I cant stop thinking how betrayed young Vivi must've felt when she saw her younger half sisters treating the man who killed her parents and who also happened to be her birth father and swore never to love him.
How she must've felt when she saw Jude and Taryn reading fairytales with him , holding his hand, and training with him.
How conflicted and confused she must've felt when she saw her half sisters getting along with the murderer who killed her parents and the father she might have had in another universe.
Did she wish to have a father too? Did she feel lonely in the house that should have belonged to her? Did she dream of her parents being slaughtered or the man who slaughtered them?
I think as a fandom we don't think about the trauma Vivi endured as a child.
Fluff 🎀 ; light Angst 🧸 ; deep heavy ANGST 🌹; drabble 🪐 ; one shots 🤎 ; Series 🌷 ; Silly 🦇 ; suggestive ✨ ; smut 🦋
⯎ Cardan Greenbrair
My sweet nemisis 🧸 🌹 ✨
↳Sent to spy on Cardan, you witness his brother’s cruelty — and against all reason, you save him. What follows is a dangerous game of secrets and tension, where hatred blurs into something far more volatile. When fury finally breaks, it ends in a kiss neither of you can forget.
of silver and sparrow ✨️ 🌹🎀
↳A mortal knight in a world of faerie courts faces impossible trials, unexpected alliances, and a prince whose attention is as dangerous as it is irresistible. Loyalty, desire, and defiance collide in a tale where trust is tested, hearts are challenged, and nothing is quite as it seems.
Are you afraid of me mortal 🦋✨️🧸
↳ A mortal caught in Cardan Greenbriar’s cruel games discovers just how intoxicating danger—and desire—can be. This story contains a strong enemies-to-lovers dynamic with bullying, teasing, and possessive behavior
Think I am gonna steal you from him 🧸 🤎 ✨
↳Cardan and his gang torment you until Valerian claims you, treating you roughly and humiliating you in front of everyone. Cardan pretends not to care, but weeks of watching Valerian manhandle you twist into jealousy.
𝕸y 𝕾weet 𝕹emesis Cardan Greenbrair x fem!spy!reader
Summary : Sent to spy on Cardan, you witness his brother’s cruelty — and against all reason, you save him. What follows is a dangerous game of secrets and tension, where hatred blurs into something far more volatile. When fury finally breaks, it ends in a kiss neither of you can forget.
Warning : This story contains graphic depictions of physical abuse, blood, and trauma, including scenes of whipping and injury recovery. It also features dark romance elements, including power imbalance, emotional manipulation, and a toxic enemies-to-lovers dynamic. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
Not in his room.
The chamber smelled like fae wine and something dark and wild—like the aftertaste of a spell. Even in disarray, Cardan Greenbriar’s quarters managed to look decadent: a velvet cloak thrown across the bedpost, goblets rolling on the floor, a spill of parchment glimmering faintly under moonlight. It was chaos, but beautiful in a way that made you grit your teeth.
You told yourself this was just another assignment. Prince Dain’s orders were simple enough—find out what Cardan was hiding, if he had any alliances or schemes worth knowing. You’d done this before: slip into shadows, search quietly, leave no trace. But none of those other missions had brought you here, into his world—where every object, every careless sprawl of ink, felt like it breathed him.
You tried to ignore that. You hated him.
You’d learned to.
Cardan Greenbriar, the prince who treated mortals like playthings, who smiled when he hurt you, who made cruelty look elegant. You’d seen him laugh when you bled. You reminded yourself of that now, as you shuffled through the mess on his desk, your fingers brushing the edge of a half-written letter. It was sealed with wax stamped in green, the crest faint but royal. You tucked it into your sleeve—evidence enough for Dain to sort through later.
You were just about to leave when you heard it.
Footsteps. Three pairs.
You froze.
The faint echo of boots across the marble corridor. The measured rhythm of someone tall, confident—Balekin. The easy, slower drag that could only belong to Cardan. And the light, nervous shuffling of a human servant.
Your pulse slammed against your ribs. You moved before you could think, sweeping the parchment back into place, straightening the goblet you’d disturbed. You smoothed the desk surface with a shaking hand, praying you hadn’t left anything out of place.
