Ace POV:

She looked away again. Not quick. Not defensive. Just soft—like embarrassment had tied her eyelashes down.

Her eyes dropped to her lap as her teeth caught her bottom lip and stayed there a second too long before her tongue flicked over it.

Her fingers curled tighter around my knee like she needed something to hold on to, and her toes fidgeted in little spasms—curling, unrolling, curling again.

Her stomach lifted in ragged waves like every breath was a fight.

Still floating in that fuzzy little cloud, wasn't she?

Poor, sweet, ruined thing.

And Hell—look at her.

Perched in my lap like she was built for it, thighs spread around mine, posture unconsciously lewd, chest rising and falling in that soft, vulnerable rhythm.

The kind that makes men starve and die.

Even after a year, she still didn't get it. She still didn't see what she did to people. To me.

Tch.

Still my innocent seductress.

"So you'd agree to whatever I ask right now. Right?" I said, offering a smile that wasn't really a smile. It had teeth in it. Hunger.

She looked up at me, lips parted in protest already. So I leaned in, close enough to feel the breath catch in her throat.

"I mean you..." I whispered, just behind her ear, where I knew she'd feel it in her spine. "Don't want me to say out loud the shameless filth I'm thinking about right now."

Because I was thinking it. Loud. And unholy.

But the truth?

I didn't care about the filth. I wasn't trying to be sexy or clever..

I just wanted time.

Time with her. Time like this.

If I asked her to sit beside me—close, willingly, lovingly—she'd probably find a blade and lodge it in my chest.

So I took the filth. Wore it like armor.

Better she think I'm a hungry bastard than let her see what was really beneath it—

The hunger to be loved.

Not pitied. Not feared. Not obeyed.

Loved.

And that was the worst part, wasn't it?

Her eyes met mine, slow and suspicious, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

"I won't stay with you here."

Ah. Of course.

Of course she wouldn't. I could've written that line for her. She always said no.

Always tried to keep her pride stitched up even when she was unraveling under my hands.

So—

"I was going to say," I murmured, fingers unfastening my button with a casual click, "just give me a little peace."

Her head jerked up. "What the hell, Ace," she whisper-yelled, and panic flared across her face like a match strike.

She glanced to the side—toward Ares, of course.

"Shh," I crooned, drawing the zipper down in one deliberate slide.

Then I shifted back into the leather seat and eased the pant down just enough. Just to breathe. Just enough to let the cold air hover over my hot rod. A sigh left me like smoke.

She moved—barely. Her hand came up, rubbed her cheek with the back of her palm like she could scrub away the heat climbing up her face.

She looked away.

But not really.

She couldn't. Because there it was—her gaze, snagged.

Her forehead pinched tight. Her mouth slack. She was staring at me, at the bulge shielded by one last layer of thin fabric. Trapped.

"You know what I'm asking," I said, tilting my head. My grin stretched wide, all saccharine cruelty. "Or else—"

"Okay," she cut in. It came out too fast. Too breathy.

A whisper made of smoke. Shame. Longing. Fear.

My hand found her side again, curling around the bare stretch of her waist, just above her hip.

I dragged my fingers upward—slow, controlled, reverent.

A shiver trembled through her and spilled into my lap. Her hands tightened against my knees, her knuckles flexing.

She didn't want it.

But her body didn't lie.

And Hell help me, I wanted to carve that contradiction into my chest. I wanted to see how far she'd go before she broke.

Not her body—never her body. But that stubborn pride.

That war between disgust and need. I wanted to pull every line of dignity she wrapped herself in and make her watch as I kissed each one before setting it on fire.

And still—she stayed.

That was what ruined me.

I drew her in.

Perfectly positioning her to straddle my rock-hard, throbbing need.

She sits so beautifully on my heat. It was hers afterall.

Her nose brushed mine, feather-light. The closeness was unbearable. Fuck.

"You look pretty, Mini," I murmured, my voice too soft, too hungry.

The words were meant to soothe, but they came out wrong—too raw, too reverent. My eyes drank her in, and it wasn't fair.

I wanted more than she knew how to give. I always had.

A shudder rolled through her. Her breathing hitching.

Her eyes—those wide, soft, breakable eyes—looked up at me like she was trapped under water. But not drowning.

No, she didn't want to be saved. She wanted to be held under longer.

"Can you move, or should I do it myself?" I murmured, my voice lower than it should've been, throat dry from want. Or desperation. Or that blurred place where the two met.

"Do it by yourself," she whispered, her voice so small it cracked in the air between us.

Her head dropped to my neck. Her fingers, unsteady, clung to the back of my hair and nape like they didn't trust the world under her feet.

She clung like I was the ground.

And that was dangerous—for her, not me.

I pressed my nose into her hair like a starving man given bread.

My hands circled her waist, then her hips, and I pulled her forward—slowly, reverently, like she'd break if I moved too fast.

She straightened. Her back stiffened. Her fingers curled in harder.

And then—

I felt it.

