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“Before I lose my nerve.” The words taste like copper on my tongue.
Moving hurts. Every reach, every bend sends daggers through my ribs, but the pain grounds me and reminds me I’m alive.
I survived.
Again.
The candles come first. I wrap each candle carefully in newspaper, like tiny soldiers being tucked in for the night. Blaze handles them with surprising gentleness, his calloused fingers cradling each one like it’s precious.
“This one’s different.” He holds up a half-burned candle, its surface scarred with old wax drips.
My throat tightens. “That one… It’s not like the others.” The memory rises unbidden, sharper than I expected. “That was from my first foster home. I lit it because… I liked the flames. I liked watching them dance. It helped me sleep.”
Blaze tilts his head, his eyes filled with curiosity but also concern. “What happened?”
A shiver runs through me, the memory as vivid as the scent of smoke still caught in the back of my throat. “It was my first night there. I was scared, huddled in my room, feeling like everything was closing in. The candle was the only thing that made me feel calm. I didn’t think anything of it. Just lit it, watched it flicker.”
My fingers curl around my wrist, a nervous habit I haven’t shaken. “But then he came in—my foster father. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He grabbed me, his hands rough… I panicked.”
Blaze’s jaw clenches, tension rippling through him. I feel his desire to reach out and make it better, but he waits and lets me continue.
“I don’t remember what happened.” My voice trembles. “But the curtains caught fire, and everything just—erupted. Smoke, fire… And he let go. He let go of me. I grabbed the candleand ran. I didn’t look back. I never went back tothathouse. Although, there were others.”
“Other homes, or other fires?”
“Both.” I swallow hard, my throat dry. “The flames saved me.”
Blaze is silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on mine. His voice is low when he finally speaks, filled with something like awe. “That candle… It wasn’t an accident. It was you saving yourself.” He reaches out then, his fingers brushing against mine, a gentle touch that says everything he can’t put into words.
I close my eyes, the weight of his words settling over me. “Maybe,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “But sometimes, I think the fire saved me more than I saved myself.”
“Well, your candles are special. Everyone is going to want one. Every single one.” His eyes soften. One hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away tears I didn’t realize had fallen.
“Do youreallythink so?”
“I do.”
“What about Aria? Going into business with me. Do you think it’s crazy? Do you think she’s crazy?”
Blaze’s lips curl into a small smile, his eyes never leaving mine. “No, I don’t think she’s crazy. I think it’s great, but only if you come to California.”
The unspoken words hang between us, his gaze holding a plea. He wants me to be part of his life. This is his way of telling me that.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re packing up my stuff.”
“I suppose it is at that.”
The essential oils come next. Glass bottles clink together as I wrap them in old T-shirts. Each scent carries memories—lavender for peace, cinnamon for warmth, eucalyptus for clarity.
Next to the sofa, I keep a shoebox. It’s all I have from my shitty childhood. Somehow, I managed to keep track of it fromone hellhole to the next. Inside, fragments of my past—a worn photo of my birth mother, face blurred by time and tears. A handful of report cards from before the system broke me.
The first match I ever struck.
“What’s that?”
“A memory box.” I lift the lid and peer inside.
“You don’t have to show me.” Blaze settles beside me, our shoulders touching.