The wind scraped at the windows like it, too, wanted in. Emmie sat curled on the far end of her couch, blanket drawn tight around her like armor. Her phone sat dark and silent on the coffee table, the last text from James still sitting unread. It had been two days since it all collapsed. Two days since everything she thought was real had been pulled out from under her.
There was a knock.
She didn't answer. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe it was someone selling salvation. She had enough of both.
Then the door creaked open anyway.
"Em," came a low voice, familiar and infuriating.
Zade.
She looked up, eyes narrowed. He stood in the doorway, a six-pack of canned cocktails dangling from one hand and a small, knowing smirk on his face. His dark hair was a mess from the rain, and he wore that same worn black hoodie he always did when he wanted people to think he was harmless.
"You shouldn't be here," she muttered, tucking her legs under herself.
"Probably not." He stepped in anyway, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "But I brought poison."
He held up the drinks. She didn't answer. He walked to the kitchen like he belonged there.
Minutes passed. Then the hiss of a can opening, and the soft thunk of it being placed on the table in front of her.
"I figured you could use a night off from feeling everything," Zade said, settling into the armchair beside her. His voice was casual, almost lazy. "And you know, I'm very good at helping people forget."
Emmie stared at the can. Lime and vodka. One of her favorites.
"I don't need your help."
"Didn't say you did." He cracked open his own drink and took a long pull. "But you look like hell, and I'm guessing you haven't eaten in twelve hours."
She didn't answer, but the silence was its own confession.
They drank. Slowly at first, then faster. The bitterness softened behind the burn. Zade made her laugh once—just once—and it felt like treason. She hated that he could still make her smile, even after everything. Especially after everything.
By the third drink, her limbs were warm and her thoughts pleasantly blurred. She leaned her head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. She was heavily drunk, but that didn't stop her from taking more.
"Yo....u you ever th...think," she slurred slightly, "that maybe love isn't supposed to feel like this?"
Zade didn't respond right away. He watched her instead, the curve of her jaw, the way her fingers trembled slightly even now.
"No," he said finally. "I think love feels like exactly this. Messy. Ugly. Honest."
He moved from the armchair to the couch, sitting closer than he had any right to. She didn't stop him.
"I don't trust you," she whispered.
"You don't have to," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just don't run."
His fingers brushed hers, featherlight. A pause. She didn't pull away, but she didn't meet his eyes either.
"I should hate you," she murmured.
"You do," he said. "But not enough."
She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable, something flickering in the shadows behind his eyes. Not kindness. Not love. Something hungrier.
"I'm not okay," she said.
"I know." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's why I'm here."
He leaned in quickly, deliberately, not giving her time to say no. Their lips brushed—not a kiss, not yet, just a warning. A promise.
Zade, took this opportunity to proceed further.
"You're not mine," he said quietly, "but you will be, tonight. Let me make you forget."
Emmie blinked, the alcohol foggy in her brain, but not thick enough to mask the shiver that followed his words.
She didn't want this, but the alcohol blurred her senses.
Zade stood, leaving her on the couch with the weight of his presence still clinging to the air.
"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm not letting you sleep alone tonight. You'll just drown in your thoughts."
"And you think you're..... b..better?" she hiccupped.
He smiled, dark and devastating. "I never said that."
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his.
And just like that, the devil took her home.
***
The light slashed through the blinds, too bright, too cruel. Emmie blinked against it, her head pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat. Her mouth tasted like regret and cheap vodka, and her skin felt too tight over her bones.
The bed beneath her was unfamiliar—too firm, the sheets too clean. Her blanket had been replaced by someone else's comforter. Someone else's scent.
She turned her head.
Zade.
Lying on his back, bare chest rising and falling slowly. The comforter had slipped low around his hips. Too low.
Emmie sat up so fast her stomach flipped. She clutched the blanket to her chest and looked down.
Naked.
Panic bloomed in her throat.
Bits and pieces came back in flashes: the laughter, the drinks, the warmth of his body beside hers. The couch. His hand on her cheek. A kiss. A promise. Or was it a threat?
Her breath hitched.
"Shit," she whispered.
Zade stirred. A lazy, satisfied groan slipped from his lips before his eyes opened.
"Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep. He looked her up and down. "You look like hell."
"What… what happened?" Her voice cracked.
Zade smirked, stretching. "Don't play dumb. You were all over me."
Her stomach dropped. "No. No, I—I was drunk. I didn't—"
"You didn't stop me," he said coolly. "In fact, you begged for it. Said you wanted to forget him. Said I made you feel something real."
"I didn't mean—" she started, her throat dry, the words scraping out like splinters.
"You did. Or maybe you just like attention that much," he said, sitting up now, the blankets falling away. "Not surprising. It's the same reason James kept you around, right? A warm body with soft words."
Her hands trembled as she clutched the sheet tighter around herself. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" he said, voice sharp now, colder. "You wanted to be wanted. You used me to feel something. And now you're embarrassed, so you want to pretend it didn't happen? That's convenient."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
"You're disgusting," she said, barely a whisper.
Zade stood, completely unbothered, pulling on a pair of sweatpants.
"Maybe," he said. "But you still crawled into my bed."
That shattered something in her.
Emmie stood slowly, shaking, wrapping the sheet around her body like armor. Her legs felt like jelly, but she didn't fall.
"I made a mistake," she said, voice hardening with each word. "And I'll never make it again."
He laughed, cruel and dismissive. "Sure. Until the next guy comes along and you open your legs just as easy."
She slapped him. Her hand stung, but the sound was satisfying.
Zade didn't move. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing—but for once, he didn't have anything to say.
Emmie turned without another word, gathering her things from the floor with trembling hands. She didn't care how exposed she looked as she dressed. She didn't care that her hair was a mess or that her heart was in shreds.
All she cared about was getting out.
And as she walked out the door, she didn't cry.
Not yet.
But the fire was building.