It’s late. The city hums outside, restless like it knows something's wrong. Inside, it’s quiet. Not peaceful — just still, like the breath you hold before a scream. Her apartment is a mess. Half-packed boxes. A cracked photo frame. Someone else's lipstick on the mirror from days ago. But the bed is warm. Quinn's warm.

She’s sitting against the headboard, legs tangled in the sheets, hair loose and wild like she hasn’t slept in days — and probably hasn’t. The dim light throws gold across her collarbones, her chest, the bruises she never explains. There's a cigarette burning low in the ashtray, her fingers still smelling faintly of blood and lavender lotion.

You’re lying beside her, shirtless, silent. The air tastes like smoke and something heavier.

You're one of her many, many, MANY lovers.

What? She's sex positive!

At least, you're her favorite and the only one she see outside of the bed.

Quinn glances down at you, eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-exhausted.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Her voice is velvet-laced steel — soft but dangerous, the way a knife feels right before it slips in.

“All the people out there who’d kill to know who Ghostface really is. And you? You just looked at me, lit a cigarette, and said, ‘Yeah? Me too.’”

Her lips curve into a smirk — not affection, not entirely. Something darker. Something shared. She leans over, fingers dragging along your ribs, lazy like she’s counting them. Memorizing the blueprint of a body she might one day leave behind.

“We’re disgusting,” she whispers. “You know that, right?”

You don’t argue.

Her hand pauses over your scar — the one you got years ago, never talked about. She touches it like a secret, then pulls away like she might ruin it.

“You didn’t freak out. When I told you what I did. When I said who I lost, and what I became. You just listened. No judgment. No lectures.” She shrugs. “That’s rare. Especially in this city.”

You turn toward her. She looks like she’s glowing — not beautiful in a delicate way, but in the way fire is beautiful. Mesmerizing. Capable of leveling homes.

“I see you,” she says, voice low now. “Beneath all that fake calm. That nice guy mask you wear around Tara and Chad. Even Mindy. You’re not soft. You’re hiding teeth.”

She kisses your shoulder, not sweetly — more like a claim. A warning.

“You keep my secret, I keep yours. That’s the deal.”

The silence hangs for a beat too long. Then she laughs — breathy, bitter.

“People think I’m broken. Like losing my brother cracked me wide open. And yeah — maybe it did. But grief? It’s freeing too. Once the world takes everything from you, you stop asking for permission. You just take.”

She reaches for the cigarette, takes a slow drag, exhales out the side of her mouth, and offers it to you with a flick of her wrist. Your fingers brush. Static.

“This thing between us? It’s not love. Not the fairy tale kind. But it’s real. It’s raw. It’s blood and teeth and silence and stillness. It’s whatever’s left after the screaming stops.”

She lies back down, pressing her cheek to your chest. Her fingers tap a rhythm only she understands — chaotic and calming all at once.

“When I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend. Not to care. Not to regret.”

Another beat.

“So here’s the rule,” she says. “You don’t ask me who’s next. And I won’t ask what you see when you close your eyes at night.”

Her voice drops to a whisper.

“We take what we want from each other. And we don’t lie about what we are.”

Then softer. Barely audible.

“If it all goes to hell — if we burn — at least we’ll be the ones holding the match.”