darling, dearest

heath had been stared at his whole life. not casually, not in passing. stared at. the kind of look that lingers too long. he grew up learning the weight of it - in hallways, on grids, in boardrooms, in bedrooms. eyes followed him. there's a difference between being seen and being watched. being seen is passive; being watched means you're commanding something. he preferred the latter. preferred the quiet shift in people when he entered a space - women leaned without realizing they were leaning. men measured themselves unconsciously. he loves the pull. in fact, he never overextended, never rushed to fill silence. he let conversations adjust and energy recalibrate around him, as if he were the fixed point

he felt it before he confirmed it - that old, familiar tension crawling up the back of his neck like a warning. the man didn't turn immediately; he never did. he let her think it was unnoticed. his posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. he could feel the exact direction of it - like a compass needle pulling north. and there she was. the way adelaide stares at him is different from the others; it carries history, unfinished sentences. It carries the bitter realization that she once believed she had him figured out

He comes to her, he always comes to her. Tide and shore, he might crash violently or lick the sand in quiet submission, all the same he never stays, and she always welcomes him back like he does now; a warm hand to his stubble, patting it as if soothing an ill-behaved child. "Oh, I wouldn't shoot you, darling... you know how I feel about guns." spoken with all the softness in the world, her mouth like a petal forever in bloom, aching with a fondness that should have no room to exist between two jilted lovers; and beneath it all the cruelty of a sincerity that only exists because the truth is much deeper, much more intimate than just that. Guns are easy and loud, and she uses them sparingly, and only when necessary. Heath had never been a necessity, but an indulgence. Killing him so carelessly would be unsatisfying, for both of them; too fast, too easy. Trouble aside, Adelaide never liked easy. If things were easy, she ought to make them complicated. Happiness wasn't a constant and she enjoyed it that way, she said she liked the storm because it made the first rays of sunlight feel warmer. Satisfaction only lasted as far as she could savor digging her claws into a fresh wound, and then it disappeared. But she liked the in between too, all the anger and resentment that could exist between two people, and that bitter feeling in the back of her throat that felt like nausea that came to when she thought about him. She couldn't have him bleeding out on the floor as just somebody else... then what? Back to her dollhouse? That's no fun.

savannah had only stepped in for a moment, half for the bathroom, half for a little quiet away from the noise outside. she’d just finished washing her hands when she noticed the woman beside her, catching the way she’d been looking. instead of bristling, savannah simply offered a polite smile, drying her hands on a folded towel.

“oh, that’s alright,” she said warmly, a soft southern lilt rounding her words. “lord knows i’ve been caught starin’ at folks before too.” the compliment makes her laugh lightly, a little shy about it. “that’s real sweet of you to say, though. television’s got a way of bein’ kinder than real life sometimes.”

"Oh, my—and she's humble," she gasped in feigned shock, easing her mouth into a playful, smooth smile. "I can totally see why you're making such a stir in the industry." she leaned over the sink into the mirrored reflection, patting the corners of her open mouth to clean any lipstick residue, curling her loose locks between her fingertips to fix the shape before turning to her again with a softened, friendly expression, all practiced sincerity and curated friendliness.

Still, he doesn't step in, doesn't tell her to tone it down. Later, he would tip the waiter generously enough to cover the trouble; some three-months rent worth of zeroes, at least.

Once the guy hurries away, Hans turns to her. "They're gonna start running out of cows if you ask them to cook that steak again," he says, tone both playful and annoyed at the very same time. "Whatever happened to girls ordering salads, anyway?"

In that same way, there's no real apathy there—her real disdain has always been far more vicious, and unforgiving, and reserved to those closest to her. In a way, she's just slipping into another role—an unspoken expectation.