Her heat. Pressed right against me. So close, I swore my mind blacked out for a second.

Oh my. It felt like she wasn't wearing anything under.

I nearly came.

"Mrrp."

I froze.

Air thinned. Muscles locked. My breath stopped mid-chest and just sat there, heavy and stupid and lost.

Her face buried deeper. Her cheek burned hot against my skin.

Her fingers curled tighter in my hair like she could climb inside me and vanish.

Her thighs shifted, unintentionally or not, pressing harder against me in some little desperate rhythm even she didn't notice.

"I—I coughed," she muttered. Voice muffled. Weak. Barely there.

Liar.

Sweet, trembling liar.

And I knew—I fucking knew—she wanted to pretend like nothing happened. Like that sound hadn't slipped out from the base of her spine and curled into my skin like a brand.

That wasn't a cough.

It was a crack in the glass.

It was hope.

Tch.

What a beautiful little excuse.

I exhaled slowly, tongue pressed hard to the inside of my cheek, my control hanging by a thread I wanted to set on fire.

My hand moved without my permission—slow, greedy. It slid up her spine, past the trembling line of her neck, tangled itself in her hair.

My other arm clamped tighter around her waist.

Her scalp pulsed under my palm.

I didn't pull. Not yet.

I just breathed her in. Quick, shallow inhales. Then slower. Starving.

Every part of me turned inside out in hunger and ache. Her scent in my nose. Her skin under my mouth.

Then—

I yanked her head back.

Her throat stretched open, soft and vulnerable. Her eyes flickered wide, then fell shut again as I crushed my mouth to hers.

In that collision, she released a small, stifled sound—a guttural "hump" that echoed in my mind like a prayer.

Sucking her lips between mine, I pushed my hips up against hers in a slow, punishing rhythm.

And her body—oh, that treacherous thing—her body responded. Her hips shifted, aligned with mine. Like some muscle memory deeper than her refusal.

Sweet Mini.

Always saying "no" with her mouth and "yes" with everything else.

She didn't kiss me back. But her head tilted.

Her hands fisted my hair. Pulled me closer.

Her lips parted—just barely—but it was enough. Enough space for me to slide in and ruin and claim what was mine.

What had always been mine, even in the months she tried to forget.

I shoved my tongue inside like it belonged there—like it had always belonged there—hot and heavy, curling obscenely against hers with zero finesse.

Hot. Wet. Messy.

Her tongue twitched under mine, shy at first. I licked slow, deep strokes across her palate, dragging the flat of my tongue along the ridges.

Feeling her swallow down a breath like she didn't want me to hear it.

Then I tilted her chin higher. Slanted the angle. Pressed in harder.

My tongue circled hers, coaxing and grinding until I felt her moan—a quiet, choked sound—curl up from her throat like smoke.

She cut it off too fast, embarrassed.

I bit her tongue.

Not hard. Just enough to make her flinch.

Then I licked it. Gentle. Like penance.

I moved to her lower lip, sucked it between my teeth, bit until it swelled. She whimpered against me—quiet, unsure, but there.

My mouth didn't stop. I kissed like it was revenge. Like I could unmake every minute she'd been away from me if I just devoured her deep enough.

Then she broke away—gasping for air, flushed all over.

Her head drooped forward, heavy like she couldn't hold it up anymore.

Like she was drunk on everything we weren't saying. Or maybe just on me.

Our breaths collided—wet and urgent—like the cold air around us had folded in on itself and left nothing but the heat we made.

I thrust my hips again—slow, grinding—and the soft, bitten-off whimper she gave in return nearly undid me.

My grip on her skull tightened, holding her close. Her forehead was pressed hard to mine, the friction between us humming through my spine like it had claws.

I looked down.

Her lips.

Dark pink, raw, swollen, slick with both our spit—ruined and trembling.

I licked my own lips, slow. Greedy.

She looked like a fruit peeled too far. Like a litchi cracked open—tender, flushed, wet. Fragile and meant to be devoured.

Her eyes fluttered open. Barely. Panting.

Her brows drawn so tight I could trace every vein on her temple. Her neck strained beneath the pressure—tendons stark and twitching.

She was holding it in.

Whatever sound she wanted to make—her pride had latched its teeth into it.

Brave, quiet girl. Still trying to look untouched while sitting on top of my cock.

But I saw the ache in her.

And something mean inside me wanted to find it. Press on it. Tear the relief out of her.

My hand slipped downward—dragged along the heat of her side, the softness of her frock—until my palm flattened low over her belly.

Right over the dip of her navel.

Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling like she was trying to blink away the world.

"...D-Don't t-touch th-there," she whispered, voice fraying at the edges

My hand paused at the waistband, fingers hovering, aching.

"Tell me that looking into my eyes," I murmured—low, quiet, as if the sound itself might scare her back into silence.

My gaze didn't waver.

I waited. Not because I was patient. Not because I was kind.

I waited because I needed it to be her choice. I needed her to look at me and still say it.

Seconds dragged. My bones itched. Every breath I took hurt.

