The morning light was weak—filtered through nicotine-stained curtains, the kind that didn't so much block the sun as negotiate with it. Dust hung in the air like it had nowhere else to be. The silence was heavier now, softer. Like something spent.
She was curled against me.
Not draped. Not posed.
Curled.
One leg tangled between mine. One arm tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair, mussed and still damp in places, had spilled across my chest like strands of gold dulled by ash. Her breathing was slow. Not the slow of sleep—but of trust.
Of ownership.
I didn't move.
Not yet.
There was something satisfying in the weight of her against me. Not just warmth—submission, distilled into posture. Her bare skin touched mine without hesitation. No shame. No tension. She wasn't afraid of being close anymore.
Because there was nowhere left to run.
I lifted one hand—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Her lips parted faintly in response, like she was dreaming of something familiar. Maybe donuts. Maybe me. Probably both.
A flicker of a smile touched the corner of my mouth.
She had no idea how much she gave away like this.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe that was the point.
Her hand shifted in her sleep—resting over my ribs. Fingers flexing once. A small, unconscious clutch. Like she was making sure I was still here. Still real. Still hers, in the way that only someone completely possessed could believe.
She made a sound.
Not a word. Just a small, breathy noise.
Then her lashes fluttered.
And she opened her eyes.
Golden. Clouded with sleep. Unafraid.
She blinked slowly. Then—without speaking—pressed her face a little closer into my chest. Like the sight of me wasn't quite enough. Like she needed to feel me to be sure she hadn't dreamed the night before.
"Morning," I murmured.
Her only response was a soft exhale against my skin.
Not quite a sigh.
Not quite a moan.
I let my fingers trail down the curve of her spine. Barely a touch. Just enough to remind her that I still could. That the night hadn't emptied me.
She shivered.
Not cold.
Never cold.
Just alive in a way that had nothing to do with blood.
"You're not tired," I said. Not a question.
She shook her head, but didn't lift it.
"I didn't say stop," I added, voice low.
This time, she smiled.
Small. Private.
She shifted slightly—just enough for her thigh to brush higher against mine, deliberate in the way only something half-asleep and wholly possessed could be. I felt her breath at the base of my throat, warm and steady. Her nose nudged against my collarbone like a cat finding its favorite spot.
Still no words.
But there didn't need to be.
When I tilted her chin up, her eyes met mine without hesitation. Still hazy, still soft from whatever dreams she'd wandered through. But aware. Entirely. She didn't flinch from my gaze. She leaned into it. Like the act of being seen by me had become her new gravity.
Her blush was subtle—barely there, a pink dusting at the top of her cheeks, like the memory of heat rather than the thing itself.
"Say it," I said quietly.
Her lashes lowered, but she didn't look away.
"I'm yours," she whispered.
It wasn't rote.
It wasn't resignation.
It was a ritual now.
The way her voice folded around the words made it feel like a hymn.
I stroked my thumb along her bottom lip, slow. Her breath hitched. She parted her lips without thinking. And I slid my thumb in—light, testing, remembering the way her mouth had responded before.
Her tongue grazed it once.
Deliberate.
The faintest shiver passed through her.
And that blush—faint, innocent, sinful—deepened again.
"Good girl," I murmured.
She made a soft, pleased sound against my hand. Then nuzzled closer again, as if that single phrase had unlocked something warm inside her ribcage.
We stayed like that for a while. No hurry. No noise. Just the press of skin and the quiet heartbeat between us.
Until she said—without lifting her head:
"…We're not going back to the temple, are we."
"No," I said. "Not yet."
A pause.
Then, muffled against my chest:
"Good."
It was the first opinion she'd voiced in hours.
I let it sit.
Let it bloom.
Because it meant something.
She wasn't asking for permission.
She was choosing to agree.
A small shift. A dangerous one.
And I didn't stop her.
Because part of me—buried under the cold and the calculation and the cruelty—
Wanted her to keep choosing me.
Even now.
Even broken.
Even like this.
