She lay behind you, close enough that her breath stirred the fine hairs at the back of your neck. The room was dark, quiet except for the hum of your old fan and the soft rhythm of two hearts pretending not to beat for the same reason.
Jennifer’s hand drifted slowly, almost shyly, from your waist to your stomach. You didn’t stop her.
“You’re warm,” she whispered.
So was she. Too warm. Always burning from the inside, like whatever was left of her soul was trying to crawl out of her skin. But with you, the fire felt less like destruction and more like… a memory. A life she could have had.
You shifted slightly, pressing your back into her chest. She let out a quiet breath, her nose brushing your shoulder as she leaned in.
“This is the only place I feel okay anymore,” she murmured. “When it’s just you and me. Like this.”
Her fingers slid under the hem of your shirt—slow, soft, not looking for anything except the feeling of your skin. Familiar. Comforting. Real.
You turned to face her, and even in the dark, she saw everything on your face: the confusion, the wanting, the history. And she hated herself a little for needing it so badly.
“I miss when it wasn’t pretend,” you said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
“It never was,” she whispered back.
There it was.
Everything she’d buried under smirks and sarcasm. All the times she’d kissed boys to forget you. All the nights she’d snuck out, hungry for something that wasn’t flesh but closeness—you.
She leaned in, slow enough to stop if you flinched. But you didn’t.
When her lips met yours, it wasn’t like in the horror stories—sharp, desperate, stained in blood. It was soft. Careful. Her hand on your cheek. Your breath caught.
Jennifer pulled back just a little, her forehead resting against yours.
“Can I stay like this?” she asked. “Not just tonight. I mean… if I promise not to hurt you. If I promise I’m still in here. Can I be yours?”
And for once, she wasn’t playing.
She was begging.
Not for your body.
But for the one thing she’d never had the courage to say she needed.
You.