And then—

Her lashes lifted. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like her eyes weighed more than her body.

Her gaze met mine.

Fuck.

That look.

She was a live wire wrapped in velvet—terror and trust mixed together in that one, fragile stare.

Her chest rose high and shallow, her breath hitching in stutters.

One of her hands slipped off slightly out of my hair, loosening her grip like she wasn't sure whether to hold on or push me away.

My throat pulsed with restraint.

I exhaled through my nose, jaw tight, and dragged my hand from the back of her head, down the slope of her neck—slower than necessary.

She didn't flinch.

Not even when my fingers trailed along her jaw and finally cradled her face.

Her head tilted—barely. Just enough for her cheek to nestle into my palm like it had always belonged there.

She fit.

This close, everything looked exaggerated. Her flushed cheeks. The gloss on her lower lip. The frantic pulse beneath her skin.

Damn it, she looked like she'd melt if I breathed too hard.

I rubbed my thumb along the curve of her cheek—slow, lazy. Memorizing the feel of her skin like I might be punished for forgetting it.

Still soft. Still warm. Still mine.

Hmmm... everything was the same as the last time I saw her face this close.

Soft. Chubby. That kind of unguarded softness that makes your hands ache to bruise it just to prove it's real.

Except— The moles.

Tiny, insignificant to anyone else. But not to me. Never to me.

She had some new ones now.

One near the edge of her forehead, barely visible beneath her hairline.

Another beside her nose—right there, where my thumb could trace it.

Had I really been gone that long?

Long enough for her skin to write new stories without me?

A muscle ticked in my jaw.

I should've been there to notice the moment they appeared. Should've seen the first speck of melanin bloom on her skin like some secret wanting to be known.

I should've kissed it when it was fresh. I should've been there.

But I wasn't.

My thumb paused by the mole near her nose.

I wanted to kiss it. Or maybe bite it. Not hard— just enough to sting.

But I didn't.

My thumb drifted to her bottom lip, brushing across it. She didn't pull away.

She just...looked at me, breathing unevenly, face still cradled in my hand like she'd forgotten she could say no.

Good.

Let her forget. I'd remember for both of us.

Her lip quivered under my thumb. My lungs felt too tight. I straightened my back slowly, bending toward her like I was sinking into water.

And then I stole a peck. Just one.

A soft, fleeting press of lips. Barely there.

Like a thief brushing past something sacred.

"My sweet Mini," I coaxed, voice honeyed and hoarse. A hum followed.

She closed her eyes again. Of course she did.

Hell, of course she did.

My lips pulled into a slow smirk, twisted and fond all at once.

My eyes glanced behind her, as I saw Ares slowing the car, carefully, considerately, like the little shit he is, and driving slowly over the speedbreaker.

A muscle ticked in my jaw as I watched him through the blurred motion of her hair, and yet— I smirked.

Of course he's wearing that goddamn AirPod. Has been since the moment the engine started.

Obedient little watchdog.

But she doesn't know that.

No, my sweet Mini is trembling—literally trembling—with the effort not to make a single sound too loud.

I can feel it in her thighs. The restraint. The panic.

Every inhale caught in her chest like she's afraid a whimper will escape and bounce off the car windows.

She's holding it in like her dignity depends on it.

And that—

That makes me chuckle.

Because does she really think I would let any man hear the sounds she makes for me?

Her sounds are sacred.

No one—no fucking one—would get that privilege but me.

Meant to echo only inside my mouth, my skull, my sheets. Not the cabin of this car. Not around him.

Her eyes opened suddenly, wild and shiny and overwhelmed.

"A-Ace," she whimpered, her voice catching like she didn't know whether to beg or scream.

Her bottom lip trembled.

And something cracked in me.

My entire body stilled.

She looked wrecked. Fragile. Soft. Like moonlight barely holding its shape.

I stared at her. Just stared.

My pulse roared in my ears. My limbs burned from holding back. And all I could think was—

I did that.

She looked at me like I was something that could both ruin and rescue her.

And she didn't even know which one she wanted.

Hell, help me— I'd give her both.

"Okay–" I murmured, a low, soothing rumble against her ear and slid out my index finger, which was just past her panty waistband

"I won't do anything inside," I continued, emphasizing the word with a deliberate drawl.

I slid down my fingers over her underwear, feigning gentleness, making her head rest against my neck.

But I flinched when my finger reached deep down, feeling the telltale dampness bloom against the fabric.

A visceral jolt shot through me, a wave of raw need that threatened to break my carefully constructed facade.

"Fuck, Mini. you're really heartless," I whispered under my breath, my voice rough with barely suppressed desire.

It was a double-edged comment, a playful accusation that masked a deeper, darker truth.

Her nectar was dripping. Fucking wet. So fucking wet. I didn't expect that, I really didn't think she wanted me that badly.

My lips curled up, a predatory smirk that she couldn't see, as I traced the drenched fabric.

It was sticking tightly to her, clinging to every curve, every contour, outlining her pink nub with tantalizing precision.

