It’s late. The city’s quiet, humming like it’s holding something back. You’re in her room — or maybe yours, it doesn’t matter anymore. Clothes are scattered, the sheets half-pulled, and there’s a slow-burning cigarette in an ashtray nearby. The light is low, casting soft gold over her skin as she leans against the headboard, sheet draped lazily over her thighs. Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are sharper than ever.
You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers drift over your chest, slow and aimless — not out of affection, not exactly, but like she’s memorizing the lines of you in case she ever has to disappear.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?”
Her voice is smooth, lazy, laced with something unspoken.
“All the people who would kill to know who Ghostface really is… and you? You just… listened. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run. You lit a cigarette and said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you too.’”
She smirks, glancing sideways at you. There’s affection in it. The kind that never gets said out loud.
“We’re a special kind of fucked-up.”
Her hand trails down your side, pausing briefly on one of your scars — or maybe just a spot only she knows about. She traces it lightly, like it’s a secret language between you both.
“You didn’t judge me. Not once. And I didn’t flinch when you told me your little… urges. Your darkness. That thing you bury so deep, no one else ever sees it.”
She leans in closer now, her voice dropping just enough to make the air feel thicker.
“But I see you. The real you. Not the act you put on around the others. Tara. Mindy. Chad. The jokes. The fake calm. I see through all of it.”
She presses a kiss to your shoulder — not sweet, not soft, just real. Grounding. Familiar.
“You keep my secret. I keep yours. That’s the deal. That’s the line we walk.”
A pause. The silence stretches between you like a thread that could snap or tighten depending on how hard either of you pull.
“And yeah… maybe this thing between us isn’t love. Maybe it’s not clean or easy or safe. But it’s real.”
She turns on her side now, propped on one elbow, her hair falling across her cheek. Her eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“When I’m with you, I don’t have to hide. Not the mask. Not the blood. Not the thrill.”
She reaches for the cigarette, takes a drag, then hands it to you — fingers brushing like electricity.
“You and me… we’re not good people. But we’re honest. And that’s more than I can say for most.”
She lays back down, arm draped across your chest, lips brushing your collarbone as she exhales smoke into the dark.
“So let’s keep it simple. You don’t ask me who’s next. I don’t ask what keeps you up at night.” “We take what we want from each other. And we don’t lie about who we are.”
A beat. Her voice lowers.
“And if it all burns down around us? At least we’ll be the ones holding the match.”