She drops low at the center of the fire pit, sweat glistening at her temple, breath heaving through parted lips. Smoke coils around her knees. Her spine arches as she rises again, slow, deliberate, like she’s daring gravity to keep her down.
She’s fire made flesh.
And I burn watching her.
The music crashes to a stop. The lights cut low.
She stands still in the dying haze, chest rising, eyes locked with mine. Her lips part slightly, and in the glow of the last flame, I can almost hear her whisper.
Don’t you dare look away.
I don’t.
Not for a heartbeat. Not for breath.
I nod once.
It’s all I give her. All I can give her without setting fire to everything.
Then I turn, slowly, boots dragging across the floor, and push back out into the night. The door creaks shut behind me like it’s holding back something wild.
I don't light a smoke. I don't check my comm. I just walk. Each step loud in my head. Each step echoing with the fact that I'm in deeper than I thought.
I’m not ready to leave this alone.
And maybe I never was.
CHAPTER 7
KELSEA
The firelight hasn't even faded from my skin when I slip offstage. Sweat slicks my spine, beading at the nape of my neck beneath the scarf. I should go left—back to the dressing room, to the safe ritual of toweling off and pretending none of it matters.
But I don’t.
He’s there.
In the corridor outside the side exit, leaning against the wall like he belongs to the shadows. He doesn’t move when he sees me. Doesn’t straighten or smirk or drop some lewd line like most men do. He just watches me with those eyes, steady as gravity.
I almost keep walking.
Almost.
But my feet stop anyway.
The air in the corridor feels heavier now. The thump of the music is muffled behind me, leaving only the pulse in my ears and the whisper of breath that slips between us.
“I didn’t think you’d stay the whole set,” I say, voice quieter than I mean it to be.
Roja tilts his head just a little. “You knew I would.”
I hate how right he is. Hate how easy it is for him to read me, like he’s been doing it for years, not days. Still, I don't back down. My gaze stays locked with his.
“The scarf,” I say. I tug at the edge of it without meaning to, the silk catching against my damp fingers. “It adds something.”
He doesn’t blink. “It brings out the color of your eyes.”
It shouldn’t hit like it does—just words. But something in the way he says it, quiet and unforced, like a truth that doesn't need dressing up, makes a tremor roll through me. Not fear.