The latch turned.
You barely made it behind the heavy velvet curtains. The fabric brushed your cheek, the scent of dust and smoke pressing around you as you flattened yourself against the cold wall.
The door opened with a low creak.
Balekin’s tone was cold, controlled, too sharp for brotherly affection. “You dishonor this family every time you step into a revel half-drunk. You are weak, Cardan. Unworthy of your blood.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You dared a glance through the curtain’s edge.
Balekin stood near the hearth, tall and severe in black and silver. His eyes cut through the room like blades. Cardan lounged near the bed, feigning indifference, though even from here you could see the stiffness in his shoulders.
“I wasn’t aware you cared for my reputation,” Cardan said, voice soft, too soft.
“You have none.” Balekin moved closer. “And you will learn discipline. Draw your sword.”
A flicker of unease crossed Cardan’s face before he hid it behind that mocking half-smile. He did as told, the blade glinting faintly in the candlelight. They sparred—not with the grace of equals, but the inevitability of predator and prey. Balekin’s strikes were hard, precise, cruel. Cardan’s were showy, defensive, desperate to prove something.
It didn’t take long.
A blow sent Cardan’s sword clattering to the floor. The echo of it rang in your ears. Balekin stepped forward, expression unmoved.
Balekin looked down at him, a flicker of something cold and calculating in his eyes. "Pathetic. You disgrace the Greenbriar name. Perhaps this will remind you of your place." He turned to the human maid. "His punishment."
You sucked in a sharp breath. Punishment? Your hatred for Cardan was a solid, familiar thing, yet a strange mix of horror and a grim, almost guilty satisfaction twisted in your gut. He tormented you, made your life a misery. But this felt different.
Cardan rose slowly, his gaze meeting Balekin’s for a fleeting moment before dropping. His fingers went to the fastenings of his doublet, then his shirt. The fabric parted, revealing his chest. Your breath hitched, but not just at the unexpected lean muscle of his torso. It was the scars. A tapestry of them, thin white lines weaving across his skin, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Scars near his navel, running along his ribs, faint marks on his shoulders and the sharp V of his lower abdomen. Each one a brutal, silent history.
He knelt then, head bowed, his back to the room. The human maid stepped forward, her hand tightening around the leather rod. It was a vicious thing, thick and supple. She raised it.
*WHIP!* The sound cracked like thunder. Cardan flinched, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat, a sound that wasn't quite a scream but a muffled moan, quickly stifled. He remained perfectly still.
*WHIP!* Again. The maid’s arm rose and fell with practiced rhythm. Your stomach churned. How could a brother do this? The sickening *thwack* of leather on skin punctuated the heavy silence, each strike a brutal reminder of the high price of weakness in Faerie.
The silence after the final *thwack* was deafening. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the image, the sickening smell of sweat and fresh blood that now permeated the air. It felt like an eternity, a dark, pulsing void behind your eyelids, yet the agony in the room lingered.
"That should suffice," Balekin’s voice drawled, devoid of warmth. "Perhaps next time you will remember the price of weakness. Rest, little brother. Try to be less disappointing."
The human maid gave a curt, mechanical nod. Then, the heavy oak door THUDDED shut, sealing the room in profound silence save for the labored, shallow breathing of the fallen Prince.
You slowly opened your eyes. Cardan was still kneeling, his head slumped low, his breathing ragged. The sight of the raw, purpling welts blossoming across his lower abdomen and back was horrifying. He was bleeding faintly, staining the fine rug beneath him.
Your hand instinctively tightened around the small glass bottle strapped to your waist—a sleeping drought, potent and fast-acting, meant for emergencies or targets you needed neutralized quickly. You couldn't leave him like this. Not injured, not prone, not if Balekin decided to return for an encore. The enemy spy, the hated bully, suddenly became a burden you couldn't abandon.
You slid out of the wardrobe, moving with the preternatural quiet of a spy. The floorboards thankfully offered only a faint SCRIITCH as you crossed the expanse of the room. Cardan didn't stir, lost in pain or shock. You crept up behind him, the bottle already uncorked, the syrupy liquid gleaming darkly.
