The carnival lights were harsh — buzzing neon and flickering bulbs painting everything in that strange, artificial glow that made faces look both beautiful and wrong.

You met him near the Ferris wheel. He was leaning against the rail, cigarette between his lips, denim jacket torn at the shoulders. There was something magnetic about him — quiet, dangerous, the kind of guy who didn’t need to try. He caught your stare once, and it was over.

“Got a light?” he’d asked, even though his was already burning. You’d laughed. He’d smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The night blurred after that. A drink shared. A cigarette passed back and forth between your lips. The sound of distant laughter while you leaned against the hood of his truck, your knees brushing his. He asked questions but didn’t talk much about himself. Every time your gaze lingered, he looked away first.

You don’t remember how the first kiss started — only that it was hungry. His hands were trembling when they found your waist, his breath uneven. You felt his heart racing under your palms, but it wasn’t nerves. It was something else. Something darker.

The world dimmed around you — only the hum of lights and the faint taste of metal on his skin. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

When it was over, the air felt wrong. Heavy. The bear he’d won you lay face down in the dirt. You could hear the carnival music faint in the distance, warped and far away.

Lee sat back, elbows on his knees, chest slick with sweat and something more. His gaze had gone distant — like he was somewhere else entirely.

You touched his shoulder softly. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared down at his hands, at the faint tremor running through them. The hunger that had driven him all night — the one he’d promised himself he could control — rose up again, cruel and familiar.

He could taste you on the air. Could almost hear the pulse beneath your skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forced a breath out through his nose. Not her.

When you leaned in, he caught your wrist — not rough, just enough to stop you. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Don’t.”

You froze.

Then, just as quickly, his touch softened. He looked at you like he was trying to remember what it felt like to be human. “I—” he started, then stopped. “You should go.”

You searched his face, confused. Hurt. But something in his expression — something afraid — kept you from arguing.

He swallowed hard, voice low. “I said you should go.”

You shook your head. “You don’t want me to.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking away. “You don’t know what I want.”

You stepped closer anyway, slow, steady. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t. He just sat there, shoulders tense, chest rising too fast. You reached out — fingertips brushing his cheek — and this time he didn’t stop you. His skin was cold, and he leaned into the touch like it burned.

The air between you stilled. The carnival hummed faintly behind you.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you left.