Ethereal | Twilight |

018

Leah was as beautiful as she had always been. Long, pin-straight hair so dark it shimmered like liquid obsidian in the sunlight, falling down her back like a silk curtain spun from midnight, each strand catching the light like the glint of a blade. 

Her full lips, plush and soft, were the shade of a bruised rose, and her high, carved cheekbones framed a face so flawless it looked like the world itself had paused to craft her in a moment of cruel, aching precision.

She looked at him, her gaze sharp and cutting, the kind of look that scraped along his skin like a blade, leaving invisible wounds that throbbed under the surface. There she was, standing in the sun's molten glow, radiant, untouchable, terrifying in her quiet defiance. But her brows furrowed, the delicate line between them cutting deep, her lips pressed into a thin, pale blade of resignation. Without a flicker of hesitation, without even the grace of a backward glance, she turned. Her hair swept through the air like a black whip, the swing of her hips poetry without words, her stride a slow knife dragged through the silence, leaving him gutted and frozen on the side of the road.

Sora let out a slow breath through his nose, thumb brushing the edge of his jeans pocket. He wasn't about to run after her. Not again. The thought flashed through his head, brief and bitter, like the burn of whiskey at the back of his throat. She was gone, and maybe that was for the best.

He wanted to follow, sure. His body itched to move, his chest squeezed tight like it wanted to spill something out, anything. But there was no point when the air still tasted like old arguments and ash, when the ground between them was littered with too many sharp words left behind like broken glass.

"Yeah, nah," Sora muttered under his breath, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. "We're done with that." His mouth quirked, a shadow of a grin with no real humor. Even as she became a shadow on the edge of his world, he promised himself, half a joke, half a vow. He'd make Sam's life hell, hold his loyalty like a worn-out medal, no matter how much it cut into him.

When he got home, Paul was there, sprawled across his bed like a sin half-spilled. One arm was flung carelessly over his face, legs draped wide across the tangled sheets, mouth parted just enough to reveal the soft gleam of a canine. His shirt was twisted up, exposing the golden band of skin at his waist, the deep V of his hips cutting down like the promise of something beautiful and ruinous all at once.

Sora let out a breath, soft and tired, and toed his shoes off, slipping into the bed without a word. The cool brush of sheets gave way to the wildfire heat of Paul's skin, heat that sank into him like sunlight after rain, like slipping into the eye of a storm. He tucked the blanket around them both, pressing his forehead to the taut plane of Paul's back.

"Fucking furnace," Sora murmured, a lazy edge to his voice, but he didn't pull away. The muscle under Paul's skin was hot, slick with the faintest sheen of sweat, like resting against a sun-warmed stone wall, unyielding and alive.

The room was dark, the curtains pulled tight as if to hold back the claws of daylight. Faint light leaked in around the edges like a dying breath. The air was thick, pulsing with the scent of Paul — smoke and salt, cedar and skin, wild and familiar, wrapping around Sora like a second skin, like something that kept him tethered when the world felt too sharp.

They didn't speak. They never needed to. The silence between them was a living thing, swollen and fragile, heavy with all the words they never said, their heartbeats thudding out the only truth they needed.

Sora's eyes drifted half-closed, his mind sliding loose at the edges. His body buzzed, a sharp restless itch under his skin. Not enough money for a fix, not enough even for that sharp flash of numbness he craved. Maybe that was why he was burning out lately, snapping like dry wood, folding in on himself like a paper bird crushed in a careless hand.