She would tell herself it was nothing.
But already, it was a part of her.
She would wear it.
She would move through the world wearing him. And no one would know.
No one but him.
That was the beauty of it.
She wouldn’t see it as a message. Not yet.
But it was one.
Not a warning.
A promise.
She was his.
Not to own.
To understand.
He hadn’t touched her.He didn’t need to.
She was breathing him in.
She would think of him and not know why.
Feel watched and wonder.
Because he was there.
Moving through her life like breath through a flame. Gentle at first. Invisible. Patient.
His Little Fire.
Not fear.
Not obsession.
Recognition.
She was rare.
And what was rare had to be protected—studied, cherished, claimed.
So he sent her the only thing worthy of her skin.
And soon, she would understand.
Not because he said it.
Because she’d feel it.
In the quiet.