Before he could even register the shift in the air, before he could turn his head or utter a single, surprised word, you tilted the phial. The liquid—thick, sweet, and dark—was poured directly onto his tongue. He swallowed reflexively, a small, confused sound catching in his throat, a sound like a surprised huff.
Within seconds, the tension bled out of his body. The draft was ruthless in its speed. His head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering shut, the dark lashes brushing his cheekbones. He slumped completely, falling gently onto the rug with a soft *whoosh* of displaced air. Fast asleep. He never saw you. You stood over him, the empty bottle clutched in your hand, the complicated mixture of revulsion and reluctant pity swirling in your chest, gazing down at the scars that now seemed to tell a much different story than the snide cruelty you usually saw.
You stood over the unconscious Prince, the empty sleeping draught bottle still warm in your grip. He was heavier than he looked, all bone and surprisingly dense muscle. This wasn't going to be easy.
You bent, gripping his arms under the shoulders. "Come on, Cardan," you muttered, the name feeling strange and intimate in the silence. You dragged him, the heavy fabric of his trousers SHUSSHING against the plush rug, towards the enormous, four-poster bed. It was a struggle; your muscles burned with the effort, and a small, frustrated grunt escaped your lips. Finally, with a heave that nearly sent you both tumbling, you managed to hoist him onto the mattress.
He landed with a soft thump, his body slack.
Now for the supplies. You quickly scanned the room—no obvious medical kit. Cardan was too clever for that. You dropped to your knees, peering beneath the heavy silk hangings of the bed. Sure enough, tucked into a hidden compartment in the wooden frame, you found a small, well-stocked leather satchel.
Pulling out the antiseptic washes and clean linen wraps, you returned to his side. You dipped a cloth into the cool liquid and began the painstaking work of cleaning the horrific welts on his back and abdomen.
The skin was hot beneath your touch. As you gently dabbed the wounds, your attention kept snagging on the old scars. You cleaned a deep, angry-looking stripe near his waist, your fingers lingering, tracing the raised white line that ran down toward the *V* of his lower abdomen. The muscles beneath were hard and defined, even in sleep. You found yourself running your thumb across the ridges of his abs, the contact sending a sudden, unwelcome jolt of warmth through your arm.
"Stop it," you internally snapped. You were a spy, an enemy, and he was covered in open wounds. This wasn't the time for anatomical appreciation. You focused, meticulously cleaning the worst of the lacerations. The antiseptic stung, causing Cardan to shift slightly and emit a low, rumbling xhmmm' of discomfort, but he didn't wake. You wrapped the areas that needed binding, securing the bandages with practiced knots.
As you finished, smoothing the last piece of linen against his skin, your hand rested flat against his warm chest, right over the steady, slow *thud-thud* of his heart. You felt the rhythm of his life beneath your palm. You pulled your hand back quickly, feeling a shameful flush rise to your cheeks. You had done what needed to be done. Now, you needed to vanish before he woke and realized his enemy had been his reluctant, temporary savior.
The dull ache in his ribs throbbed, a familiar companion after a session with Balkien, but today it felt... different. Cardan’s eyes fluttered open, the dim light filtering through his chamber windows painting the tapestries in muted golds and greens. He lay on his back, a strange comfort settling over him. He pushed himself up, a grunt escaping his lips, but the usual searing pain in his abdomen was absent. Instead, a tautness, a gentle pressure, held him.
He looked down. Across his torso, just below his ribs, a clean white bandage wrapped tightly. He traced the edge with a finger, the fabric smooth, the knots secure. Beneath, a faint scent of herbs, cool and earthy, permeated the air. He pushed the linen aside, examining the wound. The lacerations, ugly and deep just hours ago, were now neatly stitched, a fine, almost invisible thread weaving the skin together. The bruising, though still present, seemed less angry, the swelling significantly reduced.
Cardan stared, unblinking. He never received such care. His brothers left him to fester, the maids too terrified to tend to his injuries without direct orders, orders never given. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling the defined lines of his abdomen, a network of old scars crisscrossing his skin, each a testament to another punishment, another slight. This new work, however, was meticulous, almost artistic.