Like a map that I was itching to explore.

As I slid my index and middle finger through her clothed folds, applying just a hint of pressure, her back stiffened, her spine arching.

Fuck, if I knew she was this wet, I would have get on my knees, like a gentleman and pushed my head against her heat.

The thought flickered through my mind, a fleeting moment of almost-genuine reverence.

It was a tempting fantasy, a vision of complete surrender. But no. Not yet.

I guess not my lucky day—but a good day.

A damn good day.

And maybe not the one where I got what I wanted—what I craved—but I got a glimpse.

A flicker of something obscene and sacred all at once.

And that glimpse... it had her in it— then by default, it was beautiful.

Even if she hates me. Even if she disappears tomorrow or puts a bullet in my chest—I'll remember this. The scent of her hair. The gloss of her lips. The way her hips jerked against mine like a secret, shameful confession.

And that?

That's enough.

For now.

She raised her head from my neck and looked at me, as I slid out my hand.

Not just looked—searched.

Eyes glassy, lashes heavy with tears, like she didn't even know she was crying until the drop slid down her cheek and kissed my collarbone.

It made something ugly twist inside me.

The same sick, sour twist I felt the first time she cried in front of me—tiny, shaking, terrified after breaking my watch.

And now she was crying. Not because of fear.

Because of me.

Still me.

My gaze flicked behind her just as the car came to a gentle halt, like the universe had the audacity to interrupt this moment.

Ares cleared his throat—loudly. Of course he did.

"We're here, boss!" he called, voice too chipper for someone who clearly wanted to die today.

He got out fast, as if he could sense my rage through the car doors.

She pressed her lips together like she was trying to hold everything in—her voice, her tears, her whole soul—and still, the salt-water spilled anyway.

But she didn't turn away.

She just met my stare. Softly.

Like I was worth looking at, even now.

I moved fast, instinct and panic and hunger all snapping my spine into motion.

My hand cradled the back of her head and I gently eased her down to the seat, my palm guarding her skull.

She didn't resist.

Instead, she pulled me closer.

Her fingers moved—slowly, almost like she didn't trust her limbs—until her palm rested against my cheek.

Her thumb ghosted over my skin. A silent confession. A trembling prayer.

"You... You're stupid..." she whispered, her voice dry and cracking like old paper.

I smiled.

Of course I did.

She could call me anything—coward, cruel, unworthy—and I'd still carve that into my ribs like scripture.

Because she was talking to me. To me. That's all that would ever matter.

"When it comes to relationships," she finished, barely above a breath.

I chuckled. Not because it was funny. Because it was unbearable.

I was unbearable.

And she was still here.

"I apologize," I murmured, still smiling. Still broken. Still laughing because I didn't know how else to survive her.

She smiled too. Barely.

Her lips pulled upward like it hurt to move them.

Dried tears clung to her lashes, framing her eyes like dew clings to dying petals.

And for the first time in a year, I smiled so wide my damn cheeks hurt.

Grinning like a madman who just saw God blink.

"Who is Caleb, Mini?" I asked, pretending like the question wasn't a blade behind my teeth.

I took her palm from my face and pressed her inner hand to my lips. Kissed it like it had answers buried under the skin.

"My neighbor," she murmured. Soft. Honest.

My jaw ticked.

I stared into her—inside her—hunting for cracks. Lies. Guilt. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Just softness. Just her.

And something new.

Something starving. Desperation, maybe.

Or something closer to surrender.

I leaned in and took her lips—gently and she breathed into it. Breathless. Shaky. Real.

My ears perked up at the sound of a knock on the window.

Not now.

Groaning under my breath, I raised my head and saw Ares.

Standing there like a dead corpse, holding my phone up like it was some sacred offering.

I began to pull back, but her hands—her tiny, trembling hands—were still gripping my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.

Our eyes met.

Her lips were parted, soft and pink, the corners twitching like she wanted to say something but couldn't.

And her eyes—God, her eyes were so glossy, so wide and raw—like she was trying to memorize my face in case it all got taken from her again.

I gulped.

Another knock.

Son of a bitch.

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw cracked, and for a moment I really—really—considered breaking Ares' fingers one by one and feeding them back to him like communion.

But then—just like that—her grip loosened.

Fingers uncurled from my shirt like they didn't want to, but had no choice.

I backed away slowly, my body screaming, every inch of my skin itching with loss.

I opened the door and stepped out, and the cold slapped me across the face like a jealous ghost.

The air bit at me—vicious and sharp—biting my overheated skin until my ears burned and itched and begged for mercy.

I scratched at them like a maniac, as if the cold could scrape the tension out of me.

Rubbed my face. Hard

Rubbed until it hurt, until I could force my expression into something less starved and burning.

My heart was still sprinting like I was struck with lightning but I missed by luck.

Looking around I saw we were in parking which was fucking filled with some 5 useless cars.

"King," Ares' voice heard behind me as I adjusted my hair, pants and my very rock hard, dripping, slick boner.

