• BURN ME •

• 7 •

Castaway 

 ~ Barns Courtney

Snow

Fuck. Just... fuck. I can't believe I actually said that. Beautiful eyes. To Flame. Seriously, Aiden? Way to sabotage any semblance of... sanity, of self-preservation, you might have been clinging to. I run a hand through my hair, fingers tangling in the bright strands, trying to physically dislodge the memory of his gaze, the weight of his touch on my jaw. He is hot. Goddamn, undeniably, ridiculously hot. Always had a weakness for tall, brooding, mysterious types. And Flame... Flame is a goddamn locked vault of mystery, radiating danger and darkness in equal measure. Bay was right. So right. Flame is scorching hot. Doesn't matter if he's bad, if he's a walking red flag, if every instinct screams run. No, of course not. Instincts are overrated. Biting my lip, hard, I try to ground myself in the mundane reality of Sophia's kitchen, to silence the unwelcome, insistent fantasies that flicker at the edge of my consciousness. God, those tattoos. Dark ink crawling across tanned skin. Symmetry, asymmetry, a story etched in skin. Would have loved to keep staring at him last night. Trace the dark lines, decipher the hidden meanings. Broad chest, sculpted arms, corded with muscle. Bet he could just... lift me. Effortlessly. Like I weighed nothing. Suck my lower lip between my teeth, a nervous tic, a futile attempt to regain control over my spiraling thoughts. Would have loved to trace those dark lines, yes, and then... other things. Things I shouldn't even be thinking about. Not about Sophia's brother. Sophia's brother. Anchor myself to that reality. Need to keep a clear head. "You wanted to make breakfast, Aiden. Concentrate on breakfast." Whisper the words aloud, a self-admonishment, a desperate attempt to redirect my focus. Open the cavernous fridge, a stainless steel behemoth in Sophia's pristine kitchen, and scan the shelves, searching for pancake ingredients. Flour, eggs, milk. Basic. Simple. Focus on the mundane. Focus on the task at hand.

Footsteps on the stairs, a familiar rhythm in the quiet house. Sophia. Enters the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her movements still sluggish with sleep. "Morning," I say, forcing a smile, trying to project a normalcy I definitely don't feel. She looks at me, her gaze narrowed, assessing, almost suspicious. "Everything okay?" she asks, her voice still thick with sleep. Eyes me critically, head to toe. "Tell me..." she continues, her brow furrowing. "Can you read minds?" Tilt my head, confused, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in conversational direction. "Why?" She points to the griddle, to the stack of golden pancakes rising on the warming plate. "I... dreamed about them," she mumbles, her voice still thick with sleep, her gaze still locked on mine, unnervingly direct. Laugh, a short, startled burst of genuine amusement. "No," I say, shaking my head, still slightly bewildered. "Not that I know of. How many do you want?" She grabs a plate, loads it with three fluffy pancakes, drowning them in syrup. A little later, Flame stumbles into the kitchen, radiating a palpable aura of barely suppressed tension, his eyes shadowed, unreadable, his movements stiff, almost... hesitant. He glances at me, a flicker of... something... confusion?... in those dark depths. Sophia looks at her brother, oblivious to the silent exchange, the unspoken tension that crackles between us. "Take some," she urges, gesturing towards the pancakes. "They're fantastic." He sits down at the table, heavily, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me, reaches for the pancakes, grabs one, slathers it with butter and syrup. Sophia looks up at her brother, her gaze softening, laced with concern. "Going back to Nacho's soon?" she asks, her voice gentle, almost hesitant. He nods, a curt, almost imperceptible movement. Good. Then I won't have to... run into him... so often. Pointless lie. Futile hope.

He takes a bite of pancake, chews slowly, deliberately, then... frowns. Doesn't he like them? A ridiculous, childish flicker of disappointment washes over me. Sophia, oblivious to my internal turmoil, continues the mundane breakfast conversation. "Going to train?" she asks her brother, her voice casual, almost... knowing. Sweaty Flame. The image flares in my mind, unbidden, unwelcome, intrusive. And I have to actively, consciously, force myself to think of... pancakes. Syrup. Mundane breakfast things. Anything but that. The older one shakes his head, a curt, dismissive denial. Sophia nods back, a silent acknowledgment of his unspoken routine. I look at the two of them, siblings in silent conversation, bound by unspoken histories, by shared secrets, by... blood. "You and Nacho," I interject, forcing myself to sound casual, conversational. "Been friends for a long time?" Direct the question to the redhead, to Flame, the source of my unwanted, unwelcome... distraction. He looks back at me, his gaze sharp, guarded, unreadable, and nods, another curt, economical movement. Sophia laughs, a genuine, amused sound, breaking the strained silence. "Those two? They've been friends since... middle school, I think. At first, Flame hated him. Nacho is just as stubborn as my brother." She explains, her voice laced with affectionate amusement, a gentle teasing of her brother's predictable stubbornness. I laugh, a short, startled burst of surprised amusement. "Really?" She nods, her smile widening. "Yes. Took them ages to warm up to each other. But now... they're practically brothers." She smiles again, a warm, genuine smile of familial affection. Flame, surprisingly, nods in agreement, another curt, economical gesture, acknowledging the truth of her words.