The text was simple, but it unraveled her completely.

She laughed it off then. She wasn't laughing now.

Because loving Marcus felt like holding her hand over an open flame. The heat was real. The pain was real. But so was the terrifying truth that she’d rather burn than feel cold again.

"You came," he said, voice rough.

She remembered the first time she saw Marcus. It was at a rooftop party, the summer air drunk on jasmine and cheap champagne. He wasn't the loudest in the room, but he was the anchor. When he looked at her, it wasn't just a glance—it was a slow, deliberate study, like she was a melody he was trying to memorize. He’d whispered something in her ear that night, something she’d pretended not to hear. "You're the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else."

"I always do," she whispered. And that’s what scares me most.