Outside, the morning had finally gathered the courage to be real. Light leaked through the edges of the curtains like guilt through a cracked smile.
But we didn't move.
Not yet.
Because sometimes the aftermath was the most honest part.
And I wanted her to stay honest with me.
For just a little longer.
She shifted again—bare skin brushing against mine, her thigh curling higher until her hips were pressed full against me. The plush still lay discarded at the edge of the bed like a trophy we no longer needed to acknowledge. Her breath, warm against my sternum, deepened—calmer now. Less desperate. More certain.
A queen undone.
And rebuilt.
Her fingers flexed once more over my ribs, not out of need, but instinct. She wasn't anchoring herself to me.
She was reminding herself she belonged there.
I moved a hand to her jaw, tilting her face up again—slow, guiding, never gentle. Her eyes met mine without hesitation. That faint flush was still painted across her cheeks, just enough to color her submission without cheapening it. Not embarrassment. Not shame.
Surrender, made permanent.
She didn't ask what I wanted.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she kissed me.
It wasn't urgent.
It was deep.
Soft and slow and drawn-out, like a confession sealed with breath. Her tongue traced mine with the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly what I liked—because she'd spent the night learning it, shivering beneath it, breaking for it.
When I pulled back, her lips were parted, wet, inviting.
Her voice followed like an afterthought.
"We should eat."
I raised an eyebrow. "Donuts?"
She blinked once. That blush flared again—stronger this time. Not because of the question.
Because of the memory.
Because of the bathroom.
"You're insatiable," she muttered.
But she was smiling now. Soft, helpless.
Human.
I rolled onto my side, pulling her fully against me again. "No," I said, brushing a thumb across her lower lip. "You're the one who started sucking things in public."
She flushed deep now. Her thighs pressed together unconsciously, and she made that tiny breathy sound again—half gasp, half protest.
"I didn't think anyone would hear."
"They did."
"And you didn't stop me."
I grinned. "Of course I didn't."
She huffed against my chest, trying not to smile. Failing.
But she didn't look away.
Didn't pull back.
Didn't even pretend she regretted it.
Her hand drifted down, resting low on my hip now, fingers splaying with quiet ownership. "Fine," she said, breath warm against my skin. "Let's get donuts. But I'm picking the place this time."
I blinked. "You have a preference?"
"I know what I like."
I leaned in, brushing my mouth against her ear. "So do I."
She shivered again. But didn't pull away.
Instead, she smiled.
And this time?
She didn't blush.
--------------------------------------
The light was changing.
Not the filtered kind that slipped through motel curtains like an afterthought—but real light. Morning light. Honest. Unforgiving. The kind that doesn't knock before it enters.
She felt it first.
Her body went still—bone-deep still. Not afraid. Not surprised.
Remembering.
I watched her lift her head slowly from my chest, as if the air had turned unfamiliar. Her hair, tousled and clinging to her cheek, caught the edge of the rising gold. She turned toward the window like a dog hearing something long dead.
"It's louder than I remember," she said.
I didn't ask what.
She answered anyway. "The sun."
I sat up beside her. The sheet slipped down her shoulder. I watched her throat work as her eyes caught the creeping warmth of day. Dust curled in the light like it, too, had forgotten what it meant.
"How long has it been?" I asked quietly.
She didn't blink.
"Four hundred and ninety-two years."
Her voice didn't shake.
But her hands had curled in the sheets.
Not trembling.
Anchoring.
"I forgot the shape of it," she whispered. "The way it reached everything. Even the things that tried not to be found."
She didn't say it aloud, but I heard it anyway.
Even me.
I stood.
Her eyes followed.
When I moved to the door, she sat up straighter. "You can't," she said. Not in fear. In fact.
"I can," I said.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then narrowed her eyes. "You shouldn't."
I turned the lock. Let a sliver of sunlight break across the carpet.
The Grimoire hadn't explained this one. Just spat out gifts like a cosmic vending machine—random, selfish, cruel. Some powers came with elegance. Some came with costs. Some came with no instruction at all.
