And the knot in my chest—the one I'd carried since lighting a coat closet on fire as a dumbass kid who had nothing to his name but a stolen lighter—loosened just enough to let me breathe.
And once I started breathing, I couldn't stop talking.
"After that first fire, I set them because I needed to," I continued, the words spilling out of me. "Not just wanted to.Needed to, like food or water or air."
I moved away from Lucy, getting closer to the fire, pressing my palms against the hot stone hearth. Memories were surging—the string of foster homes, the schools, the abandonedbuildings where I'd gone to scratch the itch when it got too bad to ignore.
"I'd try not to. Would go weeks sometimes, fighting it." My voice dropped lower, like I was worried the walls would hear my confession. "But eventually my entire body itched with need to light something up. It was like being possessed. Like my skin didn't fit right, and the only way to make it stop was to watch something burn."
I inched my hands closer to the raging fire, tempting the heat to kiss my skin. Would this be the thing to scare her off? It would be ironic if it did, now that we were all desperate to keep her. I’d understand though. No one wanted a pyro around, especially not one who admitted they couldn't always control it.
“Asher.” She said my name and it sounded like salvation.
I turned, finding Lucy leaning forward in the chair, feet on the ground now. She lifted her hand, holding it out to me. I abandoned the fire, for the only warmth that could replace it. I shuffled on knees over to her, stopping when her legs pressed against the front of my body. She gently traced her fingers down my face.
"You were a kid," she said simply, like those four words absolved everything. Like the fires I'd set at twelve and fifteen and nineteen didn't matter because something had broken in me long before.
No one had ever offered me absolution before. Not the court-mandated therapists who'd tried to fix me, not the cops who'd caught me as a teen, not even my brothers.
"I'm not anymore," I said, because I needed her to understand I wasn't asking for excuses. "Still do it sometimes. When things get too loud in my head."
Lucy’s expression in response to my truth was tender. Her slender hands pushed into my hair, and she ran her fingers through the dark strands. I leaned into her touch before I couldstop myself, my eyes closing briefly at the unfamiliar pleasure of it. The fire crackled behind me. The air was heady with our scents. Everything was warm and perfect.
"I think if given the chance, I'd have done something like that," she said, her fingers still moving through my hair. "Set a fire or broken a window or… I don’t know. Anything to get attention. To be seen. To maybe get my parents to visit more often.” Her voice sounded sad at that last part, and she dropped her hands.
I opened my eyes, looking up at her. Her frown hurt; I wanted to make it disappear.
“I can picture it," I said, a grin spreading across my face. The image came easily—a young Lucy, pale yellow hair like in the early medical file photos, but with that same determination in her eyes. "You in a hospital gown, back flapped open, running down the hall with the last chocolate pudding, inciting a hospital-wide patient riot."
She laughed, the sound bright and unexpected. It hit me in the center of my chest, sharp and sweet.
"Stealing dessert does sound about my speed.” Her words held lingering laughter. “Besides, a fire would be out. I doubt I’d have found matches in any of the hospitals.”
"There's always a way to start a fire," I said, my voice dropping to something low and rough. "Always."
Her pupils expanded, darkening those green eyes. I watched her swallow, the delicate movement visible in her throat. The air between us seemed to compress.
I'd meant it metaphorically. I believed that there were always ways to rebel, to fight back, to create the chaos you needed to survive. But as I looked at her, I realized I was talking about us. About the spark that had ignited the first time I saw her, though I’d doused it at the time.
Lucy didn't look away. She lifted her hand again, this time tracing the line of my jaw with one finger. Her touch was barely a whisper.
I reached up, capturing her wrist in my hand, feeling her pulse hammer against my fingertips. Heat. Red hot. Scorching. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of fire. Not of creating it, but of being consumed by it.
But as I looked at Lucy, I knew it was already too late. The flames had come to life. All I could do now was control the burn.
56
NITRO
{Days later}
I slid the knife through the red bell pepper with practiced precision, producing even strips. The blade hitting the cutting board made a crisp, satisfying sound. I sliced quickly, rhythmically, getting lost in the repetitive movements. I could do this blindfolded if needed. Hell, maybe that could be a new show stunt.
The kitchen had become my domain in recent days. I channeled my energy here. Each meal I made for Lucy was a small bid for forgiveness, saying what I couldn’t put into words:I'm sorry for how I treated you. I'm sorry for being one more person who hurt you.
I transferred the vibrant red slices to a waiting bowl, then reached for a yellow pepper. How many cups did I need? I leaned over, double checking the recipe displayed on the tablet screen. I may be a whiz with a blade, but I wasn’t a genius cook. Everything I successfully made was a result of following instructions to the letter. Perfect knife work only got me so far.
Again, I got lost in the slicing.