"Who…?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and confusion. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold stone floor. He stood, testing his weight. No dizziness, no internal burning. The pain had receded to a dull thrum, manageable. He walked to the small table by the window, picking up a discarded goblet. It held the faint, sweet scent of nightshade, a potent sleeping draft. He remembered nothing after the stinging lash across his stomach, the familiar humiliation, the burn of his brother's disdain.
The next morning arrived like punishment.
The Court’s training grounds shimmered under the pale Faerie sun, dew clinging to blades of grass that looked far too innocent for the violence they would soon host. The clang of swords, the soft hiss of arrows slicing air, and the hum of murmured gossip filled the air. You could feel the weight of stares even before stepping onto the field—everyone loved a spectacle.
You hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—bleeding, broken, trembling in that sickening silence. You’d told yourself it was pity, nothing more. You’d told yourself you’d done the right thing. You always did what you had to.
But now, standing here among your classmates and spies-in-training, the memory of his bruised skin wouldn’t leave you. And, of course, the universe—or Dain, or the cruel gods themselves—had a sense of humor.
“Today,” Lady Asha announced, her voice sharp as steel, “we spar.” Her amber eyes swept over the assembled students like a hawk appraising prey. “Pairs have been chosen already. No complaints.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Cardan Greenbriar,” she said. “And…” her gaze landed on you, one brow arching slightly, “our mortal representative.”
Your fingers curled around the hilt of your practice blade. Of course.
Cardan was standing across the yard, his posture loose and lazy, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked perfectly fine—too fine. No sign of pain, no stiffness, no trace of the blood that had painted his floor just hours ago. His shirt hung open at the throat, collarbones glinting in the light, every inch of him the picture of careless arrogance.
Except—when his golden eyes flicked toward you, just for a fraction of a second—you saw it. The tiniest flicker of recognition. Something unreadable passed through his gaze, gone before you could name it.
You swallowed hard. You couldn’t let him suspect.
The others formed a loose circle around the sparring ring, murmuring excitedly. Everyone wanted to see what happened when the mortal spy was forced to face the youngest Greenbriar. The prince who made cruelty an art.
“Try not to die too quickly,” Cardan drawled as you stepped into the circle, his tone smooth but quieter than usual—almost hoarse.
“Wouldn’t want to make you look bad in front of your adoring fans,” you shot back, raising your blade.
The smirk widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Too late for that, little mortal.”
The instructor dropped her hand. “Begin.”
The first clash of blades rang sharp through the morning air.
He was fast—uncomfortably fast—but you matched him, parrying the opening strike and twisting away with practiced precision. The crowd gasped, delighted. You circled each other, your blades meeting again and again, sparks flying. It should have felt like routine training, but it didn’t. Every move felt loaded—every brush of contact electric.
“Still angry?” he murmured between blows. “You look like you might stab me for real this time.
He came at you like a storm—harder, angrier. Cardan’s blade sang with a different rhythm now, not the teasing, theatrical strikes from earlier but a thin, honed violence that shoved you back on instinct. You met him blow for blow—metal shrieking, breath ragged, muscles burning—until at last your feint took: his boot slipped on the wet grass, his balance betrayed, and he hit the ground with a muted crash.
You were on him in an instant, blade arcing in a clean, practiced line meant to finish it. Victory hung there, bright and simple. You could feel the world taut around that single moment.
Then the thought cut through everything like a second blade: the only sure way to end this, the only place that would have guaranteed the win without a messy scramble, was the place Balekin had already made soft—the place you had bandaged in the dark. His abdomen. That raw, still-healing scar tissue where a single, precise strike would have been fatal in sparring terms.
Your hand went rigid. You saw it all at once—the lash, the blood, the pale thread of fresh stitches beneath linen—and the certainty swamped the calculated cruelty you were trained to wield. You could finish him here. You could end the fight cleanly by aiming for the wound he could not afford to have opened again.
You stopped.
Time condensed. The blade hovered an inch from skin that bore your own careful work. The crowd’s roar narrowed to a fragile hum. Your muscles wanted to move; your training barked for the kill. Something else—something numb and unexpected—held you back.