This one?
A while back, I woke up at noon and didn't catch fire.
That was all I got.
No explanation.
No rules.
No guarantee it wouldn't change tomorrow.
But this morning, it still held.
"I don't burn," I said. "Not right now."
She didn't believe me.
Not really.
But I held out my hand anyway.
"Come see."
She hesitated. Not because she doubted me.
Because some parts of pain become sacred.
And letting them go feels like betrayal.
I stepped outside.
The light caught me.
No pain.
Just heat.
Heavy and indifferent, like the sun didn't care whether I belonged there or not. It just kept shining.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the doorway like she thought it might bite. Then—slowly, as if crossing a threshold between eras—she stepped forward.
First a toe.
Then the arch of her foot.
Then the rest of her.
She didn't combust.
Didn't hiss or recoil.
She gasped.
Soft.
Sharp.
Her arms went slack at her sides. Her head tilted back. And I watched her face change in real time—first confusion, then awe, then something dangerously close to joy.
The sun poured over her like something familiar rediscovered.
Her hair lit like fire through gold leaf. Her skin shimmered. Not supernatural. Just… alive.
Tears welled.
Not from grief.
From recognition.
"It's warm," she breathed.
I didn't answer.
I just stepped behind her. Rested my hands gently on her waist.
And for a moment, I didn't own her.
Didn't control her.
I just held her.
While she remembered what it felt like to be a thing the world hadn't turned away from.
Her voice broke on the next word, almost too quiet to catch.
"…Thank you."
I pressed my mouth to her temple, warm against warmer.
"Don't thank me," I said. "Thank the machine."
And she did something then I hadn't seen in lifetimes.
She laughed.
Light, broken, radiant.
And in that moment?
She wasn't my ruin.
She was just my girl.
Basking in a sun that had forgiven her for surviving.
She didn't rush back inside.
Didn't ask how long it would last.
She just stood there, barefoot on concrete still cool from night, head tilted toward a sky that had forgotten her. The sunlight touched her like it had been waiting for her to come home. And she—goddess, weapon, ruin—stood still and let it.
I didn't interrupt.
I let her take it.
Because whatever the Grimoire had given me, it had given her this too—through me. A borrowed miracle. A loophole. Maybe just a glitch.
Didn't matter.
She was in the sun.
And she was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with me.
That bothered me.
But not enough to ruin it.
She turned finally, hair gleaming like polished brass, her eyes unreadable behind the shimmer.
"What now?" she asked.
"Breakfast," I said.
She blinked.
And then smiled.
—————————-
The city didn't know what to do with us.
Daylight washed the grime a little cleaner, and the people walking by wore headphones and yesterday's sleep. No one looked twice. Maybe that was the power. Maybe we'd become invisible in the right kind of way. Or maybe monsters just blended better when they smiled.
We found a bakery.
Not fancy. Not famous.
Just warm.
The kind of place with scuffed tile and old jazz leaking from dusty speakers. Kiss-shot hovered near the display, eyes wide—not hungry, but curious. A tray of melonpan. Rows of sweet rolls. The kind of decadence that meant nothing to immortals and everything to girls who'd forgotten they could want things.
She picked a pastry like it was sacred.
And when we sat by the window—sunlight pouring across our table like a dare—she ate slowly.
Delicately.
Eyes fluttering shut with the first bite.
Crumbs on her lips again.
But this time, she caught me watching.
She leaned in just slightly. Not to offer a taste. Not to tease.
Just… to be closer.
"I like this," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Not the food. The light."
"The moment," I said.
She nodded.
And her hand brushed mine on the table. Not possessive. Not begging.
Just present.
Alive.
Real.
Outside, the street moved on. Horns. Footsteps. Dogs yapping at pigeons. The world too busy to notice the impossible happening in plain sight.
But inside?
Time slowed.
And for the first time since I'd taken her apart—
She didn't feel like a ruin.
She felt like something starting.
Something dangerous.
Something beautiful.
