Fire Burning

The Space Between Us

The blanket scratched at my cheek, stiff with grass and ash.

Something warm pressed to my back-steady breaths brushing the top of my shoulder. A hand rested on my waist. Not tight. Just there. Like it belonged.

I didn't open my eyes right away.

The fire was barely a glow now, just amber embers breaking the early blue of morning. A few people were still passed out around the yard-blankets tangled, arms tossed over faces, the chaos of last night now hushed.

I shifted slightly.

Jeremy's arm slid down my side as I moved, his fingers trailing lazy, unconscious lines against my hip. His nose bumped my neck. "Mornin', trouble."

I hummed instead of answering.

Across from us, Aristotle was already sitting up, elbows on his knees, watching the fire like it was still speaking to him.

I sat up slowly, brushing stray leaves from my hoodie. My body ached, but not in a bad way. More like I'd survived something. Or maybe surrendered to it.

Jeremy stretched beside me. "Well damn. No hangover. Guess tequila is a healer."

Ari didn't look over. "It's not."

I glanced between them-one all fire and teasing grins, the other stone still and unreadable.

I felt stretched thin between them again. Not physically. Emotionally.

Last night had been...

Everything.

Too much.

Not enough.

And now it was morning, and I didn't know what to do with the quiet.

Jeremy nudged me. "Pancakes?"

"Addie makes 'em like they're laced with crack," Ari added, still not looking at me.

I stood, pulling my sleeves over my hands. "I'll be there in a sec."

They both watched me walk away-but didn't follow.

Not yet.

I found a spot at the edge of the yard where the grass was still damp, tucked under a tree with golden light leaking through the branches. I sat down slowly, wrapping my arms around my knees, and let the silence settle.

My lips still felt swollen.

My body still buzzed from all the places they'd touched.

But my mind?

It was screaming.

Because what the hell was I doing?

I barely knew these boys. And yet, they knew how to touch me like I was something meant to be unraveled. I let them. Wanted them. Both.

And that scared me more than anything.

"Didn't peg you for the run-away-after type," a voice said softly.

I turned.

Aristotle stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, shadows beneath his eyes. He looked beautiful and tired. Like something half-dreamed.

"I'm not running," I said.

He gave a slow nod. "I know."

A beat passed.

Then he sat beside me.

Not too close.

Not touching.