, broken:
“…don’t… stop…”
My head drops forward, forehead nearly touching hers.
“Fuck,” I breathe, voice shaking with restraint. “You’re killing me.”
She moves again—slow, instinctive, seeking heat, seeking something she can’t name.
Her fingers trail up my arm, clumsy, drugged, but intentional enough that my heart slams against my ribs.
Her body leans toward mine, cheek brushing my chest, breath warm through my shirt.
Every inch of me pulls tight.
“Scarlett,” I whisper, teeth clenched, “I want you. God, I want you so fucking bad.”
She mumbles something I can’t make out, I pull her closer and her breath hits my ear, “your not real. You always come to me when I’m at my worst. You always leave me with your ghost.” She’s still limp but her words crack me open.
“Fuck, Scar…don’t fucking say shit like that to me. Not after what you did. You left me to fucking rot. You forgot me.”
She shakes her head. “No. I—I never—forgot.”
