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  Kindling Desire

  ?? Volume II

  Burn 22: The Sound of Collapse

  Some watch the fire to feel alive. Others watch to see themselves burn.

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  Alex didn’t expect her body to still feel the ghost of Ethan’s hands hours after they left the last neon-rimmed hole. She felt it now; two warm impressions on her hips, where he’d jokingly, instinctively steadied her when she leaned too far over the edge of the pirate-ship obstacle to fish out her runaway ball. It had been nothing. A touch. A reflex. Friendly, even. But her body had absorbed it like a secret.

  And now she was sitting beside him in the dim, humming quiet of the mini-golf arcade café, the kind with glowing soda dispensers and a half-functioning slush machine, because one of his friends had suggested grabbing drinks after the eighteenth hole, and then; magically; had disappeared to drive another friend home. Which left her alone with Ethan. Again.

  In the soft LED glow, Ethan looked unguarded. Softer. The adrenaline of competition had cooled, leaving a faint pink flush across the bridge of his nose from laughing too hard at Morales’ disastrous four-stroke meltdown on the windmill hole. His hair was damp at the temples from the humidity and the heated lamps above the course, curls starting to form in that way that made her fingers twitch.

  “You really hustled us,” he murmured, tipping the last slippery ice cube in his cup against his mouth. “You let us think you were terrible for the first half.”

  Alex snorted. “That wasn’t strategy. I genuinely cannot aim for the life of me. I just…got lucky.”

  “No one gets three hole-in-ones by luck.”

  She tried not to grin. “Maybe your friends are just bad.”

  “They’ll be devastated to hear that,” Ethan said with a low laugh. “Although Morales might agree.” Silence stretched; pleasant, warm, the kind she wanted to lean into. Alex could feel the pulsing thrum of the arcade machines in her ribs, the faint scent of plastic turf clinging to them both. This wasn’t like the rooftop. It wasn’t like the warehouse fire. No tension, no danger, no double-exposed shadows between them.

  Just…this. Just him. Her chest pulled tight in a way she didn’t know how to manage.

  Ethan shifted in his seat, turning slightly toward her. His knee brushed hers; softly, then intentionally. “I’m really glad you stayed,” he said. His voice was too earnest, too naked. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Why?” she asked quietly.

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Because I don’t think you say yes to people often.”

  The words hit her with gentle precision, like a finger pressed to a bruise she didn’t know she had. He wasn’t wrong. “I don’t,” she admitted.

  His gaze softened even further; somehow warm and steady and unafraid of intimacy. “Then I’m honored.”

  Gods. What was she supposed to do with that? Her throat tightened. She looked down at her hands, still smudged faintly with pink chalk from the scoring pencils. She never felt this seen. And she should want distance; she needed it. Ethan’s world was too close to the fires. Too close to ruin. Too close to whatever was cracking open inside her. But the moment pulled her closer anyway.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said after a beat.

  “Okay…”

  “Earlier; when you helped Morales find his phone back near the lockers; did it look like I was…ignoring you?”

  Alex blinked. “Ignoring me?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I just didn’t want you to think I was trying too hard or not trying enough or; ” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I’m out of practice with this. Being around someone I actually want to know.”

  Her breath hitched. She should have said something witty. Light. Deflecting. That was her usual escape route. But she didn’t want distance. Not right now.

  “You weren’t ignoring me,” she said quietly. “If anything, you’re…kind of hard not to notice.”

  His eyes flicked to hers fast, sharp, as if drawn by a string. Heat spread low in her belly. Ethan leaned in just a degree, maybe two. Not enough to count as a move. Enough that she felt the whisper of his breath against her cheek.

  “Alex…” he murmured.

  She didn’t know what he was going to say next. Maybe he didn’t either. But her name in his voice felt like a hand warm against her sternum, a gentle press urging her to open. And she did. She leaned in. Just enough that their shoulders brushed. Just enough to share breath. Not a kiss. Something more delicate. More dangerous. He didn’t pull away.

  If anything, she felt his whole body go very still; like he was afraid to break the moment by even exhaling too hard. And then; blaring static. The overhead TV crackled to life.