And when she looked at me across that sun-drenched table, eyes gold and wide and still a little bruised from everything I'd done to her—
She said the one thing I hadn't expected.
"Don't let this be a mistake."
I leaned forward, touched my thumb to her jaw, and said:
"It already isn't."
We didn't speak again until the second pastry.
This one was filled with red bean paste. She bit into it slowly, not for taste, but memory. Her eyes were unfocused, not dreamlike—just far away. A queen still learning how to sit still in borrowed sunlight.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, she was watching the light bend across my knuckles as I reached for my coffee.
"You're not as cruel in the daylight," she murmured.
I looked at her over the rim of the cup. "No. I'm just quieter about it."
Her lips twitched. Almost a smirk.
But then—quietly—she reached across the table and touched my wrist. Light. Thoughtful. Her thumb brushing over my pulse, like she wanted to prove it existed.
Like she needed it to.
"I don't think I could've survived this long," she said, "if I didn't learn how to love the people who hurt me."
I didn't answer.
Because there wasn't an answer to that.
Just a truth that echoed too cleanly in my bones.
————————-
We walked after that.
Nowhere in particular.
Just away from the shop, into streets that hadn't yet decided what kind of day they wanted to be. Everything smelled like wet concrete and sun-warmed metal. Old vending machines hummed to life when we passed. A stray cat blinked at us from a fence and didn't run.
She kept brushing close—shoulder grazing mine, occasionally falling behind only to catch up again. Not clinging.
Orbiting.
Her skin, for once, didn't seem afraid to breathe.
I caught her tilting her face toward the sky more than once. Eyes closed. Letting the sun bleed into places that had been empty for centuries.
But even now, even like this—
I felt it first.
The shift.
Not in her. Not in me.
In the air.
Like something had been watching long enough to be bored.
We paused at a small park. One of those quiet spaces crammed between buildings, never fully planned, just… allowed to exist. A rusted swing. A bench half-eaten by ivy. A tree that had no business surviving here but did anyway.
She sat. Crossed one leg over the other. Picked at the edge of her sleeve like it was new fabric she hadn't earned yet.
I didn't sit.
I scanned the edges of the space—eyes narrowed, breath slow.
Not human danger.
Something colder.
Older.
Distant.
But watching.
"Lucien," she said quietly.
I turned.
She was watching me now.
Not scared.
Just aware.
"You feel it too," she said.
I nodded once.
"Are they coming?"
I shook my head. "Not yet."
She looked away. Toward the sun-dappled branches overhead. "Then let me pretend it's still just us."
And I did.
For as long as I could.
———————-
She didn't flinch when he stepped into view.
But she did lean slightly closer to me, like a reflex—not protection. Just… alignment. As if my shadow had become her natural compass.
The man at the edge of the park looked like he'd wandered in by mistake and decided to charge rent for it. Cheap coat. Cheaper posture. Expression like he'd gotten bored halfway through pretending to care.
I knew that face.
Deishuu Kaiki.
Con artist. Charlatan. The kind of man who showed up when something valuable was nearby—not to take it, but to remind you it could be sold.
Kiss-shot didn't react. She stared like you might stare at a street performer you weren't sure was part of the act.
"Do you know him?" she asked quietly.
"No," I said. "But I know of him."
She gave me a glance. Curious. Controlled. "Friend?"
I snorted. "That'd imply trust."
Kaiki raised one lazy hand in greeting. Not a wave. Just acknowledgment. The way smoke acknowledges a fire without bothering to help.
"Lucien," he drawled. "I thought that was you. Hard to miss the smell of inevitability."
"Kaiki," I said. "Didn't realize you were still in the business of loitering professionally."
He smirked. "Oh, I'm a hobbyist now. You'd be amazed how lucrative passive observation is. Especially when the people being observed are… interesting."
His eyes flicked to Kiss-shot.
She didn't blink. Didn't move.
But her grip on my sleeve tightened.
Not because she was scared.
Because she was annoyed.
"You're wasting your time," I told him.
