A/N: I am soooo sorry for the skipped update last weekend! ;-; Sob, was supposed to make it up to you guys to actually do a double update but the side effects of my second vaccine was just awful and I was out cold for a good couple of days. I do have a rather weak body after all.

This chapter is slightly longer than I intended, and could honestly have been longer but you will know why I decided to leave the rest for another chapter once you're done reading it ;)

Also, Leroy's birthday is the 13th of August and as voted by everyone on IG, we will be going with the Head Designer Vanilla, Model Leroy AU! Hehe. Um, the question is: should the next chapter be the birthday special or do you want Chapter 19 next week first? I'll leave the decision up to you guys. You can either head over to IG to vote or leave a comment here!

Enjoy. Yet, another tough chapter to write. But insanely satisfying.

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[Leroy]

He was out cold on the passenger's seat minutes into the ride and I knew why.

Last night, he came to check in on me while I was supposedly asleep. Not gonna lie, I wished he did more than place the back of his hand on my forehead and re-arrange the covers I'd messed up. I was half-awake when I heard his footsteps. Deliberately light. He was tip-toeing. I sat up after hearing the door close behind him, staring at it for some time until I noticed an extra bundle of towels on the floor by the bed. He'd let Chicken into the room to keep me company.

"Leroy?" His voice was slightly muffled by the windbreaker I'd thrown over him while he was nodding off. I took my eyes off the road for a second and saw him struggling to sit up. "Where are we? I'm sorry I—oh. Is... is that the sea?"

We were about an hour into the drive, far out on a highway down Dartford. "It's just the Thames, dumbass," I laughed, only because I hadn't expected him to fall for something like that. He blushed on cue.

"Ah. Right. W-well, but the River Thames would, eventually, lead to the North Sea, no?" He had his back turned towards me, eyes fixed on the view. "How far out are we?"

"Just an hour out," I checked the GPS. "Thirty minutes to go."

I spent the next ten minutes listening to his happy monologue; pointing out the trees, the sky, the water, random deer and other forest animals. I had the windows rolled down, turning up the music that made everything seem like the kind of dream I'd have once in a while. I called it the honeymoon.

"Leroy," he paused all of a sudden, retreating from the window after identifying a third hybrid tree species and a lone eagle in the sky. Riding along the waters with a view had him electric. The look in his eyes. A summer pool. "Are we going to the beach?"

I glanced sideways, musing. "Took the genius long enough."

The summer pool rippled; sparkling under the light. He said nothing, merely turned his attention back to the view with both hands lightly touching the ledge of his window. He kept this up for some time before leaning back in his seat, gaze seemingly resting on the steering wheel. Couldn't tell from the corner of my eye.

"Thought you'd have seen a lot of this by now," I laid out. Surprised. Pleasantly.

"The sky above the clouds, yes. The occasional sea, yes. And, well, actually... beaches, too. Yes, I've seen a lot of them," he sorted out the windbreaker, folding it into a perfect square. "But seeing something isn't quite the same as experiencing it, I believe. I've seen beaches but never lived the experience of visiting one."

I wasn't sure. If he meant what I thought he meant.

"Sandcastles?" "No, never. Not yet, at least." "Seashells?" "No to that as well."

I had my hopes, planning this the night before (while he was in the shower), dropping the chief a call and then getting down to the details for today. Sure, beaches were the kind of place to never lose their magic. First time, third time, tenth time; it didn't matter.

But for some reason, it mattered when it came to him.

"So um," he turned my way after some silence. "We're not... going to the beach for the sandcastles, are we?" I could hear the concern in his voice, genuine, and found it hard to resist a laugh. "I-I mean, two grown men building sandcastles..."

"Nothing wrong with that," I played. Just to see his reaction. Got some enjoyment out of the look on his face before cracking up. "You believe everything I say."

"I—well—what else am I supposed to do, Leroy? Report you to the authorities?" He huffed, fixing his gaze on the trees instead of me.

To bring him back, I gave it away. "Know what razor clams are?"

Already, I could imagine his eyes lighting up. There's a sound when that happens; I like to think that only I can hear it. Icicles on the branch of a tree. Clinking together. Gently.

"Yes! Yes, of course. You mean bamboo clams? The ones with long narrow shells that look like, well, jack knives? Unless you're referring to the pacific razor clam, which is of the same family but in a different genus. Still! If I remember correctly, they can be found in sandy beaches during periods of low tide and um, and... and judging by the view of our current route, we are likely headed for a location that matches said description. I've only ever seen razor clams on a plate, grilled or sous vide, topped with garlic and scallions. It would be interesting to see them... um, alive."

I listened, keeping an eye on the GPS and cruising down a highway by the woodlands, all the way up to the Isle of Sheppey. On his side, the Thames was beginning to open up. Weird. The sun was out; the river, like a million diamonds. A view you couldn't miss.

"I'll teach you when we get there."

He sounded excited. Like it had been a long time since he did something completely new and he couldn't contain it. The little snowflake. "What are we going to do with the clams?"

I took my eyes off the road, giving him a look. "Fucking keep them as pets, duh."

"I-is that so?" Surprised. "I never thought they could be—"

"No dumbass, we're having them for dinner," I laughed, changing up the music. I felt a nudge on my upper arm before realizing that he'd meant for that to be a punch. "Catch and cook. I've always wanted to give that a go. With you."

We passed the entire stretch of sand that was supposedly our hunting ground, about an hour away from the perfect low-tide. I pointed it out to him while cruising by, surprised by the lack of foragers around. The beach was practically empty, even on a day with perfect weather.

