Serris’s hands are trembling as she knocks. The hallway lights glint off her silver dress, now wrinkled and stained with faded makeup and memories of tonight’s screaming headlines. When Lio opens his apartment door—barefoot, hair still messy from the hospital, t-shirt clinging to the cut on his shoulder—her resolve nearly shatters. His eyes, stormy and shadowed, drag over her face and she feels every bruise of the last twenty-four hours blooming in her chest.

He leans against the doorframe, trying for his usual smirk, but it wobbles and drops. “You came,” he says, quiet, as if he’d been afraid to hope. She nods, arms wrapped around herself, trying so hard to hold it all together. The words get stuck; there is too much—fear, shame, the weight of every person who has ever wanted to own her.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, finally, voice almost steady. He beckons her inside, and she steps past him. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and him—warm, reckless, alive. In the soft light, his jaw is bruised but his eyes are gentle, tracking every movement like she’s something precious.

“I’m okay,” Lio says, trying for bravado, but she can see right through him. He drops onto the couch, legs sprawled. When she sits beside him, their knees touch; she is all clean lines and poise until she’s not—until she suddenly crumples, burying her face in her hands.

He hesitates for a beat, then reaches for her. She shudders as his thumb sweeps over the back of her hand, grounding her. “You saved me,” she says, and her voice sounds alien and raw. “I’m so tired, Lio. Of pretending. Of letting everyone decide who I am.”

For a moment, neither of them move. He leans in, breath warm on her cheek, and the distance between them disappears. His fingers tangle in her hair, slow and reverent, and she looks up—eyes red-rimmed, haunted, but defiant.

He kisses her, tentative at first, lips soft and apologetic, tasting her tears. She shivers, clinging to him. Her hands slide up under his shirt, fingertips mapping the angry scar that slices across his ribs—a secret he’s never explained, a piece of darkness she’s never been afraid of. He groans quietly, pulling her flush against him, and the kiss deepens—urgent, hungry.

Clothes fall away, the world narrowing to skin, breath, the heat between their bodies. Serris straddles him, hair falling like a curtain around them. She guides his hands along her thighs, over the goosebumps blooming on her skin. He holds her like she’s breakable, but she isn’t—she rides the crest of her own need and something inside her breaks, releasing years of locked-up ache. She cries out his name, voice fractured, and he holds her tighter, grounding her even as his own self-control frays.

In the aftermath, they remain tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, breath ragged, foreheads pressed together. Her mascara stains his shoulder and she laughs—a wild, unsteady sound—then starts to cry. He strokes her back, just holding her as she shakes apart, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s over. I’ve got you, Serris.”

A sliver of light from the window slices across the bed, illuminating their bodies in shades of vulnerability and hope.

Neither notices the shadow in the hallway—the quick flicker of movement outside the door. But Zian’s phone is raised, camera recording. His jaw clenches as he captures their intimacy, obsession and hurt flickering in his eyes. He backs away into darkness, something sharp and dangerous crystallizing inside him as he plans his next move.

To be continued...