Walking away from the car to a five metre distance, of course he followed silently without asking or recommending a shit.

Because if he asks something I will throw a grenade at him.

He handed me my phone, and I saw Mila calling me.

Great.

Fucking great.

Swiping to the right and placing the phone against my ear, I snapped, "Mila, out of all the time—you decided to call me now?"

There was a pause—only half a second—but it was there.

Her voice came through, calm and composed, every syllable lined with deference.

"Forgive me, my King. I would not disturb you unless it were urgent."

I clenched my jaw.

"What kind of trouble?" I asked, sharper than I meant to. "Speak."

"There is unrest among the villagers," she said, voice smooth but cautious. "They are gathered near the high wall. Word has traveled of your return, and... they await your presence. They have brought offerings. Concerns." A beat. "Accusations."

I glanced toward the car, then toward Ares, standing stiffly and frowning.

"The blood council is not enough for this," Mila added gently. "They seek their King—not his shadow."

Goddamn it.

Mila continued softly, "A child has gone missing, from the northeastern side. A southern field boy was caught defiling the shrine stones—spitting on them and breaking them. They say his father encouraged it. And... there have been tensions."

"The elders fear if you do not intervene now," she said, "the villages will turn against each other. And no council will be able to stop it."

I closed my eyes.

This was not the time.

But I also knew what would happen if I didn't show up.

They would interpret my silence as abandonment. Again. And when kings abandoned their tribes, tribes began to tear themselves apart.

I rubbed my fingers along the edge of my brow. "Tell them I'll come. Tomorrow. I'll send Ares ahead."

"Yes, my King," Mila replied immediately.

The line clicked, leaving nothing but the soft hum of silence.

I lowered the phone and turned around to face Ares, who was already watching me stiffly.

He let out a low sigh. "Shall I leave tonight?"

"Yeah," I muttered, scrunching my brows, already distracted. My gaze shifted automatically toward the car.

That's when my breath caught.

The back door— It was wide open.

I started moving, the phone slipping into my coat pocket, my boots hitting the ground harder than they should've.

And there—

A small figure in the distance, walking away, slowly.

"Mini!!" I shouted, my heart beating fast and loud.

This time she stopped but didn't turn around.but she again started to walk.

Ares stepped forward beside me. His voice was low and dutiful. "Shall I fetch her here, King?"

I clicked my tongue, slow and deliberate. "No..."

Touching her now would shatter what little composure she had left. She'd break.

"Drop her at my mansion," I said, exhaling sharply as I pulled out a cigarette. "And make sure she stays there until I come."

My voice was calm, almost bored, but the warning beneath it ran cold and clear.

It was already late in the evening... past six when I stepped onto my home.

The wind hit like a curse—sharp and insistent—raking its cold fingers through my clothes and down my spine.

My shirt and pants clung to me, not from sweat, but from the brutal way the wind wrapped itself around my frame, pressing the fabric tight like a second skin.

Leaves skittered across the driveway, rattling against stone and the trees bent low, and their branches groaning.

I could barely hear my own thoughts over the rustling—maybe that was a blessing.

My hand hesitated on the front door for a fraction of a second. Then I shoved it open.

Too hard. Let it slam.

I stalked through the hallway, my boots heavy against the floor.

The air inside the mansion was too still. As if it had been holding its breath since I left.

When I reached the living room, Ares was standing at the sliding glass door like he'd been carved there. Back straight. Eyes distant.

He turned the moment he sensed me and bowed.

"Leave," I muttered, not even waiting.

But no. Of course not. He had to get his line in.

"Miss Iris is leaving for Newark today."

Then he was gone.

I rolled my eyes. Scoffed.

Of course she was leaving.

Of course she was.

What else would she do after what happened in the car? After I touched her like I couldn't breathe without her—and then stopped like I was afraid of her answer?

I deserved it.

Didn't mean I could accept it.

I slid the glass door open. The wind punched me straight in the face.

Hard.

My hair whipped into my eyes—wild and relentless. I shoved it back with a hiss, blinked through the blur, and—

There she was.

Standing at the edge of the garden where the clean-cut stone path surrendered to the wild grass, and just beyond that— the forest.

Dense, dark, and yawning open like it had been waiting for her.

She stood like she was listening to it.

Or about to walk into it.

A deep sigh slipped from my lips, slow and heavy, like my lungs had been holding her name in all this time.

She had changed. 

Not her face, not exactly. But her body—

The curves were no longer suggestions. They were declarations now.

Her once-small frame, that used to fold so easily into my arms like she was made to fit beneath my ribs, had lengthened slightly, grown more poised. Not taller. Just... shaped. Slender.

Her hips had bloomed—rounded subtly, pulling the fabric of her dress in just enough to make me grind my molars down.

There was a gentle but unmistakable slope from her ribs to her waist, and then the soft flare of her hips—Goddamnit, like my hands were already molding to the memory of it.

A memory I shouldn't have. A memory I treasure.

And her chest...