  Both of them flinched, turning as the café speakers hissed and then sharpened into a live broadcast. “…breaking news from downtown; fire crews are responding to an active blaze that authorities are calling; at this time; a suspected arson…”

  Alex’s heart plummeted. No. No, not now. Not with him. Ethan straightened immediately, posture snapping from soft to alert, instinctive. She watched the shift happen; the firefighter locking into place beneath the boyish calm she’d just touched moments ago.

  He stood without realizing he’d stood. His drink hit the table unfinished. “Where is it?” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen. Her pulse thundered. Her fingers curled against her knees hard enough to hurt. The broadcast flipped to aerial footage. A warehouse; large, skeletal, half-collapsed on one side. Flames arched through broken windows like reaching hands. Smoke billowed dark and thick into the winter night.

  Her chest constricted. Ethan swore under his breath, already reaching for his phone. She knew what he’d find; a flurry of missed calls and texts lighting up the lock screen like flashing alarms. “Damn it,” he whispered. His worry wasn’t about the fire; she could hear that in the tone. It was about not already being there.

  Then his gaze dropped to her. And for a second; for only a second; she thought she saw his desire to stay, war with his duty. The conflict etched itself in his jaw, in the way his hand twitched at his side. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, as if he’d broken something of hers. “I have to go.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She nodded, carefully neutral. “Of course.” He hesitated again; one breath, two; as if trying to read her. As if worried this would make her pull away.

  “I’ll…talk to you later?” he asked, voice gentler than she’d ever heard it.

  She managed a faint smile she didn’t feel. “Yeah. Go.”

  Ethan exhaled, relief and regret tangled together, and hurried toward the exit. As soon as he was gone, her smile collapsed. Her body felt hollow. Split open. Like two people were fighting for space inside her ribs. She stood slowly, fingers trembling. Another arson. But one that is responsible for shaping the world she lived in.

  She swallowed hard, throat burning. This had been a good moment. A real one. Something she’d let herself want. And now…the flames were back.

  Following her.

  Finding her.

  Tearing open everything she had tried to keep closed; including him. Alex pressed a hand to her chest, right where her heartbeat fluttered out of sync. She had no idea how she was supposed to hold both things at once: the man who made her feel warm again.

  And the fires that kept coming. Alex froze; pulse spiked. Metallic ping echoed, letters flickering like tiny embers before stabilizing. Body shivered, stomach twisting with simultaneous thrill and guilt. She whispered, barely audible even to herself; “what the hell am I supposed to do now?” And somewhere across the city, the warehouse burned on.

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  Alex didn’t go straight home.

  She couldn’t; not with her pulse still pitched at that sharp, impossible angle between longing and dread. Not with Ethan’s warmth ghosting along her skin like she’d accidentally stepped too close to a sunbeam. Not with the fire blooming across half the city tugging at her like a hooked thread.

  So she walked. Aimlessly, at first. Through the glowing arcade parking lot. Past the string of family restaurants closing for the night. Across the campus border where student chatter thinned and winter bit harder. Her breath fogged in front of her in pale, drifting clouds, but she barely felt the cold.

  Her mind was too loud. Every step played back the last hour; the brushing knees, Ethan’s voice saying her name like it held weight, the way he’d looked at her before the news cut through the moment like a blade. But the fire… The fire was louder.

  When she finally stopped walking, she was at a mostly empty bus shelter lit by a single flickering bulb. A metal bench, cold enough to bite through her jeans, seemed good enough. She sat, pulled her coat tighter around her, and exhaled through parted lips.

  The quiet hummed around her. Then she pulled her phone out. She didn’t even pretend to check her notifications or text someone back. Her finger already hovered over the news app. Already knew exactly what she wanted. Needled for it. She tapped. The live-feed banner was still pulsing red.

  ACTIVE WAREHOUSE FIRE. POSSIBLE ARSON

  Her pulse leapt. She clicked. The video opened with a rush of chaotic sound; sirens, shouted commands, the low mechanical growl of engines, the sharp roar of fire chewing through wood. A shaky drone cam angled directly above the blaze, capturing the white-hot center; the flames curled up and out like something alive, sucking oxygen and darkness into itself.

  Heat memory rushed her so fast she swayed. Gods. There it was. That pull. That surrender. That dark warmth that unfurled inside her ribs the way flames unfurled from a window frame; hungry, fluid, inevitable. She let out a slow breath. The warehouse roof flashed bright, then caved inward, sending a tidal wave of sparks spiraling up into the black sky. People on the ground scattered. Crew members shouted orders. It was chaos, beautiful and terrible.

