For one suspended, impossible moment, you and Scar are frozen—
your breath tangled with his,
your pulse hammering against his fingertips,
your resonance mark glowing softly like it’s exposing every emotion you’re trying to bury.

You should pull away.

You should run.

Instead, you whisper:

“…Let go.”

Scar doesn’t move.

Not because he’s ignoring you—
but because he doesn’t dare.

The glow of your mark pulses again—
not bright, not violent—
but warm, betraying the vulnerability you’re desperately trying to hide.

Scar’s eyes widen.
Not with lust.
Not with triumph.

With fear.

“Y/N…” His voice is low, urgent. “Your mark— it’s responding too strongly.”

You step back on instinct.
The glow flickers—soft, trembling.

“What did you do to me?” you breathe.

Scar’s jaw tightens. “You reacted first.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tell that to your mark.”

You want to scream.

You want to hit him.

You want to erase how close you came to collapsing when he touched you.

But before you can speak—
your resonance mark pulses again, once, like a shiver under your skin.

It doesn’t spark.
It doesn’t flare.
It just glows… painfully honest.

Scar sees it and goes very still.

“…The sync is reactivating.”

“No.” You shake your head violently. “I ended it. We ended it. It’s not possible.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

He takes one careful step closer—
and the glow deepens, warm and fragile.

You curse under your breath and cover it with your hand.

“Y/N…”
Scar’s voice softens, almost breaking.
“Something’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There is,” he snaps, not angry—afraid.
“Your mark is responding to me without you controlling it. That only happens when you’re—”

He stops.

When you’re vulnerable.
When your guard is down.
When you feel something you don’t want to admit.

You grit your teeth. “Just stop standing near me.”

Scar freezes.

His expression cracks—just for a second.
Like you struck something tender under all that armor.

“You think I want this?” he says quietly.
“To feel you calling to me when I can’t—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You should walk away.

Instead, you whisper:

“…Can’t what?”

Scar looks at you like you’re asking him to peel open an old scar.

His voice drops.
Low.
Raw.

“Can’t trust myself around you.”

Your breath catches.

“Scar—”

He holds up a hand, shutting you down.

“No. Don’t. Don’t make me—”
He swallows hard.
“Don’t make me want you again.”

Your resonance mark glows softly under your hand.
Not bright.
Not dramatic.
Just quietly, painfully exposed.

You wince, clutching the skin over it.

Something inside you tightens—
like a memory tugging from deep underground.

Scar sees the glow falter, sees you sway.

“Y/N.”
He steps closer—
and the glow responds again, a trembling flicker.

Your legs weaken.

He curses under his breath and reaches you just as your balance slips.

Strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

Not gentle.
Not soft.
Just necessary.

Your cheek lands against Scar’s chest—warm, familiar, terrifying.

Your voice is barely a whisper:

“…Why does this keep happening?”

Scar’s breath trembles against your hair.

“Because,” he says quietly,
“your body remembers what you’re trying so hard to forget.”