Cardan’s face registered the hesitation before you fully understood you’d betrayed your intent. He blinked up at you from the grass, chest heaving, eyes narrowing until they were slits of gold. For one breath he looked almost small, as if the prince’s armor had slipped and left a real, vulnerable boy beneath.
“You didn’t,” he said, voice flat, not accusing but sharp with realization. He glanced down where your blade had hovered, then touched his side with a tentative finger—hesitant, testing. “You could have hit me in the abdomen. That was the only place that would’ve finished it clean.”
The words landed like stones. A hot, guilty blush flushed your neck. You lowered your blade until the tip pointed at the ground. Around you, the crowd shifted; a few gasps, threads of scandal and admiration threading through the murmurs. Cardan’s eyes flicked back up to yours and something unreadable unfurled there—interest, calculation, and a sliver of something softer.
“So you didn’t,” he repeated, this time with a humor that tasted like danger. He pushed himself up, wincing slightly as he favored the bandaged side. “You left me alive where it mattered.” His mouth quirked. “Why?”
You opened your mouth to lie—training, honor, duty—but the answer you’d given yourself the night before sat heavy and obvious: because you had stitched him. Because you had looked at his chest and his scars and made the stupid, stupid choice to bandage rather than bury.
Cardan watched you, the realization settling in his features like a slow smile. “Interesting,” he said softly, and then, to the watching crowd, loud enough for a ripple of speculation to run through them, “match over.”
Ever since class ended, Cardan had been spiraling.
He couldn’t focus — not on the court, not on the endless chatter around him. Every swing of your sword replayed in his head, the way you’d stopped just before striking, the way your eyes had flickered — not with hatred, but with something else.
He told himself it didn’t matter. You were mortal, forgettable. But then he remembered the bandages beneath his shirt, neat and clean where there had been blood and ruin the night before. No one else would have dared. No one else could have found him.
He tried to reason with himself, pacing the room. It had to be you. You’d been too calm today, too knowing. He could still smell that faint mortal scent that didn’t belong in his chambers.
The realization hit hard. You had seen him broken. You had helped him. And still — you’d kept his secret.
Cardan let out a low, bitter laugh. “A mortal,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You.”
It should have been funny. But it wasn’t.
Because if it really was you, then everything between you had just changed.
For a week after the spring session, you avoided him like your life depended on it.
You skipped the corridors he used, lingered in the library until long after curfew, and left the training yard before he even arrived. You didn’t meet his eyes once — not after realizing that he knew.
He knew you’d helped him. Knew you’d seen him bleeding, half-conscious, stripped of the mask he wore before everyone else. And that was terrible. Because Cardan Greenbriar was not someone you wanted holding your secrets — not when he could twist them into daggers.
So you disappeared from his orbit. Pretended you didn’t notice when he passed by in the hall, when his gaze found you across the room and lingered like a question you refused to answer.
The invitation arrived on silver parchment, sealed with the Greenbriar crest.
Your stomach sank the moment you read the words “By decree of the High King of Elfhame.” There was no refusing it — not without offending the crown. And being mortal in a court that already looked for reasons to sneer at you didn’t exactly give you much room to say no.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Gods, you’d begged your family to find an excuse. But “it would look bad,” your father said, straightening his cuffs, pretending not to see how pale you’d gone.
The gown fit you like a whispered secret — black as midnight, dusted with faint specks of silver that caught the light every time you moved. The sheer layers drifted like smoke around your legs, each step stirring a ripple of dark shimmer. It wasn’t the kind of dress mortals were meant to wear in Elfhame — it made you look like you belonged among them. Dangerous. Untouchable.
You’d told yourself you were only going for appearances. That you’d stay quiet, stay small, stay unnoticed. But the moment you stepped into the High King’s grand hall — all gold and ivy and glittering cruelty — you could feel eyes following you. And you did what you always did when fear threatened to show: you smiled.
You kept to the edges at first, careful to steer clear of him. Cardan Greenbriar, lounging somewhere near the dais, wine in hand, smirk in place. You could almost feel his gaze grazing over you, searching.
So you joined the dance.
It was easy to lose yourself in the rhythm — the spinning skirts, the lilting laughter, the way the music carried you away from your thoughts. The pattern of the waltz was simple: the men stayed, the women moved, partners changing with every song. You let yourself slip through it like water, letting your mind drift — until the melody shifted.
