Not the Omega designation or the body count or the diagnosis that everyone else uses to define me.
He sees the girl who writes letters in blood because commitment is the only religion she has left.
The girl who survives through violence and ballet and obsessive rituals that barely keep the chaos at bay.
The girl who's been alone for so long that the idea of connection feels like a beautiful lie someone invented to torture her.
And I see him too.
The boy who learned to escape any bondage except the one around his own heart.
The performer who turned pain into art because that was the only way to survive.
The man who's been writing back to me for five years because maybe he was just as desperate for proof that he wasn't completely alone.
What would it be like?
The thought surfaces unbidden, dangerous.
What would it be like if we were a pack? If I wasn't packless anymore? If I had someone who chose me, who wanted me, who saw all my broken pieces and decided I was worth keeping anyway?
What would be the thing that ruins us?
Because something always does.
Something always goes wrong.
The universe doesn't let people like us have happy endings.
But what if?—
"Seraphine."
His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
His hands are still gripping my hips—tight enough to hurt, tight enough to anchor me to reality when my brain wants to float away into panic or hope or whatever dangerous emotion is currently flooding my system.
"Fuck," he hisses, and I feel his fingers dig in harder. Feel the way his thighs tense beneath mine. "Fuck, Sweets, I can feel?—"
"I know." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "I know, I need to—you need to lift me off."
The words are logical.
Practical.
The right thing to say.
But they taste like ash in my mouth.
His grip doesn't loosen.
If anything, it tightens.
"What if I don't want to?"
The question hangs between us—heavy, weighted with implications neither of us should be considering.
I bite my bottom lip, hard enough to hurt, using the pain to ground myself.
