For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was thick, magnetic.Seth's gaze flicked around the room: the sunflower in the vase, the candle still burning low, the faint imprint of Detective Gray's notepad on the table.
"He's suspicious of you," Seth said.
"He's suspicious of everyone."
"He's right about you, though."
Her lips curved. "That depends on what he thinks he knows."
He took another step closer. His voice dropped, almost gentle. "Tell me, Seraphine—why sunflowers?"
She looked at him then, really looked, and something unreadable flickered in her expression. "They grow tall because they're selfish. Always reaching for the light. People mistake that for beauty. And besides, my husband didn't like it when I grew things in the back."
"And what do you mistake it for?"
"Survival."
He smiled faintly. "You sound like someone who knows how to hide things."
"Don't you?"
That landed between them like a loaded secret. Seth didn't flinch.
He moved closer until the distance between them felt measured only in heartbeats. "Gray's connecting dots," he said. "Between me. Between you. The motel. The flower. You made a mistake."
Her chin lifted slightly and said smugly. "And you came here to warn me?"
"perhaps."
"Or maybe you're just making sure I don't make another."
Seth's jaw flexed. He was close enough now for her to feel the heat of him through the damp chill. She smelled rain and iron and something darker beneath.
"You buried him out there," he said quietly.
Her eyes didn't waver. "Who?"
"You know who."
She stepped closer, until their breath mingled. "You talk too much for a man who kills in silence."
That made him smile—small, dangerous, almost tender. "You know about that?"
"I know enough."
He studied her face—the calm, the precision, the faint tremor she tried to hide in her hands. It wasn't fear. It was restraint.
"I think we understand each other," he said.
"I think you want to." she stared at him for a while.
"What makes you think I don't already?" He seems intrigued by this conversation. He smiles.
"Because you're still asking questions."
Lightning flared outside, throwing both their shadows long across the wall. The candle guttered, then steadied.
Seth's eyes followed hers to the window, where rain streaked down like threads of glass. "You know he'll come back," he said.
"Detective Gray?"
He nodded. "He's not the type to let things go. He's a problem."
Her gaze lingered on him, a faint spark of something like approval in her eyes. "And how would you make him…not a problem, Seth?"
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Depends what you'd prefer. Quick or quiet?"
She stepped closer again, slow enough for the motion to feel deliberate. "You'd do that—for me?"
"I'd do it because he's in the way."
"Of what?"
"Whatever this is."
For a moment, his voice lost its edge. What was this, exactly? Curiosity? Recognition? The kind of attraction that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with surrender?
Her eyes softened just slightly. "You're dangerous, Seth."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't," she said. "It's just… familiar."
They sit now in the dining room close enough that the air between them seemed to hum. Her pulse beat against the silence, steady and slow.
"Do you always play with people first?" he asked.
"Only when I want to understand them." She sits upright and rests her chin on her hand.
"And do you understand me?"
"Not yet."
God, she's beautiful. I would kill for her undoubtedly.
His hand twitched at his side. "Maybe you shouldn't."
"Maybe that's why I want to."
He let out a low, humorless laugh. "You think I'm broken."
She shook her head. "I think you're unfinished."
That stopped him. His eyes darkened, not in anger but in recognition—the way you might recognize your reflection for the first time and hate how it looks too much like you.
"You think we're the same," he said.
"I don't think," she murmured. "I know."
The candlelight trembled. The storm pressed against the windows, impatient.
Seth reached out and touched the edge of the table, tracing the wood grain with his thumb. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you ever feel it? The quiet after it's done?"
Her breath caught, just slightly. "Every time."
"And does it ever stop?"
She looked at him. "Would you want it to?"
He shook his head. "No."
Something shifted then—subtle but certain. A moment folding in on itself.
She reached out, brushing her fingers along the sleeve of his coat, as if testing reality. The fabric was damp and cold. So was his skin beneath.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered again, though her hand didn't move away.
"I know." he whispered and looked at her
He caught her wrist gently, holding it between his fingers. The contact was nothing, and everything. Her pulse fluttered under his thumb.
"You could turn me in," he said.
"You could kill me."
"Is that what you want?"
Her eyes met his—unflinching, steady. "I don't know yet."
The space between them seemed to collapse with those words. Seth exhaled slowly, releasing her hand, only for her to inch closer until her breath brushed his jaw.
"You shouldn't test me," he murmured.
"I already am."
He smiled, but the kind of smile that hurt to hold. "You know what happens when people get too close to me."
"I know what happens when they don't."
The storm broke outside. Wind slammed against the house, rattling the windows. The candle wavered, throwing gold across their faces.
Seth lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered longer than they should have.
"You really are something," he said quietly and chuckled.
"So are you."
"Maybe that's the problem."
Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You intrigue me."
He laughed once, soft and bitter. "You don't even know what I've done." She tilted her head. "You think I care?"
That silenced him.
She leaned in, so close that her breath touched the hollow of his throat. "You left a sunflower," she whispered. "That's how I knew."
His hand fell to his side, the memory of that night flickering behind his eyes—blood, bleach, the stem floating in red water. He hadn't meant it to mean anything. But now, hearing her say it, it did.
Her voice softened. "You were speaking to me."
"I didn't know you existed."
"But you felt me anyway."
He looked down at her, rainlight glinting in his eyes. "You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
"Yes."
She smiled faintly. "Then why are you shaking?"
He almost laughed at that, but the sound caught in his throat. The air between them pulsed like a heartbeat.
"I've never met anyone like you," he said.
"You won't again."
A long silence. The clock ticked once in the hallway. Outside, the thunder rolled distant and low.
Seth reached for her, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing her jaw. She didn't pull away.
Her eyes fluttered shut, the faintest sigh escaping her lips.
"This is a mistake," he murmured.
"Probably," she breathed.
But neither moved.
The distance between them vanished—slow, inevitable, like gravity closing in. So did the space. His breath touched her skin; hers trembled against his.
For one suspended heartbeat, they simply hovered there—caught between danger and desire, control and collapse.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision—sharp, consuming, inevitable. The kind of kiss that burned through reason and left only recognition behind.
Her hands slid up his chest, gripping his coat as though holding on to something that might disappear. He tasted rain and ruin. She tasted like something he'd been chasing for years without knowing it. She found herself seated on his lap as he gripped her hips with determination and with no lack of gentle manners. She tasted like pomegranate, so deliciously sinful.
When they finally broke apart, the silence returned, heavy and electric.
Her forehead rested against his, both of them breathing hard.
"This doesn't end well," he said.
"It never does," she whispered.
The candle flickered out. Darkness closed around them, thick and certain.