I still. “Little flame?”
His head dips, a quiet defeat from the looseness of his tongue. “Yes. You have a fire in you. Anyone could see.”
I’ve been called names before. Vicious, cruel names meant to harm. His words are a gift. There’s affection behind them, yes, but it feels right. It feels like—me. I smile softly at him, struggling to let my gaze meet his for fear of just how much he seems to see when he looks at me.
I’ve never been so seen.
With that smile that not only charms but also seems to loosen the grip on my internal armor, he bids me on. I turn once, only to find him still at the doorway, lingering, watching until the trees swallow me.
The glade feels absurdly near—Bracken’s steady stride bringing us in moments where I usually meander.
The air does not carry the thick scent of jasmine that ushered me into this life months ago. Now only green tendrils and tight buds beg to open, as if they hold the same promise and hope aching to bloom within me.
But the thought falters, snapping like a stem bent too soon. That ache is not mine alone—it is born of him. Every fragile hope leans toward a man already halfway gone.
The sweetness sours in my chest, heavy with the knowledge that I am building a future on borrowed days. I urge Bracken onward, as though distance can unmake what has rooted itself inside me. The stream calls—not with the lilt of welcome it usually carries, but with a weight that presses on my heart. The crooked falls no longer seem a beckoning veil but an omen—water breaking jaggedly over stone, warning of what lies ahead.
Every moment we share that threatens my peace heats my blood as the steed tears through the woods. The rumble of Vale’s voice clings to me long after distance steals its echo—that slip of a name, little flame, setting alight something I cannot contain. His gaze lingers on my skin like embers refusing to fade, and I carry the blaze of it down to the stream as though I cannot breathe until it is doused.
I was perfectly content before his arrival and now—now all I can think about is him. That voice that unravels me with a whisper, those eyes that seem to see into the depth of my soul, everything about him feels like a threat to my peaceful life here. Because everything about him seems to call me near.
The woods blur as we fly. I urge him on, faster, until branches whip past and the pounding of his hooves matches the racing in my chest. Breath tears ragged from us both, beast and rider, as though we share the same storm.
The water waits—clear and cutting—its surface fractured by the crooked falls. I strip without ceremony, as if each layer I shed might take the heat with it. The first touch of its flow steals my breath, frigid and merciless, but I welcome it. I crave it.
I sink deeper, letting the cold close over me, gasping as it sears and soothes in equal measure. The fire inside me writhes, battles, then bends to the chill until I can no longer tell whether I tremble from heat or cold. All I know is that I need the water to claim me, to cool the ache his words have left burning through my chest.
Clenching my eyes shut, I let the current wash over me, as though the current itself might carry away what I dare not name.
I rise at last, the water clinging to me in rivulets, heavy and cold. Normally the stream leaves me sharpened, refreshed—as though the world itself has rinsed me clean. But not this time. I feel raw, scoured, every nerve alive with what I tried to drown.
Dressing in silence, fingers fumbling more than they should, the fabric clings damp against skin that still seems to burn beneath its chill. No comfort settles over me, only the restless sense that I have carried fire into the water, and it has refused to die.
Bracken raises his head from the stream, water dripping down his dark muzzle. His eyes are watchful, nostrils flaring asthough he too senses the unrest in me. I press a hand to his neck, the steady pulse beneath my palm a tether, and swing into the saddle.
Bathed and quenched, we turn homeward together, no word between us—only the solemn weight of knowing some fires cannot be stilled.
We burst into the clearing of the glade once more, where grass grows thick and sweet, he tears at it eagerly. I stay until his hunger eases, stroking his mane more for my own calm than his. Only then do I coax him toward the cottage, promising him hay once he’s rested—a small reward for the miles he has carried me.
Conflict tugs within me yet again. The comfort I feel in returning to him nestled alongside the unease of wanting someone, perhaps even needing someone, stirs in me. I still myself once more before entering the cottage. I do not need anyone. I am fine on my own, always have been. I draw in a breath as my hand touches the handle.
The door creaks open on familiar warmth, firelight banked low. Vale is there. Not waiting at the threshold, but settled within as if he belongs to the place—half risen from the chair near the hearth, or perhaps only just leaving the bedchamber. His eyes find me, and something in his stance eases.
One look at him and any resolve I have mustered falters; any longing I tried to wash away seeps through my skin.
He steps close and brushes back a damp strand clinging to my cheek, a simple act that makes my pulse quicken. I fear I will buckle beneath the weight of his gentle touch.
“You seem refreshed,” he says with a smile—the flush in my cheeks taken for vigor, not for the war that stirs inside me.
The moment stretches, soft and unspoken, as he casually steps aside to let me pass—no sign that he senses the turmoil inside me.
The rest of the evening folds gently around us—the small rhythm of chores, the simple cadence of supper—it lulls me into something I can almost convince myself is calm. Yet I feel the pull of each motion weaving us more tightly into one another’s company.
I steel my heart. Allowing myself to enjoy these moments with him, fleeting as they might be, is not a surrender of defeat but something gentler. I do not curse the summer’s warmth simply because I knowwinter will come. Therefore, I need not fight these moments of closeness. Temper them, perhaps, but not rage against them.
I laugh at the absurdity of how worked up I have allowed myself to become. Though his attention never wavers and a single glance from him sends thrills down my spine, it is the calm I cling to.
With the hearth woken into full flame, I allow its warmth to ease that ache. With enough water fetched at hand to be warmed, I grab the basin that is kept tucked away.
