“Why do you keep trying?” he asked. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe because I see something in you that’s good. Even when you don’t.”
He swallowed hard, throat working. “You’re too soft.”
“You’re too stubborn.”
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re…beautiful,” I breathed, before I could stop myself.
He went still.
I clapped a hand to my mouth. “I meant—I mean, not—I meant your soul—like, the metaphor, not your—not that you’re not also—”
He blinked slowly. “You’re stuttering.”
“I am not.”
“You’re doing that thing where your ears go pink.”
“They do not.”
“They do,” he murmured, and something in his expression shifted; gentler, unguarded. Like something had cracked open, and he wasn’t rushing to shut it.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever called my soul beautiful before,” he added shyly.
“Then they were fools,” I whispered.
Silence claimed him once more, not the rigid stillness of calculation, but the sudden, breathtaking blankness of shock. His stare held the speaker, raw and exposed, as if I had reached through his chest and found a pulse he’d long forgotten.
And then, our hands touched.
Bare skin, palm to palm.
It was innocent. Accidental, even. But something happened.
Warmth stirred beneath my skin, starting low and soft like the curl of a candlewick before it bloomed into flame. A golden flicker danced between our joined hands—delicate, weightless, like a fire without heat.
I gasped.
He didn’t let go.
The unburning fire shimmered. Not bright. Not wild. But alive. It rose like breath, twining between our fingers, and for a moment, it felt like I was touching not just him, but something eternal.
“What is that?” he whispered.
I could barely speak. “I think it’s me.”
The fire pulsed once, gently, then faded, leaving only the memory of its warmth on my skin.
We stared at our hands. Then at each other.
“I didn’t mean to—” I began.