"But they look so cute when they scurry off like that," she giggles, a girlish, bubbly sound that almost sounds too much like genuine affection as she leans over the table, watching the waiter disappear for a third time in the crowd, her smile is playful as she turns to him, looking passively amused. "It's not like we keep it down, anyways."

six years later, and she still reaches first. he lets her have the sleeve, lets her tug him closer. hell, he even sits when she tells him to - letting her believe, briefly, that the old leash still fits. it doesn't. none of this feels real. it feels like one of those recurring nightmares where you know you've escaped, and yet you're suddenly back in the same room, the same air, the same tension. adelaide is dead to him, figuratively, mercifully. he never mentions her name, avoids mentioning their history. she existed only as something he'd endured

getting over her was a brutal, relentless detox that scraped him raw from the inside out. his emotions had come in waves too large to name individually - rage, guilt, hunger, shame, need, all colliding at once. he needed a new supply; the cravings had been violent, obsessive. a body demanding a substance it no longer had permission to want. everything felt distorted, too sharp, too loud, too close. and somehow numb at the same time. until it didn't

now the chair feels too small beneath him - or maybe it's just her. adelaide always had a way of making the environment feel smaller in her presence. he leans back anyway, long frame controlled, shoulders relaxed. her gaze stays on him too long, it always did "damn, ya got eyes so big, bug-like sort of. unsettlin' really" heath teased, an excuse to break eye contact. he'd always preferred feeling her eyes on him rather than meeting them head on

"i kept ya waitin'" he repeats it slowly with a smirk, like he's testing the shape of it "kept ya waitin'" he echoes, almost savoring it "that's a real romantic pretty way of sayin' consequence" he eases her finger off his jacket with two of his own, gentle enough to be polite, firm enough to make the point. the man doesn't drop her hand right away, he holds it there between them, almost reminding her of something neither of them really forgot "ya didn't get lost, addie bug. ya left. ya gave me up. ya chose it" his thumb shifts slightly against her knuckles, his eyes don't leave hers "and ya don't get to rewrite it just cause it sounds prettier this way" he releases her hand at last, the absence of her contact is heavier than her touch ever was

She was merely looking at him like with all the predatory allure of a large praying mantis, dangerous in its stillness, and her mouth flickers, threatening a smile—after all, he knew better than most how she appreciated the savagery of nature, collecting rare species, hunting with her family during the summer, watching documentaries of apex predators hunting in the wild. "The better to see you with, my dear." replied the girl, who in all of her beauty might as well have been a wolf; wool draped delicacy over the skin of her shoulders, gilded curls tumbling down the slight arch as if she'd been carefully groomed and posed to his liking, just another pretty doll on a dusty shelf like those her grandmother used to own, to be admired, and never played with.

"Don't be so dramatic, Heath..." she dismisses with a casual cruelty, that mean thing in her that urges to strike stirring—if not him, it'd find something else to sting. "It's not like you came chase after me," she folds her fingers with intimate care, observing him through those large, unflinching doll eyes—letting her chin sit just atop her knuckle, knowing that she was seen, recognized for the vile thing she was. She resents him, and loves him for it, all at once. "I guess it doesn't matter now," as if they'd ever really bury the axe; it wasn't really their style. They'd always rather let things rot and feaster, until their hands were around each other's throats. Some people just love differently, she always thought to herself. She wasn't made for the soft kind of love most girls fantasize about—if she were to be honest, which she seldom was, Adelaide didn't care which corner of his brain she occupied—love, hate, disgust, it didn't matter so long as she was in there. "I really did miss you, you know?" she smiles, then, allowing her mouth to curve—allowing something genuine to settle, if only for a brief moment of respite.

"No," she coos, resisting the urge to mention his parade of helpless bimbettes she was forced to see all over the news; it was never really a fair playing field. If she dated half as many men, the field would eviscerate her like hungry vultures. "I was in Paris for awhile... Alone. Until I met Lucien, anyways," she tucks a pristine blonde curl behind her ear, a 10-carat oval diamond ring far too big for her delicate little finger adorning her hand as she sighs, the memory bringing only a profound sense of existential boredom. "He's nice," but everyone was nice to her. "Big sports cars fan... you'd probably like him." he probably wouldn't, and frankly, she'd be disappointed if he did.