"Wasting time is the point," he replied. "That's where all the value hides. Besides, I'm not here to interfere. Just to existnearby. Like bad weather."
I sighed.
Kaiki always showed up like a fly in the room you hadn't noticed until it landed on your lip. Not dangerous. Just… insistent.
"You can go now," I said.
He shrugged. "Eventually."
Then turned, as if the wind had reminded him he was boring even himself.
"Enjoy the day," he called over his shoulder. "They're rarely free."
We watched him go until his silhouette melted back into the urban static.
Kiss-shot looked up at me. "What was that?"
I shrugged. "A mosquito in human form."
Her brow furrowed. "Should I have killed him?"
I smirked. "No. He's not worth it."
"Then why does he feel like a splinter?"
"Because he's the kind that stays under the skin."
She nodded once, thoughtful.
But her fingers slipped into mine as we turned away. Not anxious.
Just present.
Kaiki was gone.
But his presence lingered like old smoke in a clean room.
And I made a note—quiet, internal—to make sure he didn't come back smelling like anything useful.
———————
We left the park behind like a half-remembered lie.
The sun kept spilling gold across rooftops, bleeding through wires and railings, catching on glass like it wanted to be seen. She walked close again—not brushing me this time, but matching me. Perfectly. Step for step. Like she'd finally remembered how to walk beside someone instead of behind.
We didn't speak for a while. Words felt too sharp under this kind of light. Like they might splinter if used carelessly.
She tilted her face to the sky again, eyes closed, lashes catching sun. And for a moment I saw her not as a vampire or a weapon or something ruined and rewritten.
Just… a girl.
A girl who hadn't felt warmth in five centuries and didn't quite know how to hold it.
I watched her like I was afraid she'd vanish into it.
"I want something sweet," she said suddenly.
Not a request.
A statement.
I raised an eyebrow. "Did the donut not count?"
She gave me a look—just enough side-eye to prove the spark was still there beneath all that silence and surrender. "That was ritual," she said. "This is craving."
So we found a stall. One of those crooked little setups tucked between arcades and shrines, selling skewered fruit dipped in syrup thick as lacquer. She chose the strawberries.
Watched the vendor with quiet intensity. Like she didn't trust the sugar not to betray her.
She licked the first one—slow, uncertain—then bit down, and for the first time all morning, made a sound that wasn't breath or agreement.
A small, muffled moan.
I didn't say anything.
But she caught the look I gave her.
Blushed. Barely.
And licked the second one a little slower.
On purpose.
"This is dangerous," I said.
Her mouth curled. "Then stop watching."
"You know I won't."
Her third bite was silent.
But her eyes never left mine.
We walked again after that, down a narrow alley overgrown with vending machines and half-lit signs. A cicada buzzed somewhere overhead, already impatient with the heat. She finished the strawberries and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand like she'd just won something.
We passed a photo booth.
Old. Faded. The kind teenagers used to cram into to prove they'd touched someone once.
She paused.
"You want to go in?" I asked, surprised.
"I don't know," she said. "I think I want… something that won't fade."
The honesty in her voice caught me off guard.
And that was the problem.
She wasn't supposed to want things.
Not anymore.
But I held the curtain open anyway.
She stepped inside.
And I followed.
———————
The curtain fell shut behind us with a whisper—soft, final, like it understood it was about to witness something it wasn't built for.
Inside, the booth smelled like old receipts and plastic polish. The kind of scent that belonged to another decade. The bench was narrow, padded with something that remembered comfort only vaguely. She sat first, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap like a girl pretending not to be royalty.
I slid in beside her.
Close, but not touching.
The machine blinked to life with a pixelated chime. The kind of light that flattened everything. Exposed it. No glamour. No shadows to hide behind.
She shifted slightly. Her thigh brushed mine.
"Is this… stupid?" she asked.
Her voice wasn't uncertain.
It was small.
Not in volume.
In scope. In scale. Like she wasn't used to letting herself want things that didn't bleed.
"No," I said.
