There are moments the world does not prepare you for —
moments that split the quiet open,
letting something raw and wordless pour out.
Some say the heart breaks only once.
That after the first fracture, everything else is merely memory,
echoes of old pain dressed in new shapes.
But they lie.
Because some souls learn to break differently —
softly, silently,
the way glass shivers before it falls,
the way a trembling hand steadies itself in the dark
even as the weight becomes unbearable.
In rooms filled with polished smiles and borrowed light,
shadows still find a way to speak.
They cling to trembling wrists,
curl beneath lowered lashes,
press themselves into the soft spaces where courage tries to bloom.
And sometimes —
without warning,
without permission —
the past and the present collide in a single, stolen breath.
A brush of hands.
A whisper of smoke.
A gaze that cuts deeper than a blade ever could.
Some call it fate.
Others call it danger.
But the truth is simpler:
shattered things recognize the pieces that broke them,
and the pieces that might just put them back together
in a way that feels like ruin and salvation all at once.
Tonight, something shifts —
quietly, violently, inevitably.
The kind of shift that begins not with thunder,
but with the softest tremor of a name spoken too gently.
And in that shivering pause between fear and fire,
two paths cross —
not like strangers meeting,
but like storms remembering each other.
Because even the most fragile bloom
can unearth a sleeping flame,
and even the coldest flame
can find a reason to burn again.
…..
(Kylian's POV)
She was smaller than I remembered.
A fragile silhouette across the room — all soft edges and quiet tremors.
Her shyness clung to her like mist, almost palpable. A trembling halo she wore like perfume.
Not so bold anymore, are we?
Yesterday, she'd stood before me with a spark in her eyes, calling me an egoistic bastard without flinching.
Now, that same mouth refused to lift its gaze.
But beneath her lowered lashes, I saw it — the fracture.
A broken girl wrapped in borrowed strength, clinging to her composure as though it were the last thread holding her world together.
"Mr. Kylian, thank you for making it."
The mayor's voice cut through the silence like a blade scraping porcelain.
I didn't bother to turn at first. I took my time — lit my cigar, watched the smoke curl toward the chandelier, slow and deliberate. Only then did I face him.
"Using your position, Mayor Hanes," I said smoothly, "I want control of one of your city's restaurants. The strategic kind."
A pause, then quietly: "Make it happen by tomorrow."
His throat bobbed. "M–may I ask what kind of business we're referring to here?"
I turned my head — slowly, lazily — and looked at him. Once.
That was enough.
"You're dismissed."
He fled, leaving behind a trail of fear so tangible it almost made me smile.
When the smoke cleared, my gaze drifted back to her.
My shattered little girl.
Up close, the marks were faint but there — bruises half-hidden beneath makeup, a tremor in her wrist, the delicate stiffness of someone who's used to bracing for impact.
A girl carved by survival.
"Hm."
The sound slipped from my throat, thoughtful, low.
As if sensing the weight of my stare, she rose abruptly, murmured something to her companion, and disappeared down the hallway.
I waited — not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
Patience, after all, was a language of power.
When I finally followed, I found her alone in the corridor, heading back toward the main floor. She didn't see me. Not until she walked straight into my chest.
The impact was light.
The way she trembled wasn't.
Her hands caught at my sleeve for balance, and before I could think better of it, my palms found her waist.
Warm. Delicate. Shaking.
"S–sorry, sir," she stammered, voice barely there. "I didn't see you."
I studied her for a beat — the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, the scent of fear mixed with something softer.
"What's your name, little one?"
"Blossom."
I let the word roll on my tongue, slow and deliberate.
"Blossom," I repeated, like tasting a secret. "Fitting."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a low murmur meant for her alone.
"You're an oddly shy creature. Hard to believe you're the same girl who called me an egoistic bastard yesterday."
Her eyes widened, lips parting in disbelief.
I could feel the panic beneath her skin — a trembling tension she tried so hard to disguise. But I saw past it.
Past the meekness. Past the careful silence.
I saw the fight — the same kind that burns quietly, just enough to survive another day.
"I see you," I said softly.
"The cracks. The fear. The strength. You've been broken... but not destroyed."
Something flickered in her eyes then — a mix of fear and something dangerously close to recognition.
I reached up, slow enough for her to pull away if she wanted. She didn't.
My fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, grazing the warmth of her cheek. Her breath hitched.
Then I let her go.
"I'll be seeing you again, Blossom."
And I walked away — leaving her standing in the silence I'd just shattered,
as if I hadn't just peeled back every wall she'd built to survive.
(Blossom's POV)
By the time I reached our table, my pulse was still hammering — wild, unsteady, refusing to calm.
"James," I whispered, "we have to go."
He frowned, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "What? Why? You haven't even touched your food."
"I've lost my appetite."
Please, I wanted to say.
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed, setting the fork down. "Alright."
He stood, his hand finding mine — warm, familiar, grounding.
And yet, all I could feel was the phantom heat of another hand still lingering at my waist.
Outside, the morning air was crisp and clear, too honest for what I carried inside.
"Hey," James said quietly, glancing over as we reached the car. "So... will you say yes to my request?"
My mind wasn't even here. It was still back in that narrow corridor — trapped in the echo of a voice that had wrapped around my name like smoke and silk.
"Yes," I said absently.
He blinked. "Wait — what request?"
He didn't answer until we were both seated, doors closing with a soft click.
"The gala this weekend," he said finally, turning the key. "I asked if you'd be my plus one."
"Oh."
The word came out flat, empty. "Sure. Whatever."
But inside, I wasn't sure of anything.
The image of him lingered — dark suit, darker eyes, the slow curl of smoke leaving his lips as he said my name.
The way he'd looked at me — not like a stranger, but like someone who already knew.
And for the first time in years, I felt something dangerous take root —
not fear,
not longing,
but the unnerving, reckless sense of being seen.
Not in the way light sees you.
But in the way fire does —
right before it burns.