Kian’s jaw is clenched so tight it aches. He’s standing in Sarelle’s doorway, phone raised, voice hoarse with accusation. “You said you were done with him.” His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, the veins at his temple visible, hair disheveled like he’s clawed his hands through it a dozen times.

Sarelle’s back is pressed to the wall, arms folded, chin lifted in defiance—but her cheeks are blotched pink, her lower lip trembling just for a second. The sweatshirt she’s wearing, one of Kian’s, hangs heavy on her frame. “Don’t go through my stuff,” she says, but her words are brittle. Her thumbs pick unconsciously at the hem, betraying her nerves.

Kian’s voice cracks, fiercer now. “You texted him. After everything.” There are lines of desperation around his mouth, and a flicker of panic in his eyes. His hands tremble, trying not to show it.

Sarelle pulls herself taller. “Maybe if you didn’t shut me out.” The words hit sharp, and suddenly her voice climbs, louder, trembling. “You want honesty? I know about your panic attacks, Kian. You think no one notices when you lock yourself away, shaking?”

The world seems to tilt. For a heartbeat, all the bravado drains from his eyes, replaced by naked, wounded fear. He looks away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his arms taut. “That’s not fair,” he whispers. “You promised—”

She fires back, her voice breaking on the edges, “Trust is fair. Or is everything just a game to you?” Her eyes are glassy, raw. Both of them are breathing hard—two boxers, neither willing to drop their guard.

The silence is brutal, suffocating. Kian pushes past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and stalks down the hall. Sarelle sinks, knees pulled to her chest, the oversized sleeve hiding her tears.

Across the lounge, Vyn lounges on the couch, all easy confidence in a white t-shirt that pulls tight over his chest, watching the fallout unfold with cold, calculating eyes. When Leya arrives, her hair wild from the rain and smile strained, Vyn sits up straight, his gaze softening. “Rough night?” he asks, patting the seat beside him.

Leya hesitates, arms wrapped around herself, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. “I just want to feel wanted.” Her voice is so small he almost misses it.

He leans closer, his knee brushing hers, speaking low and intimate. “You are, Leya.” She looks at him, hope flickering, and he smiles—a little too perfect. But when she glances down at his phone lighting up, she catches a glimpse of a list, her own name newly entered. Her stomach drops, skin going cold. “What is that?” she breathes.

Vyn stiffens, cool mask cracking. “It’s nothing—just a stupid joke.” But Leya’s already backing away, face shuttered and pale. “I’m not your game.” Tears shine in her eyes as she stands, shoving past him.

She finds Sarelle curled up in the dim kitchen, face streaked with sadness. Wordlessly, Leya slides beside her, their shoulders touching. Sarelle’s hand shakes as she pours tea, but Leya wraps her fingers around it, steadying her. They look at each other, pain meeting pain, barriers thin as glass.

Sarelle’s lips part on a sob, and before she can think, Leya leans in—tentative, gentle, tasting salt and warmth. It’s soft at first, a question, then deepens as they hold each other, desperate for comfort, tongues meeting in slow, searching relief. Sarelle runs her hands up Leya’s back, tugging her closer, both of them trembling—caught between guilt and unexpected hunger. Their bodies press close, limbs tangled in silent apology, seeking something real amid the wreckage.

After, they lie entwined on the couch, breathing shallow, hands tangled. Leya whispers, “Don’t let go,” and Sarelle threads their fingers tighter, pressing a kiss to the back of Leya’s hand. For the first time in forever, Leya lets herself be held. Shadows flicker through the window; uncertainty lingers in every sigh.

Elsewhere, Kian is doubled over in the dark, fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms. His breath rattles, sweat slicking his brow. Alone, he can’t outrun the panic that seizes him, can only gasp, “It’s fine. It’s fine,” over and over, the words breaking against the ache in his chest.

In the hush before dawn, Vyn stands at his window, staring at his reflection. For once, he doesn’t look victorious—just hollow. Outside his door, voices swirl: accusation, heartbreak, desire.

And in the quiet, Leya murmurs Sarelle’s name as she drifts to sleep, clinging to her warmth as if it might last. But somewhere above, a bulb flickers—then all the lights cut out, plunging the tower into darkness.

To be continued...