She didn't smile. But something loosened in her shoulders. A tension she hadn't noticed, the kind that lived under the skin like scar tissue.
The screen prompted us. Pose one.
She didn't move.
So I leaned in and tilted her chin toward me. Not roughly. Just enough to make her look at me the way the lens would see her.
Click.
Pose two.
She looked forward this time, expression unreadable. Beautiful. But blank.
I reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. My knuckles brushed the edge of her jaw.
Click.
Pose three.
Her eyes flicked to mine.
And this time… she smiled.
Small. Barely there.
But real.
Click.
Pose four.
No instruction.
No warning.
I leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Her breath caught. Visibly. Like the booth had grown smaller, warmer, too fast.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't lean in either.
She just let it happen.
Click.
The machine whirred, spitting out the strip of photos with a mechanical sigh. I pulled it from the slot. Held it up to the light. Each frame a different truth. A different version of her, captured in seconds she hadn't meant to surrender.
She leaned closer, shoulder pressing against mine. Her hair smelled faintly of sugar and steam.
"I look…"
"Alive," I said.
She didn't reply.
But she didn't deny it either.
I folded the strip and handed it to her.
She took it without looking.
Held it like a relic.
And in that cramped, dusty little box, lit only by the hum of an old bulb and the ghost of laughter that hadn't echoed in years, she whispered—
"Thank you."
She didn't move to tuck the photo strip away. Didn't hide it in her sleeve or fold it like something precious that needed to be protected. She just held it. Fingers light. Careful. Like it was the only fragile thing in the world she was allowed to touch without breaking.
Outside, the hum of the alley continued—cicadas, vending machines, a scooter rattling by somewhere on the main road. But inside the booth, the world had shrunk to the breath between us. The silence wasn't empty now.
It was intimate.
She turned the photo strip over once, studying the blank back. Then—hesitantly—she glanced at me.
"Can I keep it?"
"As long as you know it's not going to fade," I said.
Her lips parted. Just slightly. "Not if I don't let it."
Something about that line stuck in my ribs—like it didn't come from her mouth, but from someplace older. Somewhere bruised but not broken.
The curtain fluttered as I pushed it aside, and we stepped back into the sunlit alley, blinking against the warmth. It caught in her hair like it was trying to finish what the photo booth had started—painting her in something golden, something real.
She walked a little ahead now.
Just a step.
Just enough to remind me she wasn't a thing that had to be led anymore.
I let her.
Because I liked the view from behind.
"You want to do something else?" I asked, already knowing she did.
She nodded without looking back. "Something pointless."
"Specific," I said.
But I meant it as approval.
She stopped at a claw machine outside a run-down convenience store. Inside, the toys were faded and sagging—plush ghosts of better days. One of them was a rabbit with one ear half-torn and a ribbon dangling from its neck.
She pointed. "That one."
"You realize it's rigged."
"I know."
I slipped a coin in anyway. Guided the claw. Missed the rabbit on the first try, intentionally.
She noticed.
"You're drawing this out on purpose," she said.
I didn't look away from the joystick. "Maybe I like watching you want things."
Her expression didn't change.
But she bit her lip.
Softly.
Second try. The claw dipped, twitched, caught the rabbit by the ear.
Lifted.
Dropped it.
She flinched. Just a little.
Third try. Clean grab. The rabbit thunked into the chute like a body. She reached for it, brushing my hand in the process.
"You spoil me," she murmured.
"No," I said. "I ruin you."
She held the rabbit close to her chest and smiled.
"Same thing."
And this time, I didn't argue.
She didn't let go of the rabbit.
Not when we left the alley. Not when we turned onto a quiet street that smelled like asphalt and last night's rain. It clashed with her—this sad little toy pressed to her chest like a relic—but she held it like it mattered. Not because it was valuable.
Because it was hers.
That, I understood.
We didn't speak again for a few blocks. Not because there was nothing to say, but because saying it would've ruined the taste still left in the air—sugar and heat and something warm blooming behind her ribs.