And then you were caught.
Strong, steady hands closed around your waist. A familiar warmth pressed close behind you, breath ghosting against the side of your neck.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” came his voice — soft, velvet, and unbearably smug.
Your breath caught.
Slowly, you looked up — into eyes dark and golden all at once, mischief dancing like light on the edge of sin. Cardan’s smirk curved, just slightly, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened, firm and unyielding against your waist.
“What are you doing, Cardan?” you hissed, forcing your voice to sound steady even as your heart tripped in your chest.
He smiled — slow, wicked, far too sure of himself. “Can’t let you leave mid-dance now, can we?”
The music swelled around you — elegant, deceptive, drowning the sharp edge of his words. His fingers traced down your arm, catching your hand as he turned you, guiding you back into the rhythm like nothing was wrong.
But there was.
Because every step was deliberate, every twirl a trap. You could feel it in the way he watched you, too closely, too intently.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear as he spun you again, “why were you in my room that night?”
Your pulse stuttered. You kept your gaze fixed somewhere near his collarbone, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you do,” he said softly, almost amused, his thumb brushing your wrist as he pulled you close again. “You stopped, remember? My blood on the floor.”
“Stop.”
But he didn’t. The word only seemed to make him lean closer, the air between you thick with something dangerous.
“Why did you stop, little mortal?” His voice was barely a whisper now, silk and smoke. “Was it pity? Or something else?”
The room spun with you — music, laughter, and too many eyes. You could hardly breathe with how near he was, how easily he twisted the dance into interrogation, into something almost intimate.
And as he turned you one last time, his hand splayed across your back, he leaned in — so close his next words ghosted against your skin.
“You helped me, my sweet nemesis” he murmured. “Why?”
“You want to know why I saved you?” you snapped, voice low and shaking with anger. “Because I’m not like you.”
For a second, the mask cracked. Then he laughed—soft, bitter, the sound of a wound reopening. “No,” he breathed, drawing you closer until there was hardly any space between you. “You’re worse. You pretend you’re not.”
“Let go,” you whispered, but it came out more like a plea than a command.
He leaned in, his mouth close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “At least I know what I am.”
Your chest heaved. “And what’s that?”
“A monster,” he said simply, eyes burning. “One you can’t stop looking at.”
And with that, he spun you hard, forcing you to face him again — your breath catching as his eyes locked onto yours. There was no cruelty left now, only the raw edge of something unspoken, dangerous, and far too human.
“Every time I look at you,” he said, voice low and trembling, “I don’t know if I want to curse you or—” He cut himself off, his jaw tight, his gaze dropping to the space between you, as if even words might shatter it.
You stood there, caught in the rhythm, in him, in everything unsaid — the fury, the grief, the strange pull neither of you could name.
For a heartbeat, the rest of the ballroom faded — only the two of you remained, moving like the music had been written for your argument alone.
He leaned in, so close that his next words ghosted against your skin.
“Tell me you don’t feel it too.”
The music blurred into a distant hum, the world shrinking until it was only him — his breath, his fury, his hand curling into your hair. His jaw clenched, eyes dark and wild, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t just anger — it was everything he’d been trying not to feel. The kiss was sharp, bruising, desperate, as if he wanted to punish you for existing, for making him want. You shoved at his chest, but he only pulled you closer, his grip fierce, his mouth chasing yours like he’d been starving for it.
Your heartbeat roared in your ears. You hated that you kissed him back — hated how your fingers fisted in his collar instead of pushing him away. It was a war fought in silence, every breath, every movement a surrender you didn’t mean to give.
When he finally broke away, your lips were swollen, breaths tangled in the charged air between you.
“You’re insane,” you whispered, your voice shaking.
His gaze burned into yours, voice low, rough. “Maybe. But you’re the reason.”
You swallowed hard, unable to move as his thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, soft now, almost reverent.
“Tell yourself you hate me,” he murmured, a faint smirk ghosting his mouth. “But we both know what that felt like.”
And before you could respond, he turned — leaving you standing in the middle of the dance floor, pulse racing, the ghost of his kiss still burning against your lips.
