I'm out of bed and halfway to the door before she even finishes the question.

Did I start that fire?

Her voice cracks down the line like lightning splitting a tree—silent at first, then everything breaks.

I don't even remember hanging up. My mind's not working in steps. It's working in reactions. Instinct. Muscle memory.

I pull on jeans. Forget the shirt. Grab my keys.

She remembered.

Fuck.

She remembered.

And there's no undoing it.

The streets blur by. My knuckles go white around the steering wheel. Every red light is an insult. Every second I'm not holding her feels like a lifetime she might spiral through without me.

I shouldn't have let her go home alone.

I told myself she needed space. Normalcy. Her own damn bed.

But I knew better.

I knew this was coming.

Hell, I've been waiting for it. Dreading it.

Praying it would stay buried.

The smell of smoke. The spark. The Bic. The fucking file I thought I'd hidden well enough it wouldn't be found—until I saw the corner of that goddam manila folder peeking out beneath her hoodie. I didn't know it was that file at first. But then I saw her face. The guilt. The panic.

I knew.

I should've told her everything the second I saw that flicker of recognition in her eyes. Should've sat her down and said it out loud: I was there the night of the fire. You lit the match. I wanted to tell you I was in love with you, but I tried. I just couldn't say it. Not yet. Not then. But I was—for a long time.

I was secretly in love with her. I just didn't let myself say it. Not then. Not when it could've ruined her or my reputation. I kept my distance. Told myself I'd wait until the time was right. Until she was ready. Until the world wouldn't eat me alive for it.

But I didn't.

Because I'm a coward.

And because part of me knew—if she remembered everything?

It might break her.

It might break us.

***

She's already soaked in gasoline when I find her.

The old boathouse creaks around us-wood swollen with heat and salt, the whole place stinking like fuel and heartbreak.

"Kylie." I barely breathe her name, afraid I'll spook her. "Don't."

She stands in the center of the room, barefoot, shivering. Her hand clenched around a bic, pink lighter.

She doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead. Skin pale. Cheeks blotchy. Eyes—god, her eyes—they don't look like hers.

"You shouldn't be here," she says. Her voice is hollow. Gone.

"Neither should you." I take a step closer. My hands are raised. My chest's a live wire. "Put the lighter down, sweetheart. We can talk about this. Just you and me, okay?"

Her lip trembles. Her whole body shakes. "You kissed her."

"What?"

"That blonde girl. At some party." Her voice cracks like splintering wood. "They said you kissed her."

Jesus Christ. What is she talking about?

"Kylie..."

She finally looks at me. And that's when I know—this isn't just about me. This is years of being invisible. Years of being brushed off. Forgotten. Controlled.

This is her screaming without sound.

"Don't do this," I whisper. "Please. Whatever you were told isn't true."

I take one more step, and her thumb flicks.

Click.

The flame ignites.

"Kylie, no—"

It happens in a flash. A whoosh of fire. A roar of heat. The fumes catch like a live wire and explode across the floor. I dive for her just as the blast knocks us both sideways.

Everything burns.

My lungs seize. My ears ring. Her body goes limp in my arms, and I carry her out through the screaming heat, swearing I'll never let her fall that far again.

She doesn't resist. Doesn't speak.

Just looks up at me with the kind of vacant stare that knots your stomach. Her skin is streaked with soot, a raw red mark blooming along her temple. She's trembling. Whispering something I can't hear over the crackle of flames.

I lay her beside my cruiser. She keeps whispering the same thing.

Over and over.

"I didn't do it. I didn't... I didn't mean..."

***

I don't knock when I get to her place. The door is open—like she'd just stepped out to catch her breath and never came back.

The door creaks open and there she is—standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed like she's holding herself together with nothing but willpower and a whisper.

Her eyes meet mine.

Red. Glassy. Haunted.

"Hey," I say softly.

It's a stupid word. A small word. It doesn't fit here.

But it's all I've got.

She doesn't speak.

Doesn't move.

So I do.

I close the door. Step toward her slowly. Like she's a skittish animal and I'm the bastard who left the gate open.

"Kylie."

Her breath hitches. And then she lets out a sound that's somewhere between a sob and a curse, her knees buckle, and I catch her on instinct, like nine years ago. Like the last time the world dropped out beneath her feet.

Fucking collapsing into me.

I catch her. Hold her. Bury my face in her hair like I'm trying to breathe her in and forget the rest of the world.

"I remembered," she whispers against my chest. "I saw it. I felt it. It was real this time."

"I know, baby." My voice is rough. "I know."

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, and it wrecks me. The fear. The guilt. The flicker of something almost childlike in her eyes—like she's seventeen again, soaked in gasoline and crying on a hospital cot.

"Did I start it?" she asks again. "Was it me?"

"I didn't mean to," she'd whispered through soot and blood. Back then. And now again.

I should lie.

I want to lie.

But I can't.

Because if there's one thing she deserves from me now—it's the truth.

Even if it shatters her.

Even if it shatters me.

"You flicked the lighter," I say quietly. "But you weren't yourself, Kylie. You were—"

"Fucked up," she cuts in. "Broken."

"No." My grip tightens on her arms. "You were hurt. I found out—someone told you to let me go, that I was too old for you, and that I was dating someone. That they saw me kissing a blonde. All were lies. You were trying to disappear. No one was listening. Not your parents. Not me. Not anyone. You didn't want to die that night. You just wanted someone to finally see you."

Her chin trembles.

"I saw you," I say again, softer now. "I see you."

We stand there for a long time—just breathing. Her forehead pressed to my chest. My hand in her hair. The fire is still flickering between us, but this time, it doesn't burn.

It warms.

She finally whispers, "I'm scared."

I answer without hesitation, "I'm not."

My voice doesn't waver. Doesn't shake.

Because if she's going to walk through the flames again—I'll walk through hell with her.

And this time, I'm not letting go.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