Eventually, she said, "You didn't have to win it."
"I know."
She looked down at the rabbit, tracing the loose ribbon at its neck with one finger.
"Feels like something I should've had when I was still… softer."
I stopped walking.
She did too.
Turned to look at me. "What?"
"You're still soft," I said.
Her brows lifted, just barely.
"Underneath," I added. "Beneath the centuries. The power. The ruin."
A beat passed.
Then she said, "You're not supposed to say things like that."
"Says who?"
"You."
I stepped closer.
Close enough that the stuffed rabbit between us was the only buffer. Her eyes didn't drop. Didn't flick away. But the blush returned—bare, trembling under her skin like it hadn't fully left her from earlier.
"You think I ruin you with words," I said, voice low.
"You ruin me with everything," she whispered.
My hand came up. Not to her face. To the rabbit.
I brushed the ribbon aside, exposing the fraying seam at its throat. Then my fingers continued—trailing up the plush fabric, past her hands, to her wrist.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't blink.
She just watched.
"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
"No."
I leaned in.
Not to kiss her.
To speak against her skin.
"I could break this, too."
"I know," she breathed.
"And you'd let me."
"I'd help you."
The rabbit dropped between us.
And she kissed me first this time.
Not with hunger.
With certainty.
Because this was what softness meant now.
Letting yourself shatter in the hands you trust to put you back together.
Even if they never will.
Especially if they never will.
And in that narrow street, under a sun too honest to lie for us, she kissed me like a girl who'd finally chosen her ruin.
And I kissed her like a man who'd earned it.
—————
The kiss didn't last forever.
But it left something behind.
Her breath lingered in the space between us, warm and uneven. She was still holding my collar, knuckles white—not in fear. In disbelief. Like she couldn't decide if kissing me had grounded her or shattered something else entirely.
I let her breathe.
Watched her eyes blink open, half-lidded and stunned.
Then she said it.
"I've been kissed before."
It came out too soft to be pride. Too honest to be innocent.
And too late to take back.
My body didn't shift.
But the temperature did.
She felt it.
Her gaze snapped to mine, something small and wounded flickering behind her lashes.
"But not like this," she added quickly. "Not when I knew it was allowed. Not when I wanted it."
The jealousy was stupid. Petty. I knew that.
Didn't matter.
Some part of me still wanted to unmake whatever memory she'd dared to carry into this booth.
"Who?" I asked. Quiet. Flat.
She blinked. "I don't remember their name."
"I don't believe you."
She looked down.
"I don't care who they were," I said after a moment. "Only that they're gone."
Her throat moved. Not to speak. Just to swallow the tension.
I cupped her jaw—gently, but possessively. Like I was reminding her that she didn't get to belong to ghosts anymore.
"You said you wanted something that doesn't fade."
She nodded. "Yes."
"Then let this be it."
I kissed her again.
Softer this time.
But no less final.
—————-
She took a step forward. Slipped her hand into mine again.
But this time, it didn't feel like she was reaching for safety.
It felt like she was reaching for choice.
"I want to go somewhere quiet," she said.
"Quiet how?"
She thought for a moment. "Somewhere I don't have to be seen."
I knew a place.
A closed-down train platform half a district away. The rails rusted over, trains long since rerouted. Forgotten by the city. Remembered only by people like me—people who collected empty spaces like they were rare coins.
We walked there in silence. Her hand never left mine. She didn't rush, didn't falter.
When we arrived, she let go only to climb up the ledge. The platform was empty, cracked in places, old posters curling from the walls like they were trying to peel themselves away from the past.
She sat on the bench.
I sat beside her.
There was no wind.
No people.
Only the sky beginning to turn, softening into the hour between gold and gray.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
Not asking.
Just… choosing.
"You're still jealous," she said.
It wasn't a question.
I smiled. Just a little. "You're still mine."
That, she didn't argue.
Because it wasn't about possession anymore.
It was about proof.
And this—our silence, our stillness, our shared pulse under the late sun—
Was proof enough.