I scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter in the stale, heavy air. "How hard is it to answer me?"
He didn't move.
I was running out of patience. The more I waited, the more I felt like something inside me was unraveling. Time dragged on in that suffocating basement—no windows, no mercy, just him and me, and the gun shaking in my hand.
I looked up at the ceiling, cracked and stained, water dripping slowly like a ticking clock. It reminded me of everything that had led to this moment. Of how I got here—pointing a loaded gun at the man I once loved. The man I still hated. The man I could never stop wanting.
He stood across from me, quiet, calm, maddening. His eyes—dark brown, deep as secrets—locked on mine. I hated those eyes. And God, I still loved them.
My voice broke as I whispered, "Why did you do it? Why would you kill the people I loved?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there. His silence was deafening, like he was trying to erase the truth with it.
"ANSWER ME!" I screamed, the words tearing from my throat. "WHY?!"
Still nothing.
The rage inside me swelled—hot, consuming, bitter like poison. My hand trembled, finger tightening around the trigger. But I didn't shoot. Not yet.
I spun suddenly and fired upward.
BANG.
The shot echoed like a scream across the cold stone. Plaster rained from above, dusting the floor like ash.
I turned back. My chest was rising and falling fast, the gun trembling in my hand. "Talk," I growled. "Or the next one isn't going in the ceiling."
That's when he moved.
He crossed the space between us in two quick strides, grabbing my wrists before I could react. His grip was iron, unshakable.
"Let go," I hissed through clenched teeth.
"Or what?" His voice was low, dark, a whisper soaked in sin. "You'll shoot me?"
His breath ghosted against my skin. It sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated that I still responded to him.
"I might," I said, voice sharp. "Don't tempt me."
"You never could pull the trigger," he murmured, tilting his head. "Not when it counts."
"I will this time," I warned.
He didn't believe me. I saw it in his eyes.
So I made him.
I slammed my knee up—fast and brutal—into his groin.
He grunted in pain and stumbled back, releasing my hands.
"Bitch," he spat, his voice hoarse. "Who do you think you are?"
"The one who survived you," I snapped.
He lunged forward again, snatching the gun from my hand before I could stop him.
My breath caught in my throat. "You bastard—how did—?"
He cut me off. "I'm the one asking the questions now."
"No, you're not," I said, stepping in close, defiant. "You don't get to control the narrative. Not anymore."
He raised the gun—held it between us—its cold barrel brushing against my ribs.
My heart thundered in my chest, but I didn't flinch. "You want to shoot me?" I whispered. "Do it. Maybe it'll make it easier to forget everything we were."
He stared at me, jaw clenched, conflicted.
"You still love me," I said, not sure if it was a weapon or a confession. "And that scares you more than the truth."
"You don't know what I feel," he snapped.
I leaned in, barely an inch between us. "Then show me."
He dropped his gaze for just a second—just long enough.
I went for the gun.
We struggled—bodies pressed together, breaths ragged, pain and passion blurring at the edges. His hand pushed. Mine pulled. The metal between us was the only thing keeping us from destroying each other.
And then—
BANG.
The shot rang out, deafening.
We froze.
Both of us.
No words. No breath. Just the echo.
And then… silence.
I couldn't tell who had fired.
Or who had been hit.
My body was stiff. My fingers still clenched around his. His eyes—wide, shocked—were staring at me like he saw something that shouldn't exist.
Blood.
I didn't know where it came from.
Was it his?
Was it mine?
We both looked down slowly. The red spread like ink on concrete.
And still—neither of us moved.
Did I pull the trigger?
Did he?
Neither of us knew.
And that was the worst part.
Somewhere above, thunder cracked. A storm was coming. One we might not survive.