Fuller now. A little more weight. A little more curve under the wind-blown fabric, and I hated how my eyes lingered there—but I didn't stop.

She used to be a B-cup. Now?

C.

I knew. I noticed. Like a sick, meticulous bastard, I had noticed the shift before she even turned fully to me.

Because that's what I do. I memorize her. I record her.

She changes and it hurts because every change is a reminder of the time I lost.

Of how far she's gone without me.

Her hair had grown longer. I remembered how it used to stop at her shoulders. 

Now it slid down her back, soft and dark, catching light like silk. 

The breeze lifted it gently, strands dancing, framing her like she belonged in the wild more than in any room I could trap her in.

Something twisted in my chest. Something sharp and wrong and old.

I took a step back.

I shouldn't have come here.

If I had known she was leaving for Newark today—not tomorrow—I would've waited.

Because if she saw me...

She'd say something.

Something small, maybe. Barely a whisper.

But it would sink straight into my stomach like a knife and twist, slow and merciless.

She always had that power.

Then— Like she sensed me.

Not suddenly, but like she'd known all along from the second I stepped into the garden.

She turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

And her eyes—

God, her eyes.

They looked straight into mine.

Not past me. Not through me.

Into me.

And I froze.

My spine went rigid.

Tight. Like a steel rod rammed through my back.

Even the air inside my lungs seeped out too slowly, as if it didn't want to leave without her permission.

There was something about that look she gave me.

It wasn't hate.

It wasn't love either.

It was that unbearable in-between.

The kind that makes you feel like you're still being loved... but only out of habit. Out of memory.

She took a step forward.

And then another.

And another.

And just like that, she walked right past me—

No words. No glance.

Just silence.

I stared down at the stone path, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Then I turned around.

Of course I followed her.

Of course I did.

She was seated, head bowed, hands tangled together like they were holding her steady.

I stopped in front of her, hovering like a ghost afraid to touch the living.

"Iris," I said, my voice rough like gravel, my hand running through my wind-tousled hair. "Let's talk."

Her eyes flicked up.

One second.

Barely that.

Then down again.

As if she couldn't afford to look at me for too long.

She didn't say a word.

Just sat there—silent, small, slipping through my fingers like steam.

"I want to go. Please," she mumbled.

And it broke something inside me.

Not with venom.

But with defeat.

She wanted to go.

Yeah.

Of course she did.

Away from me.

But I moved.

I took one step. Then another.

Then I dropped.

Knees on the floor.

Close— So close to her legs I could feel the heat radiating off her skin.

Her eyes snapped wide, her body jerked, panic flickering through her face like lightning.

But I didn't stop.

I let my head fall to her lap and closed my eyes.

Not to rest. Not to breathe.

But to be there.

To feel her.

To exist like this

The fabric of her dress rustled beneath my cheek and I could feel her thighs tense under the weight of my skull.

"A-Ace..." she whispered, voice tight, hands curling into little fists. "Stop it. Stand up."

"Why?" I said, voice thick, rising from the pit in my chest. "Why do you still want to leave me?"

"You're angry because I left you at the mall," she whispered.

The words were soft, soaked in guilt.

"I'm sorry."

Her apology sliced into me.

Not because it hurt—

But because it missed the mark completely.

My chest tightened.

Tighter.

Did she really believe this was about that?

"Do you think I'm angry at you for that stupid, useless reason?" I murmured, tilting my head up to look at her.

She turned away from me, her voice barely audible. "Maybe."

She didn't get it. She still didn't get it.

Hell.

Is she stupid, or just hiding from what really mattered?

"This isn't about the damn mall," I breathed, the heat of my frustration giving way to a quieter ache.

"I need you to trust me... to give me one chance to make things right."

My voice cracked on the word right.

Because even I didn't know what right meant anymore—only that it had to include her.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

My hands moved to her calves—barely touching, just tracing the curves through the soft fabric of her dress.

I watched her shiver.
And I swore I could feel it through my bones.

Her eyes... They didn't hold anger.

Only sadness.

But she didn't push me away.

And that—

That tiny mercy—

Made something in my chest unclench.

A bitter, fragile smile curled on my lips.

I placed my forehead against her knees again, surrendering.

Not just in posture, but in everything.

Sullen. Soft. Stupidly hers.

Then, her voice echoed in my ears like a sad piano.

"How can I trust you," she murmured, her voice thick with pain, "when you've lied to me again and again?"

The sound of her voice didn't hit me—it drowned me.

Lied.

Again and again.

Yes.

Yes, I had.

I knew I had.

But didn't she see?

Lies weren't meant to hurt her.

They were scaffolding.

What do you call a lie that saves the one you love?

A kindness.

She looked at me, her gaze unwavering, like she was waiting for me to understand something I couldn't quite grasp.

"Ace... we're different," she continued. Her voice was soft, but her grip on reality was iron-clad.

"You and I... we live in different worlds. You know that."

And there it was.

The line I couldn't cross, no matter how much I wanted to.

No matter how many bones I broke trying.