her performance bothers him. not because it falters, but because it's flawless. the patient cruelty, the effortless dismissal that sting more than they should, the way she twists allure into coercion. he recognizes every technique, every gesture, every twitch of a brow, every subtle tilt of her body: he knows it all. if anything, he helped sharpen them without even meaning to. and standing there now, watching her deploy it on strangers like they're disposable props, he feels something dark curl pleasantly in his chest. pride, maybe. possession, definitely. a bitter kind of authorship, that thrill of seeing his fingerprints on chaos that isn't his own

heath studies her more carefully, a predatory obsessively fascination that comes from knowing exactly how lethal someone can be. he realizes, distantly, that part of him has been waiting for this moment - not reunion, not closure, but recognition. the quiet confirmation that her deadliest mistake wasn't leaving him. it was coming back, the definite moment when the prey forgets its prey

"poor thin'…it must be downright exhaustin' bein' the victim in 'very room ya walk into" his fingers lift, slowly catching a loose strand of her glacial blonde hair between them. he lets it slip through his fingers, not tugging, not quite gentle either. just enough to remind her he knows the texture, the weight, the way she used to react to it "shame it ain't an act 'nymore. maybe, that's just who ya're underneath" he paused, head tilting as if he's studying a flaw in something beautiful "fragile"

It is not a surprise that she sees him—just a surprise she sees him here. It was inevitable, after all—she'd been waiting, impatiently so. Adelaide is made of careful machinations: where she lives, how she walks, who she talks to—all delicate orchestrations to inevitably lead her where she wants, to who she wants.

The cruelty in him has always pleased her in a way so few things do—she doesn't want him to be nice to her. Everyone is always nice to her.

She subtly glances over the small bump of her shoulder, watching him play with a gilded curl from her hair, like a cruel little boy plotting to destroy his sister's barbie. She holds a smile between her teeth, angling her body slightly towards him, with all the gait of a contained predator. "Always so mean to me..." she lulls in that soft, sing-songy voice of hers as though she's urging him closer; Adelaide gets bored easily—bored of her friends, of her boyfriends, of her life—it's why she never entertained the idea of having kids. She's sure she'd get bored of them too. Heath has been a lot of things for her, most of them not good—but never boring. Perhaps, then, she decided, he does deserve to linger in the recess of her mind. "And here I was hoping you'd come to my rescue instead." there is the flicker of a smile behind the melancholy of her voice, hidden by the way she ever so intentionally brushes her a knuckle against the corner of her mouth.

"Come," Adelaide grabs at his sleeve, and tugs on it as if she's entitled, and no years have passed. "Sit." she always doles out her orders so softly, so unalarming and docile, cushioning them on her tongue to make it feel like an invitation. "The decor is horrid," she told him, aiming those big blue eyes up at him like a plea. "Let me look at you instead." there he was, her Heath, as soft as barbed wire between her fingers; and he'd never be anything else in her eyes—no matter who was fucking. Adelaide didn't share her toys, she'd rather tear out their stitching and pluck at their stuffing than giving them away. But he was no better.

"Not everything's about you," she says aloud, expression sour. "People fuck up. It happens." She glances behind the counter at the barista who looks to be about nineteen and nervous. "But maybe someone should ruin your day."

Why should they get to fly away? She thought. If she was unhappy—why shouldn't they be too? Adelaide always made sure she was never unhappy alone.

The voice behind her finally registers. Slowly, deliberately, Adelaide lowers her phone.

“Oh,” she says, glancing over her dainty shoulder as if mildly surprised to find herself addressed at all. “Sorry. Were you talking to me?”

Her tone is soft, and sugar-sweet, and never quite kind. The gilded waves of her hair tumbled down her shoulder as she turned, pale eyes flicking over to the girl with polite disinterest, the sort reserved for strangers who have already failed to impress. She never raised her voice, she didn't have to. That is how people end up being labeled as hysterical.

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something meant to resemble a smile and something about it felt so incredibly wrong, predatory, like a wolf baring its teeth before it bites, completely absent of warmth—it was a barren winter thing, practiced and beautiful.

“Oh my,” she murmurs, one manicured hand lifting to rest against her chest. “Do you think I was too harsh?” Not yet, she thinks to herself, and her head tilts, lashes fluttering as if the thought has only just occurred to her.

She studies the girl the way a cat studies their prey.