Fire Burning

Fire On My Skin

The ceiling in my room at Addie’s place had a crack above the window—thin, jagged, like a quiet fracture that hadn't finished breaking. The walls were blank. No art, no photos, no personality. Just clean paint and silence.

They’d set the room up when I moved in—Addie’s parents made it cozy, gave me my own dresser, a desk, even a comforter with soft blues and greys. But I hadn’t unpacked anything personal. Not my sketchbook. Not my photos. Not the fairy lights in the box I still hadn’t opened.

It didn’t feel like mine.

Not yet.

My camera case sat untouched on the desk, closed tight.

A knock came—gentle but steady.

I didn’t answer, just shifted under the blanket.

The door opened anyway.

Ari stepped in like he belonged there. He always moved like that—slow, grounded, steady. Hoodie half-zipped, dark jeans low on his hips, curls still a little damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower.

He scanned the room once. “It still looks like a hotel in here.”

I shrugged. “Guess I haven’t figured out how to live in it.”

He walked over and sat beside me on the bed without asking. Our legs touched lightly, warm through the fabric.

“You used to take photos,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded.

“You still have them?”

“On my phone.”

“Let me see.”

I hesitated, but handed it over.

He started scrolling, eyes focused. His thumb slid across the screen slowly, pausing at certain frames—sunlight through curtains, shadows across tile, black-and-white portraits that felt like grief and memory and something softer hiding beneath.

Then he stopped.

“This one,” he murmured. “Your hands. On that book.”

I nodded. “Yeah?”

He looked at me, eyes dark. “It feels... lonely. But like you meant for it to be.”

I couldn’t speak.

His gaze held mine. “You don’t just take pictures. You leave pieces of yourself in them.”

I swallowed.

He set the phone aside and leaned in slightly. “You should put them up. This room needs you in it.”

“I don’t know if it’s mine.”

“You do.”

The space between us was tight now. Charged. He didn’t move fast—just closer. His hand came up, fingers brushing along my jaw, tilting my chin toward him.

“You always do that,” he said quietly. “Look like you want something and hate that you do.”

My breath caught.

He leaned in more, voice low. “Tell me to stop.”

I didn’t.

So he kissed me.

And it was everything.

His lips were hot, certain—claiming. He kissed like someone who made decisions and didn’t second guess them. His hand slipped behind my neck, pulling me closer. His other hand braced beside my hip, body leaning over mine without crushing me. Controlled. Dominant. Like he wanted to own the moment—and me with it.