Scar doesn’t move.

Not when your weight settles fully against him.
Not when your fingers clutch weakly at his jacket like you’re afraid of falling through him.

He just holds you.

Like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, something irreversible will break.

Your resonance mark pulses once—slow, tired—and then dims to a faint glow, like it’s finally run out of strength.

Scar exhales shakily.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

You hate how safe it feels.

Hate how your body relaxes despite every warning screaming in your head.

Your forehead presses into his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat hits you harder than the fall ever could—steady, familiar, achingly close to your own rhythm.

You swallow. “Put me down.”

Scar stiffens, but he doesn’t let go.

“You almost collapsed.”

“I said put me down.”

For a moment, you think he’ll argue.

Instead, he lowers you carefully until your feet touch the ground, but he keeps his hands at your waist, just in case. The space between you is minimal—too minimal—and your mark responds with a weak, traitorous flicker.

You suck in a breath and shove his hands away.

“I don’t need you hovering.”

Scar takes a step back immediately, like he’s been burned.

The glow fades.

Silence rushes in, thick and uncomfortable.

“You should’ve told me,” he says quietly.

“Told you what?”

“That it was getting worse.”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “And say what? ‘Hey, Scar, my resonance mark keeps lighting up every time you’re near, and I’m one bad moment away from breaking?’”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“No,” you snap. “Because last time I trusted you with that kind of truth, everything fell apart.”

Scar flinches.

Just slightly.
But you see it.

“That wasn’t—” He stops, drags a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t all on you.”

You shake your head. “It never is. That’s the problem.”

Your mark gives another faint pulse, like it’s listening, like it’s aching to contradict you.

You press your palm over it harder.

Scar watches the movement, his voice dropping. “You’re fighting it.”

“Of course I am.”

“You can’t suppress a resonance forever.”

“I did before.”

“At what cost?”

The question lands too close to something you don’t want to unpack.

You turn away, putting distance between you, staring at nothing just to keep yourself grounded.

“I won’t let it happen again,” you say. “Whatever this is—it ends here.”

Scar’s footsteps approach, slow, cautious, stopping a few feet behind you.

“Y/N,” he says, not commanding, not pleading. Just honest. “It’s already happening.”

Your throat tightens.

“You felt it,” he continues. “The sync didn’t force itself. It responded. To you.”

You close your eyes.

Images flash—hands steadying you, a voice grounding you, the way your body knew him before your mind caught up.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper.

“It means everything,” Scar says softly.

You turn back, anger flaring just to keep from crumbling. “So what? You think we just… give in?”

“No.” His eyes are intense, searching your face. “I think we figure out why it’s reactivating. Together.”

The word together makes your mark glow again, faint but unmistakable.

You curse under your breath.

Scar notices, and this time, he doesn’t hide the fear in his expression.

“If this keeps escalating,” he says, “it won’t just be inconvenient. It’ll be dangerous.”

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

You hold his gaze, heart hammering, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken.

“…And if I say no?”

Scar doesn’t hesitate.

“Then I’ll keep my distance,” he says. “Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me.”

Your mark dims.

Not extinguished.

Just… waiting.

You look away first.

“…I need time.”

Scar nods once. “I’ll give you that.”

He hesitates, then adds quietly, “But don’t disappear on me again.”

You don’t answer.

When you leave, the echo of his presence lingers—under your skin, in your chest, glowing faintly where your hand still rests.

And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, one truth refuses to fade:

Your body isn’t forgetting him.

It’s remembering faster than you can run.