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FORTY

Ember

Blaze wastes no time, because the next day, empty boxes mock me from the floor, their cardboard mouths gaping wide, waiting to swallow my life.

Boxes.

Only three boxes.

The apartment suddenly feels both too small and too large—years of survival compressed into this tiny space.

“We don’t have to do this today.” Blaze’s hand spans my lower back, his touch featherlight against bruised skin. “You’re still healing.”

The scope of packing overwhelms me—not because there’s so much, but because there’s so little. Everything I own fits in two boxes, maybe three, counting my candle supplies.

“No.” My voice comes out stronger than expected. “I need to do this now. Before…”

“Before, what?”

“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 candle and ran. I didn’t look back. I never went back to that house. 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 you really think 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 from one 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.

“I want to.” The words surprise me with their truth. “I want you to know… To understand…”

“I already do.” His fingers find mine, intertwining. “But show me anyway.”

Each item tells a story. The photo—my mother’s last gift before disappearing into a haze of drugs and broken promises. The report cards—proof that once, I had potential. The match—my first taste of power, of control.

“You were a good student.” He studies a faded A+ in math, his thumb tracing the red ink.

A bitter laugh escapes. “For all the good it did me.”

“It kept you sharp.” His voice drops lower. “Kept you thinking, even when the world tried to break you.”

The last item emerges—a small, tarnished key—my first apartment key, earned through blood, sweat, and countless candles sold on street corners.

“I can’t wait to see where you take your candles. I know it’s going to be great.” Blaze takes the key gently, setting it aside.

His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. The bruises on his face are starting to fade, purple deepening to yellow at the edges.

“Speaking of building…” He reaches into his pocket, withdrawing something that catches the light. Another key. Newer. Shinier. “My place in California. If you want it.”

The world stops. Restarts. My heart pounds against broken ribs.

“That’s… That’s a big step.” The air feels suddenly thin.

“Doesn’t have to be.” His fingers trace patterns on my palm. “Could just be practical. A place to store your supplies while you set up the business.”

But we both know it’s more than that.

So much more.

“I wake up screaming sometimes and can’t sleep without a candle burning. And?—”

His lips find mine, gentle but insistent. The kiss tastes like possibilities.

“I have nightmares too.” His forehead rests against mine. “I hog the blankets and drink milk straight from the carton.”

A laugh bubbles up, half sob. “That’s disgusting.”

“So, what do you say? Wanna shack up with me?”

The key sits between us, warm from his pocket. My fingers hover over it, trembling.

“We’ll take it day by day and step by step.” His breath fans across my lips.

My fingers close around the key. “Day by day.”

His smile could light up the darkest night. “That’s my girl.”

Before long, we’re done. Two boxes line the wall; my life condensed into cardboard and tape.

“You’re bleeding again.” My fingers brush Blaze’s shoulder, where crimson seeps through white gauze. Hours of packing have taken their toll.

His jaw tightens. “So are you.”

A glance down confirms it—dark patches staining my shirt where stitches have pulled. The adrenaline fades, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.

“Shower?” The word comes out rougher than intended. “I mean—you should clean up. The bandages…”

Heat crawls up my neck as his eyes darken. Understanding passes between us, electric and raw.

“Together.” His voice drops lower, a rumble that vibrates through my chest. “Let me help you. Like you help me.”

Steam fills the tiny bathroom, turning the air thick. My hands shake as I peel away his bandages, revealing the damage beneath. Bruises paint his torso in violent watercolors—purple fading to green, yellow at the edges.

“Jesus, Blaze.” The words catch in my throat.

“Worth it.” His fingers trace my collarbone, featherlight over my bruises. “Every mark was worth it.”

Water cascades over us, hot enough to sting. Blood and grime swirl away, carrying pieces of the past with them. His hands are gentle as he helps me wash, careful of tender spots and broken skin.

“Turn around.” The words ghost across my shoulder. “Let me get your back.”

Soap-slick hands slide over muscle, finding knots of tension. I lean into his touch, letting him take my weight. For once, I don’t have to be strong.

“I’ve got you.” His lips brush the nape of my neck. “Always.”

My breath hitches as his fingers trace old scars—marks from a lifetime of survival. But he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just maps them with infinite tenderness, accepting each one as part of me.

“Your turn.” I face him, reaching for the soap. My palms glide over his chest, learning the terrain of him. Bullet scars and knife wounds tell their own stories of violence and protection.

“That one.” His hand covers mine over a puckered scar near his heart. “Kandahar. Six years ago.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” His forehead rests against mine. “I want you to know everything about me, and I want you to share whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

So we talk.

Under the steam and spray, we share our scars. Each mark is a story, and each story is a piece of trust given freely between us. The water runs cold before we finish, but neither of us moves to shut it off. The chill is grounding, a reminder that this is real.

We’re real.

Fresh bandages next. My fingers steady as I wrap his ribs, covering purple-black bruises. His hands return the favor, impossibly gentle over my stitches.

“Almost done.” The words catch as his thumb brushes the sensitive skin beneath my breast.

His pupils dilate, turning his eyes midnight dark. “Ember…”

The need builds between us, electric and overwhelming. We find each other, seeking warmth and comfort, our bodies pressed close, sharing breath and soft touches, grounding ourselves in each other.

We end up on the sofa, limbs tangled carefully around injuries. His heartbeat drums steadily under my ear. Outside, the city pulses with life, but here, time stands still.

“Tell me about California.” Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness.

His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “Ocean as far as you can see. Mountains touching the sky. Space to breathe.”

“Space to create?”

“All the space you need.” His fingers card through my damp hair. “Workshop overlooking the bay. Guest house we can convert.”

“Presumptuous.” But I smile against his skin.

“Hopeful.” His arms tighten fractionally. “Dream with me, Ember.”

So I do.

In the growing darkness, we paint pictures of tomorrow.

A workshop filled with light.

Shelves lined with bottles and jars.

A bed big enough for two.

“What if…” Sleep slurs my words. “What if it doesn’t work? What if this is just survivor’s guilt and you just want this, want me, because you saved me?”

“Ember, I was attracted to you before I ever met you. This isn’t survivor’s guilt; it’s not a savior complex. I believe in us. We take one day at a time and when, if, things get rocky, we work on fixing them until they are good again.” His voice rumbles through both our bodies. “Together.”

The word follows me into my dreams, a promise wrapped in possibility.

For the first time in forever, I sleep without a candle burning.

I don’t need one anymore.

I have my own light now.