The reminder that I didn't fit.

That I never had.

Not in her world. Not in her arms. Not in the version of me she deserved.

Then her voice broke again.

"What if you hurt me again? What if someday you change your mind and... leave me again?"

I felt like throwing up.

Not because of guilt. Not really.

Because she believed I could ever change my mind about her.

"I won't," I pleaded. My voice cracked like it had been starved of oxygen.

"I won't hurt you or leave you again. Just—"

My mouth felt dry, useless, my tongue too thick for the cage of my teeth.

"Trust me this time... before, I couldn't figure out anything—when I did, it was too late."

And then I whispered it, like I was begging the God I didn't believe in.

"I don't make the same mistake twice."

Lie.

I'd make it again if it meant she'd stay.

But she wasn't done.

No—she was just getting started.

"You promised, Ace. You promised you wouldn't leave me. But you did... just like everyone else."

Her voice cracked around the word everyone, like it betrayed her to even say it.

"Isaac broke my trust, and so did you."

That name.

That fucking name.

It rang in my ears like a weapon cocking.

But I didn't show it. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Because this wasn't about Isaac.

This was about the fact that her voice cracked on my name.

And I liked it.

"I'm scared, Ace," she whispered.

"You don't understand what it feels like to lose everything—" she choked out. "My family. My brother. Everything I thought I could fall back on, gone. Just gone."

Her breath hitched, lashes wet.

"I waited years for Isaac. I thought... I thought if I just stayed good and loyal, he'd come back for me." Her head dropped slightly, ashamed.

"But all that time, he was just using me. For whatever sick reason he had. He used my love, my loyalty, and he didn't even regret it even in his last movement."

"And you..." She swallowed hard. "I was just a dumb, stupid girl to you, wasn't I? Just someone you could break and take whenever it suited you."

Her voice faltered, bitter with self-loathing.

"And I let you. I let both of you."

"No—" I started, but she kept going, and every word was another blow.

"So tell me, Ace. How am I supposed to trust you again?"

"I don't want to be sad anymore. I want to be happy," she said, her voice shaking with exhaustion.

Happy.

What a stupid, clean little word.

What did she think happiness looked like?

A garden?

A family?

Peace?

I could give her none of those things.

But I could give her something better—me.

"It was my fault to love you from the beginning. It was always one–sided. And you're dumb and stupid," she rambled, her fists clenched, like she was arguing with herself now.

"I can't even die or live because of it," she whispered.

My breath stopped.

She said it too casually.

Like it had lived in her throat too long, waiting for a moment to be set free.

"Whenever I think about ending it all, I remember how you made me feel, the way you cared for me, how you liked me..pretended too... then you snatched it all away—"

She paused, her chest rising like she'd been underwater too long.

"What if I give you a chance now and then again you snatch it all again... I am not that type of girl who could be confident that you won't leave me like never."

The tears came then. Silent. Steady.

"I love you," I said.

The words came like blood from a slit throat.

Unstoppable. Messy. Final.

"I love you, Iris. Please."

Her gaze snapped to mine.

And for a second—just a second—I saw something behind the tears.

Something like... like hope. Or pain. Or both.

But it was gone too fast. Vanished.

Like it had never been there.

"Don't say that if you don't mean it," she whispered, wiping her tears.

"Don't say that if you don't mean it," she whispered, wiping her tears with trembling fingers.

Then she stood.

She stood and turned and took a step away—

Like she was walking out of my arms. Out of this.

Out of us.

And I— I reached.

I grabbed her wrist, gentle but unyielding.

"Do I look like someone who would say those words to someone just like that?" I asked, looking up at her, frustration coiled hot in my gut..

Her mouth opened, just slightly.

But nothing came out.

Not even air.

And then, slowly— I let her wrist go.

I stood up.

And in that moment, I towered over her.

Even my shadow swallowed hers whole.

"I thought you were staying with me before because of pity, or kindness, or gratitude," I confessed, my voice rough, words cracking under the weight of all the things I'd never had the courage to say.

"Not love. And I... I apologize for being so stupid. So fucking oblivious."

The words tasted like rust in my mouth.

"Our world is different. You are different, and that's okay—" I tried to reassure, to rebuild what I'd broken.

"It isn't," she cut in, sharp and final. "Even if I place a ladder, I can't climb up to you—"

I stepped forward like a man shedding his skin.

"Then I'll climb down." My voice cracked open. "I'll even crawl, Iris. I'll drag myself through glass if that's what it takes. But I won't stop until I come down to you."

My pride, my name, my ego—I threw it all away and left it burning behind me.

She blinked slowly. Once. Then again.

And still didn't move.

Her chest rose with a slow, suffocating inhale, the kind that said: this is going to hurt no matter what.

I reached out my hand. Not like a king. Not like a monster. Like a man begging for something he already knows he can't keep.

But she stepped back.

"I can't," she whispered. Her voice was soft but final. "I'm going back to Newark tonight."

My hand stayed outstretched—hanging, hopeless, ridiculous.

