By the time the sun began to fall, I had replayed our conversation at the lake a thousand times. Every grin, every pause, every word — looping in my head until I could almost hear his laugh behind my eyelids.
I hated that.
I hated that he got to me.
He thought he could tease me, walk away, and I'd just sit around waiting for him to return my scarf like some helpless fool.
No.
Not this time.
Maybe I'd started to like him — or maybe that was just a stupid habit I'd begun to form.
Either way, I was done.
So, burn it.
All he ever made me feel was irritation — the kind that seeps under your skin and stays. And he knew it. He fed on it. He was always around, never too close, never too far.
But I needed that scarf back.
And maybe… maybe I wanted to understand him just enough to hate him properly in the end.
So when the clock hit six-thirty, I knew exactly where to find him.
His so-called hideout — that abandoned gothic little house behind his home. The one with ivy-strangled walls and broken glass windows that reflected dying light like secrets. He once called it his quiet place.
Funny how he managed to ruin mine.
The air was thick with evening. A few streetlights flickered to life as I walked down the uneven path. Somewhere inside, faint music played — low, rhythmic, and lazy, as if the house itself was breathing.
I paused at the door, heart steady but my palms slick with heat. Then I knocked once, pushed it open, and stepped in.
He was there. Of course he was.
Leaning against his small library, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the scarf — my scarf — looped carelessly around his wrist like a trophy.
"Took you long enough," he said, not even pretending to be surprised.
"You knew I'd come."
"I hoped."
I folded my arms. "You really enjoy messing with people, don't you?"
He pushed off the shelf and walked toward me slowly. "Only the interesting ones."
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That—" I gestured between us. "Acting like this is some kind of game."
"Maybe it is." His eyes glinted — half amusement, half challenge. "You just don't know the rules yet."
"I don't want to play your stupid game."
"Then why are you here?"
The question hung between us, sharp and quiet.
I didn't have an answer that didn't sound like a confession.
Finally, I said, "Because you have something that belongs to me."
He glanced at the scarf, twirling it lazily around his fingers. "This?"
"Don't act dumb."
"You really want it back?"
"Yes."
"Say please again."
I stared at him. "You're unbelievable."
He smiled faintly. "You keep saying that, but you're still standing here."
I took a step closer until there was barely a foot between us. The air shifted — heavier, charged.
"You think I won't walk away?"
"I think," he said softly, "you don't want to."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The radio hummed an old song about endings that never really end.
Then, without a smirk this time, he held the scarf out. Our fingers brushed — a brief, burning touch.
"Next time," he murmured, "don't leave things behind. I might not give them back."
I met his gaze, steadying my voice. "Next time, I won't leave anything."
He grinned — not the usual smug one, but something quieter, like a secret he wasn't ready to share. "Then I'll just have to find another excuse to see you."
I turned before he could say more, clutching the scarf. The chill outside hit me like a warning. The wind moved through the trees, whispering, laughing, as if it already knew something I didn't.
And even as I walked away, I could still feel his gaze — lingering, electric — tracing me down the empty street.
Somewhere between anger and something far more dangerous, I realized…
I hadn't found peace tonight.
But maybe peace was never what I came for.