Chapter 4- The Boy Who Stayed

Author's POV

Love shouldn't look like obedience, but Ace followed her like a shadow—silent, loyal, never asking for light.

And Lily?

She wasn't offering anything soft.

Not affection.

Not answers.

Just games in the dark, fingers on skin, and half-lies wrapped in a smile so dangerous it could cut bone.

Ace didn't chase her.

He just stayed still long enough for her to come back again and again—until stillness became devotion, and silence became a language only they understood.

But even shadows disappear when the light hurts too much.

And even the quietest boys break when they've been bent too far.

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Lily's POV

He was too easy.

Always there.

Always quiet.

I could call him at 2 a.m. and say nothing but "come," and he'd show up like a ghost summoned by my voice.

Sometimes I'd let him into my room, lips swollen from someone else's mouth, mascara smeared, heart still sore from another boy's rejection.

And he'd still sit next to me like I was a miracle.

One night, I asked if I could try something.

He didn't ask what.

Just nodded.

So I kissed him again, softer this time, slower—because I wanted to know what he'd do if I pretended it meant more.

And when he kissed me back like he was drowning in it, I took his shirt off.

Ran my fingers over every scar like I had the right.

Pressed myself into him like I could erase every boy who ever made me feel empty.

I used him like a bandage.

Used his body to feel something when I was numb.

Used his mouth to forget other names.

He let me.

He always let me.

After, I told him not to say a word about it.

He didn't.

But his eyes—God, his eyes—looked like he'd carved me into his ribs.

And I hated him for that.

Because I needed him to stay disposable.

But he kept looking at me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.

And the worst part?

Sometimes, it made me want to believe it.

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Ace's POV

She told me not to say anything.

So I didn't.

Not when she called me late and cried without words.

Not when she kissed me like she was trying to forget someone else.

Not when she touched me like I was temporary.

I never asked if she wanted me.

I just let her take what she needed.

Because I wanted to be needed.

Because I thought if I gave enough of myself, she'd stop looking through me like I was glass.

She used me like a secret.

A body to borrow.

A comfort she wouldn't admit to having.

But I memorized the way her hands shook.

The way she breathed after.

The way she looked away like guilt was something she could outrun.

I held her even when she didn't want to be held.

Watched her fall asleep in my arms like it didn't destroy me to know she'd forget by morning.

She left a scratch on my neck once.

Said it looked good.

Didn't know I traced it for days, like proof I'd mattered.

She called me loyal.

But the truth is—I was just too in love to leave.

And she knew it.

So she kept me.

In the shadows.

In the silence.

In the space between her loneliness and her cruelty.

And I stayed.

Because I didn't know how not to.