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There’s no real kitchen, just a hot plate atop a rickety table in the corner. It’s stained with wax drippings, bits of wicks, and drops of essential oils. I don’t use it for cooking.
It’s just another part of my candle-making setup, evidence of which spills across every available surface. Spare wax, jars, and wicks are scattered about, the sweet and herbal scents mingling with the lingering staleness of the place.
The sofa—if you could even call it that—sits in the middle of the room, threadbare and ratty, its cushions flattened and springs threatening to poke through the faded fabric. It’s where I sleep, the only place to lay my head, covered in a quilt that’s seen better days. There isn’t even a proper bed, just this sagging excuse for furniture that has to double as a resting place.
Afternoon light filters through the single window, highlighting the worn furniture and cluttered shelving. The shelves are crammed with half-used candle jars, mismatched mugs, and small bottles of essential oils, their labels faded. There’s a sense of chaos, but it’s my chaos.
Blaze follows, his broad frame making my tiny studio feel even smaller. Blood has seeped through his bandages again,dark patches staining the white gauze. His breath comes in controlled bursts, each inhale measured against broken ribs.
He looks around, his gaze sweeping over the space. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes taking in every detail—the chipped plaster, the lack of basic amenities, the sofa that serves as a bed.
Shame bubbles up, hot and sharp. This is what I am. This is what I have to offer. Nothing more than four walls that barely stand and the remnants of a life I’ve tried to piece together.
“Home sweet home.” My voice cracks on the words, an attempt at levity that falls flat.
“It’s perfect.” His eyes meet mine, but there’s no judgment there, only a softness that tightens my chest.
I almost believe him.
He moves carefully, and the controlled effort of each breath is a reminder of his injuries. Despite everything, he doesn’t complain; he just follows me in, his eyes never leaving mine.
“It’s not much,” I murmur, a hint of apology in my voice. “But it’s home.”
Blaze steps closer, his gaze softening even more. “You’re here, and that’s what matters,” he says, his voice rough with exhaustion and something else, something that makes my heart skip a beat. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words rumble from his chest as his hand finds the small of my back, steadying me. His touch sends warmth spreading through my battered body.
My workbench catches his eye—dozens of half-finished candles lined up like soldiers, waiting for their marching orders. Jars of essential oils catch the light, their contents shimmering like liquid jewels.
“This is where the magic happens?” His fingers trail over a partially carved pillar candle, tracing the intricate patterns I etched into the wax. Despite his injuries, curiosity brightens his eyes.
The sofa creaks as I sink onto it, my legs finally giving out. “Not much magic. Just something that kept me sane.” A laugh bubbles up, quickly cut off by protesting ribs. “Keeps me warm, too, when the heat goes out.”
Blaze lowers beside me, the dilapidated sofa groaning under our combined weight. His arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. His solid warmth anchors me to this moment, to this reality where I’m finally free.
“Show me?” The request is soft, almost hesitant. As if he understands what he’s asking—for me to share not just my craft, but the pieces of myself I’ve kept hidden for so long.
My fingers find his, intertwining. “You sure? We should probably rest…”
His lips brush my temple, gentle despite the split in his lower lip. “We’ve got time now. All the time in the world.”
The words sink in slowly, like wax absorbing fragrance.
Time.
Possibilities I never dared imagine before.
I lean into him, letting my walls crack just a little more.
“Okay. But first…” I gesture to his bloody bandage. “Let me take care of that. Can’t have you bleeding all over my supplies.”
“Ever the practical one.” His quiet laugh rumbles through both our bodies.
“Someone has to be.” I press a kiss to his jaw, careful of the bruising. “Besides, you’re not the only one who can patch people up.”
The first aid kit rattles as I retrieve it from under the sink. My hands shake slightly as I return, but his steady gaze gives me strength.
We survived hell.
Now comes the hard part—relearning how to live.