“How are you feeling?” he asks as I dab the cloth over the graze on his side.
It’s shallow. Barely more than a scratch. Probably doesn’t hurt at all. But his body is locked stiff, shoulders tight like he’s expecting something worse.
He asks me again, voice quieter this time, but I still don’t answer. Just keep cleaning. I know he can see my face in the mirror. But I pretend he can’t.
“Look,” he says, quiet but direct, “you don’t have to talk about it. Not yet. What you just did and what happened with Beth... no one’s ready to talk about it right after. Pretending you are? Forcing yourself to, that just makes it worse later.”
The muscles across his back rise under my touch as he takes a breath, then he turns to face me.
“The silence?” He continues, barely a step away from me now. “That’s your mind keeping you upright. It’s normal. When you’re ready—when it starts to itch under your skin—you talk. Or you don’t. You write. You draw. You smash something. But you let itmove. You let itout. Somehow, or it will eat at you from the inside.”
My fingers tighten slightly on the cloth. I don’t speak, just drop my gaze, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, his hand lifts gently, fingers brushing my chin as he tilts my head up, just enough to make sure I’m looking at him when he says it.
“I just want you to know I’ve been where you are. And bottling it up?” He offers me a small smile. Not pity. Just… understanding. “That’s normal too. It just shouldn’t be permanent. Okay?”
Warm fingers rest under my chin, holding me there. His gaze is steady, and for a second, the air stretches tight between us—too quiet, too full. Like if either of us breathed wrong, something might break.
But I nod, once.
He lingers for a heartbeat longer, then lets go and shifts back.
“Is that why you draw?” I ask, voice low.
“Sometimes.” Something flickers behind his eyes—faint, but there. “More often than I’d like... but look, let’s talk about something else.” He leans back against the dresser, casual on the surface, but there’s still a line of tension in his jaw. “I know how much you love asking questions,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “So go on. Distract yourself, ask away. But strictly things about me.”
I guess he doesn’t have any other answers for me yet. But fine, I’ll take the distraction.
“You can call fire?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t know you had Fire Threads. Even if you do, how did you do it? Therewas nothing burning. No heat. So how the hell did you call a flame when there wasn’t any around?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me, then his eyes darken, just a fraction. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,Bloom.”
“Well, whose fault is that….”
He pauses, gaze steady. Then lifts one hand.
The flames in the room respond instantly. Candlelight flickers, then rushes toward him, pulled like breath. It coils into his palm—bright and blinding—folding into his fingers until his hand closes tight.
Darkness slams into the room. Complete, sudden and I freeze, unable to see a thing.
“Most people.” He says, voice low,close, “Can only draw from existing fire; use what's around them. I’ve learned to capture it, create it.”
I can’t see him but I can feel his breath just in front of me. Warm. Steady. Then something brushes my leg in the darkness—his, maybe—but neither of us moves. The air between us crackles, charged.
Then he opens his hand, and the fire spills free. Light rushes back into the room all at once, soft at first—then brighter, blooming across the candles as they flare back to life.
The shift hits fast enough that my eyes sting and when I look back at him, he’s already watching me, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face, but underneath, there’s still tension there.
“Fire isn’t a thing,” he adds. “It’s a reaction. You just need the right ingredients: air and a spark,fuel. Most people are missing fuel. I’ve just learned how to be the fuel.” A beat, “you could too. I could teach you.”
“I’ve never been great with fire, not since my mum died. And now, after Ashvale…” My fingers twitch. I shake my head.“Doesn’t matter. My fire Threads have always been dormant anyway.”
One hand flexes at his side, half-reaching. Then it drops back, curled into a fist.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t give you answers yet. About Ashvale. About everything.” A beat. He shifts, jaw tight, air coming thin like he’s biting something back. “But I promise, you’ll get them. Soon. Sooner than you think.”
His eyes catch mine, hazel and gold catching in the candlelight. For a second he holds, but then, slow, unmistakable, his gaze dips to my mouth.
He says he wants my trust, but onlyafterhe’s taken my body. So what is this, then? He said I was the one playing games, but he's just as bad, and I'm too tired for this tonight.
