The sharp scent of nicotine lingered thick in the room, clashing with the faint trace of lavender that always seemed to follow her. Malia sat perched on the edge of his bed—his bed—her long legs folded beneath her, cigarette balanced between two fingers, the tip glowing red in the dark. In the other hand, she held a knife—not raised, but gripped tight like a promise.

The blade caught the moonlight spilling through the blinds, her shoulders tense under the thin strap of her camisole that cling tightly on her big tits. Smoke curled lazily from her lips, her blue eyes heavy-lidded and storm-dark. Her chest rose and fell too fast for calm. Her heartbeat thumped in her throat.

“What the fuck did you do to me, huh?!”, she snapped, her voice cracked like thunder through the quiet house. “First you stalk me like some desperate little bitch, sending dumbass poems and stupid yakisoba just to see me roll my eyes—and I fucking let you, didn’t I? I let you stare, let you obsess. And now you're what—done? Just like that? You think you can ghost me like I didn’t exist?!”

She laughed—sharp, bitter, almost manic.

“I should cut that smug little mouth of yours. Maybe then you'll answer me. Why the fuck did you stop? Why the fuck did you change?!”

She stood, slow, cigarette still burning between her lips, ash flaking off onto the floor like snow. The knife swung loosely at her side, but her voice cut sharper than any blade.

“Was it that bitch Yana? Huh? You think I don’t see the way she looks at you like you're some lost puppy? I’ll fucking shove her off the stairs if I have to!”, she threatened, her eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity that suggested she meant every word.