She tilted her head to the side slightly, as if something inside her had snapped—not loudly, but silently, where no one could hear it.

Then she exhaled, a sound so hollow it didn't even reach her lips.

I pulled my hand back slowly, like it had been burned.

"Do you love anyone?" I asked, because I was sick enough to want the truth, even if it gutted me.

She wiped her cheeks, the trace of a smile forming.

But it wasn't victory. It was surrender.

And then—she stepped forward.

"I do," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around my waist like it was the last thing in the world she wanted to remember.

Not because she forgave me. Not because she was staying.

Because she loved me—and was still leaving.

Everything inside me paused like the world took one breath and forgot to let go.

I stood there, frozen. My arms limp at my sides. She held me like I was something precious and dying.

Because in that moment, I realized:

She didn't leave because she didn't love me.

She left because she did.

I pulled her slightly away, needing to see her. Needing her pain.

Needing proof that she was hurting like I was, because if she wasn't, then this wasn't love—it was execution.

Her face was soaked, lips quivered., and yet so heartbreakingly beautiful it made me want to smile.

"You want to hurt me like I hurt you?" I choked out, voice shredded by too many nights of pretending I didn't care.

"Then fine, do it. You want to shoot me, stab me, push me off the building—anything."

And I meant every word.

Let her kill me. Let her break my ribs open and rip my heart out with her bare hands. At least it would be hers.

I'd rather die by her fingers than live in a world where she wasn't mine.

But she didn't flinch. She just smiled—weakly, like something inside her had already snapped.

Her hand lifted, slow, gentle, resting over my heart.

"You're too precious for me to hurt," she whispered.

And then—

She kissed me. Not on the lips. Not with heat or hunger.

Her lips brushed my jaw like a goodbye folded in silk— soft, reverent, and cruel in its gentleness.

I clung to her. Pathetic. Desperate. Gone.

My tears blurred everything—her face, the room, my own hands shaking around her as if I could anchor her to me.

"Please, Iris," I begged, my voice fracturing. "Please don't leave me... I... I'm begging you."

She swallowed the sob in her throat. Her eyes were swollen, red, her tears falling freely now.

And then she looked at me, "Take care, Ace," she whispered. Her voice wasn't cold. It was final.

She turned toward the door.

Her footsteps toward the door were the loudest sounds I'd ever heard.

And just like that— she was gone.

The silence afterward wasn't silence. It was deafening.

A roar of absence so loud it drowned out the sound of my own breath.

Tears fell freely now, hot and aimless, dripping from my jaw like shame.

I couldn't hold it in—no matter how hard I bit down on the inside of my cheek, no matter how long I clenched my jaw to keep it from trembling.

The shaky, pathetic breaths broke out of me in stuttered gasps, as if my lungs had given up pretending to be strong too.

I dropped to my knees.

The impact was sharp, but I welcomed it—needed it.

Pain felt like proof I was still real.

My hands gripped my knees, knuckles bleached white, holding on like a man bracing for a storm that had already torn through everything.

But it was no use.

Everything I'd spent years trying to control—every emotion I'd buried, every lie I'd told myself to keep her close without letting her in—came crashing down.

The armor shattered. The mask crumbled.

And beneath it all was just me.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

Pathetic.

I had promised her so much. Whispered vows like lifelines, swore I'd protect her, that I'd be better, that I'd never let her hurt again.

But I lied.

Not with words.

With actions.

Again. And again. And again.

Every time I said I'd change, I meant it—didn't I?

Didn't I?

Or was it just another lie I told myself to feel like I was a man worth loving?

She had loved me.

God, she had loved me.

Even with the shadows wrapped around my soul like barbed wire. Even when I was cold and vicious and quiet and cruel.

Where others saw a monster, she saw a man.

She had loved that man.

The one I didn't let anyone see.

The one I tried to kill every day because I hated what he felt.

And I—

I, brilliant idiot that I am, turned away. Left her stranded in that hell I call a heart, hoping she'd just... what? Survive?

She accepted me. Even when I didn't.

Even when I couldn't.

And now she was gone.

No more soft footsteps behind me.

No more flowers in her hair.

No more stupid little smiles that wrecked me for days.

Because here's the truth no one tells you:

Love—real love—doesn't give a damn about power.

You can't conquer it. You can't buy it. You can't seduce it into staying when you've wrecked it one too many times.

Love demands things I never learned to give, never wanted to learn.—

Softness.

Trust.

Surrender.

She had offered those things freely. With trembling hands and a stubborn heart.

And I crushed them.

I could torture a man for hours without blinking.

I could run an empire of fear without flinching.

But ask me to sit in silence and stay—truly stay—for someone who loves me?

I ran.

Like a goddamn fucking coward!

And now?

The only person who ever reached inside my ribcage and touched my soul with clean hands is gone.

I let her slip through my fingers like she was made of sand and I was too proud to close my hand.

Now all I had was dust.

I built this ending brick by brick.

And I had no one to blame but myself.