Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

But when you walked out that door a piece of me died

Like the dying glow of a sunset, faint and ethereal, the amber heat flooded her veins, stretching out the moment until time felt irrelevant, as if the world had finally stopped asking her to fight back. The space between them was filled with a metallic tang of burnt sugar and the slow, relentless pull of gravity. Two people suspended in a fleeting, fragile eternity. It couldn't last, but neither of them dared to say it out loud.

His hands hadn't left her skin all night, but now his touch was so light it felt like a whisper. She tilted her face up to check on him, his eyes carrying a peculiar, faraway look—like he was seeing something she couldn't. Or maybe something he wouldn't let her see.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Faye said, her voice quiet, the words drifting between them like smoke.

Kurt was contemplative, his fingers pausing for a beat. 

"Like everything's finally slow enough to hold onto."

She nodded. She could relate, at some level. But it wasn't just that. It felt bigger—like sinking, yet weightless. Like drowning, but in the most beautiful, golden sea. She wanted to tell him it scared her sometimes, how much she loved the way this bound them together. But she wasn't sure what she feared more—that it was the high she couldn't live without or him.

She rested her cheek against his chest, eyes drifting shut, as if she could disappear into his warmth, into the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat. It was all so safe—the weight of his arm slung over her, the scent of him, the softness in his voice when he spoke to her. A gentleness that almost made her forget.

Forget what? She wasn't sure anymore.

"When I was a kid," he started, his voice shy and rough, worn at the edges, "I used to feel like I didn't belong anywhere. Like nothing around me was really mine, and no matter what I did, it never would be."

"And now?"

His eyes fixed on a point beyond her, somewhere she couldn't follow. 

"Now, it's different," he said at last, but the words felt hollow, like he didn't quite believe them himself. His grip on her hand tightened, as if his body was speaking a language his voice couldn't. "But sometimes... it still feels like nothing's really mine to keep. Like it's all just borrowed, and one day, I'll have to give it back."

She wanted to argue, to tell him it wasn't true, but the undertone in his voice stopped her. It wasn't despair, exactly. It was quieter, more resigned, like he'd made peace with the thought in some way she couldn't understand.

"Kurt," she called out, her fingers curling around his wrist. "You don't have to feel like that. You—" She hesitated, her throat tightening. "You have me."

His gaze flickered to her, the faraway look melted into something achingly present. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone as though trying to memorize the shape of her.

"I know," he murmured. "And that's what scares me."

The words hit her like a quiet wave. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to reach him when he spoke like that. All she could do was hold onto him tighter, as though sheer force could keep him from slipping away.

"We're okay, right?"

His pause was so brief she might have missed it. 

"Yeah," he agreed. "We're okay."

Faye smiled, her lips brushing against his chest. 

"You know, if you're going to get all poetic on me, you should at least write me a song about it," she teased, her voice still thick with sleepiness. "Something sweet, maybe a little cheesy. You're good at that."