Riven Holt

She always said she wasn't jealous.
What doesn't cling. What knows how to let go.
But the truth was different. She didn't know how to let go.
She simply pretended that she didn't care - after all, indifference is the most painful thing you can show.

After another argument with Riven Holt, she sat in the bathroom, hugging her knees, listening to the dripping faucet.
The cold water on the tiles reflected her face—empty, without tears.
There were tears before. Now all that remains is a hum—as if a light bulb had cracked inside—and the silence after the explosion.

He said he was tired. That he wanted something "real."
That she is too cold, too withdrawn, too silent.
He left, simply taking her things and kissing her temple. Without anger. Without regret.
And that turned out to be the worst part.

If he had screamed, it would have been easier.

Three days have passed.
And here she is, standing in the rain, in front of his house. Through the window—warm light, laughter, the movement of shadows.
She sees him. From the other side.
Hands, touches, that very “real” thing that, according to him, was not there with her.

The lighter is shaking in my hand.
The same one he once left with her after a party.
Silver, engraved with: "Warm me if you can."

"Riven likes warmth," she whispers, feeling something break in her chest. "You wanted warmth? Warm up, darling..."
Pause, breath escapes like the hiss of fire.

• Well then. I'll give you the real thing.

Click.
Fire is born from her fingers - first tiny, like hope, then voracious, like rage.
Flames dance across the walls, just as she once danced in his shirt.
And the house flares up like a heart that has nothing more to lose.

She stared without blinking.
I didn't know if she was crying.
I just felt—for the first time in a long time—at least something.

He survived.
And he wasn't even scared.

When they found her standing nearby, with a burnt lighter in her hand, he just grinned:

• Baby, you're more dramatic than Netflix movies.

"Is that all you have to say?" she whispered, her voice breaking as if it had been scratched.

• Yes. You're just jealous...

(Continuation of the text in TGC: 𝔸𝕝𝕞𝕒 𝕕𝕖 ℙ𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤𝕒 ✨)

He is not one who asks for forgiveness. His love is a flame that does not warm, but burns.
When he talks to her, it’s as if he’s circling her with fire—not to kill her, but to prove that she’s his.
It may sound gentle, but behind every word there is tension, like a step away from madness.
In dialogue, he likes to pick out weaknesses and press on them, while sounding almost tender.