“That fire tells the truth.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds ominous.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “It’s not. Or maybe it is. Depends on the day.”
I look at my hands. Scarred. Strong. Still mine. “Fire shows what’s real. What burns away wasn’t meant to last.”
Her fingers slide into mine before I realize I reached for her. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pull back.
“So what burned away?” she asks quietly.
“The lie,” I say. “That I was done living.”
She inhales, sharp. I feel it like a pulse.
“I’ve been afraid,” I admit. The words scrape on the way out. “Not of getting hurt again. Of wanting again. Of needing something enough that losing it would wreck me.”
Her thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and steady. “And me?”
“Yes,” I say without flinching. “You.”
The studio hums around us. Outside, the mountain settles, night creeping in like a held breath.
“I don’t want to rescue you,” she says after a beat. “And I don’t want to be rescued.”
Good. God, that’s good.
“I don’t need fixing,” I tell her. “I need?—”
“Someone to stand beside you,” she finishes.
I look at her then. Really look. The paint on her cheek. The quiet strength under the sparkle. The way she never once tried to drag me into the light—just turned it on and trusted me to find my way.
“Yes,” I say. “That.”
She lifts our joined hands, presses them to her chest. I feel her heartbeat. Fast. Alive.
“I choose you,” she says simply. “As you are. Scars and shadows and all.”
The words land like a promise and a challenge.
I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts her lips. She doesn’t move away. Her eyes darken, mouth parting just slightly.
“Firefly,” I murmur. “If I start…”
“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I’m still here.”
I kiss her then.
Not a claiming. Not a frenzy. A truth.
Her lips are warm, soft, sure. She kisses back like she means it, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. The kiss deepens, heat building, and I feel it—the pull, the ache, the need to take and hold and never let go.
I break it before it turns into something else.
She groans softly, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You have infuriating control.”
I chuckle, low. “Don’t mistake restraint for lack of desire.”