  Alex’s fingers tightened around her phone. Her body knew this rhythm. Even if the fire wasn’t hers, her nerves recognized the song. She watched the flames leap; higher, brighter; painting the smoke in shades of orange she’d memorized years ago. The feed cut closer to the building, the camera dropping low enough to show the broken windows back-lit by blistering heat. Glass shattered outward, scattering in glittering arcs.

  Her breath caught. She pressed the edge of the phone harder into her palm.

  A laugh; quiet, startled; broke loose from her throat. She didn’t intend to make a sound, but it bubbled up anyway, soft and breathy. Like something in her chest had cracked open and exhaled for the first time in weeks.

  She put her hand over her mouth, shocked. But she didn’t look away from the screen.

  If anything, she leaned closer.

  Another angle: firefighters moving as a unit, rhythmic and precise. Hose teams bracing themselves. The bright arc of water slamming into heat so intense it evaporated on contact. The camera zoomed past them, lingering on the fire’s heart; where the ceiling beams glowed red and orange like molten bones.

  A flush of warmth spread through her stomach. Low. Dangerous. Alex inhaled too sharply. “No,” she whispered. But her voice had no conviction. She should have turned it off, thrown the phone in her bag, gotten on the next bus home or called a friend or done anything other than sit here shaking.

  Instead, her thumb slid up, adjusting the volume.

  The sirens thickened the air around her. The shouts felt familiar. The flare of heat on the screen mapped onto her memory like an old scar warming beneath sunlight. She let her head fall back against the cold glass of the shelter. Her eyes fluttered half-closed as she listened. It was almost meditative.

  Almost holy.

  Her breath synced with the rise and fall of the flames.

  Her chest loosened.

  Her shoulders dropped.

  The quiet inside her began to reorganize; not shrinking, not disappearing, but finding a shape she recognized. For the first time in months, her thoughts slowed to a manageable hum. The panic she’d been holding since the moment Ethan’s knee touched hers dissolved into something heavier, calmer, hotter.

  Her fingers trembled as she switched to another live view; someone on the sidewalk filming through a chain-link fence. The fire loomed behind them, a giant, radiant thing. Smoke curled like dark silk. Sparks danced up into the sky.

  A faint smile crept onto her lips.

  Soft. Unbidden.

  Wrong.

  But it stayed.

  She swallowed hard, breath shaky, not with fear but with the thrill she couldn’t suppress. It rolled through her like warmth sliding into her bloodstream, unfurling her senses. The fire on the screen roared louder; a wall of heat and color; and her smile deepened just a fraction.

  She hated herself for it.

  She loved herself for it.

  Both sensations tangled until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Her phone buzzed; once, then twice. A text from Ethan’s number flashed on the screen:

  Ethan: Made it to the scene. Are you home safe?

  Her stomach twisted. Her thumb hovered. The fire behind the message preview still burned, bright and mesmerizing. And it was the fire she looked at; not the text. Her eyes kept drifting back to it, as if tethered. She exhaled shakily.

  The warmth inside her intensified, humming through her bones. There it was again: the addiction. The craving she’d spent years suppressing. The part of her shaped by heat and destruction, by the night that had split her life in two. It had been quiet lately; quiet enough that she thought maybe she’d outgrown it. Maybe she’d learned how to live without this feeling.

  But now? Watching the flames on her phone, the world collapsing in bright waves of orange and red?

  It felt like coming home. The faint smile wouldn’t leave her mouth. And the worst part? She let it stay. Because the fire didn’t judge her. The fire didn’t leave her behind to answer duty’s call. The fire didn’t ask questions she couldn’t survive answering.

  It only burned. It only consumed. It only made her feel something sharp and alive and terrifying; and real. A gust of winter wind pushed against the shelter, rattling the glass. Her hair whipped across her cheek. She finally tore her gaze away from the screen long enough to look up at the sky.

  Dark. Empty. Completely indifferent.

  Her breath fogged again, this time more controlled. More steady. She looked back at the flames. Her thumb brushed the edge of the phone in something like a caress. The faint smile returned, softer this time, and she closed her eyes for half a second; not in guilt, but in surrender.

  “I’m not supposed to miss this,” she whispered to no one.

  But she did.

  Gods help her, she did.

  And the fire; on her screen, in her blood; smiled back.