The clock in Seraphine's room glowed faintly — 2:43 AM.
Noah sat at the edge of the velvet-lined bed, hands folded tightly in his lap. The room was way too big, way too warm, and way too quiet.
She stood by the window, sipping wine like it was water, still wearing that green dress that shimmered when she moved.
He hadn't said a word since they arrived.
But his silence wasn't strength.
It was survival.
"You haven't changed much," she said, setting her glass down. "Still so easy to read. Still so... easy to break."
She walked toward him.
Noah's eyes stayed locked on the floor.
Her fingers touched his chin, lifting it.
"Look at me, Noah."
He hesitated.
Then he did.
Her eyes glowed in the soft light, bright green and sharp. Her lips curled into a slow smile — not cruel, not kind. Just hers.
"You remember how I used to take care of you?" she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheek.
Noah shivered.
"You'd come to school all tense and tired, and I'd make it better. You remember that?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear.
"I still remember the way you looked when you were scared… and the way you melted when you finally gave in."
Her hands slid around his shoulders, slowly pulling back his hoodie.
He tensed — she noticed.
"You used to run," she said softly, fingers now brushing the nape of his neck. "But you always came back."
He wanted to speak. To push her away. To ask her why she disappeared without a word.
But instead, he whispered, "Why now?"
She paused.
Then said, "Because I missed you. Because I know no one else makes you feel the way I do."
Her lips pressed softly against his neck — not a kiss, more like a claim.
Noah's breath hitched.
She pulled back and looked into his eyes.
"You think you're free, Noah?" she asked gently. "You're not. You never were."
She took something from the drawer beside her bed — a small box. She opened it just enough for him to glimpse inside.
His eyes widened.
It was filled with objects from their past — things she had used when she "trained" him to listen, to obey, to belong to her.
"I kept everything," she whispered. "Did you?"
Noah said nothing.
He couldn't.
He was frozen — not from fear, not entirely. But from the realization that some part of him had never stopped wanting her.
Not the gentle version people thought love should be.
But this twisted, possessive version that only she gave him.
She placed the box on the bed between them and smiled.
"Let's see if you still remember how to behave."