Got Zales to thank for that. She was the one who said something about this place in passing. It was part of a list she gave Jung; hidden foraging spots that doubled up as great weekend getaways. Supposedly for couples. Half the crew ended up hopping on Jaeger's monster jeep for some queen scallops a couple of months back.

"By the way, about the RV, um," he looked around. "I hope you didn't spend a hefty sum to get this on a short notice. I mean I'd appreciate it if you did, but it's just, you know. I wouldn't mind splitting the cost."

It was Rexi's. She got it a year ago at some re-sale market for a good deal, only because Annie loved shit like this and the two of 'em were a hundred percent unapologetically rolling in the romantic, so. And unplanned, unarranged, impromptu escapes were the kind of thing you'd see in Hollywood movies filled with bullshit but for some reason, I was here making it happen.

What surprised me most was that he actually went along with it.

"Leroy," he sat up all of a sudden. "I think you just missed the exit."

I did. His gaze went straight to the GPS. It said nothing about the exit. "We're stopping by a rest area up ahead first. There's a grocery store, so. We can get some basic ingredients. The fridge in the back is empty."

"Outdoor cooking," electric snowflakes. "It's been some time since my previous experience. It was with Si Yin and Violet outside our dormitory, back in culinary school. Si Yin's had purchased a portable grill on Amazon, specifically for the occasion. We were huddled outside, around the fire, grilling salted mackerel on a stick. So... what do you have in mind for the razor clams, then?"

I dragged out the pause, giving him a sideway glance. "Never said I was the one doing the cooking."

"Ah. I see." He blinked, slowly leaning backwards until he was one with the passenger's seat. "A reasonable trade-off, since you were clearly the one who planned everything else. Yet, um. Are you certain you'd like to assign such a complicated task to the uh, very person who'd nearly burned down your kitchen? I mean I did succeed with the poached egg but this is a whole new matter and, not to mention, unfamiliar ingredient."

The look on his face changed as soon as he caught the smile I was trying to hide.

"Oh. Oh you weren't being serious. Thank god."

I laughed. "Yeah. But... I mean. If you're up for a challenge," I let that hang. Meeting his gaze briefly.

He seemed to get what I was referring to. "A cook-off?"

I smirked. "Ten pounds each."

"Hm." He sat up, raising the bar with the kind of smile that was hard to resist. "I say five."

"Someone's dying to be impressed."

*

We split up at the store because he was the one who got all competitive and insisted we keep the ingredients from each other until it was time for service. I conceded; only because it made things a little more challenging. A little more sexy.

After checking out of the store with a bag of ingredients and condiments worth less than five pounds each, we hopped into the RV and drove back up to the beach we passed. This time, I turned at the exit and made it all the way to the end of flat grass just before it dipped into rock and sand.

"There's a cap," I told him, reaching behind the driver's seat for a bucket. "Ten clams each."

"Reasonable," he nodded, following me out of the parked RV and rolling up his sleeves. "I'm, um, clearly not dressed for the occasion but I should be able to keep up."

I passed him a bottle of table salt that I'd split in two while waiting for him outside Cordon Bleu. "This one's yours." He seemed to know what it was for so I held back on the explaining until we were halfway out on the beach at low-tide, barefooted, pants rolled up past mid-calf.

"So um, how do we—" I grabbed him by his upper arm, stopping him short of stepping on a bubbler crab. Should have prepped him some boots. "Oh. Thank you."

"This one." I pointed out a keyhole-shaped thing in the sand just by his foot, leaning down to cover it in salt. "Look for something like this." He caught on pretty fast, spotting another some several feet behind me and mirroring what I did. Less than ten seconds after his second find, the first one I salted came back up with a wet, white moving muscle sticking out of the sand, thrusting up and down.

I swear, that's exactly what they do.

"Take it." I told him, nodding at the clam. The look in his eyes was gold. "Before it starts spurting."

"Spurting?"

"Yeah. Jets." I exaggerated, so that he'd start panicking and pick up the exposed razor clam before it started burrowing back into the sand. Once he'd successfully added one to his bucket, things began speeding up.

He was enjoying himself—dressed in office clothes, dress shirt now slightly untucked, tie slightly loose—salting, pulling razor clams out of the sand, patiently waiting for them to emerge. There was something child-like about the way his eyes sparkled at every new find; even as he was squatting by a keyhole and waiting. Even when he was almost hit by a squirt of seawater in the face.

It was that look I'd known and remembered. A look that made one so sure of his love for knowledge and the things he did not know. It was his fascination with the world around him and how things worked that kept a genius humble and warm on the inside, no matter how sharp his icicles seemed to everyone else. A look he reserved for those who stayed.

"Ten!" He finished, slightly out of breath after making his way over and carefully avoiding sand bubbles and stray shells in the sand. "That went unexpectedly well, save a spurt or two. I even found a queen scallop!" He held out his bucket. "Is that allowed? Should I be returning it to the sand?" I gave it a check.

"This one's a find. You can keep it... unless you don't know how to cook a scallop?" I teased. He rolled his eyes, catching a glimpse of my progress.

"Should I be hearing that from the expert with only four clams in his bucket?"

The challenge on his tongue tasted sweet. I could tell from the little smug look on his face that he was going to take good advantage of the extra time. "Well then, I'll be excusing myself to get started on dinner."

I gave him the finger from afar, getting down to work as soon as he had his back towards me. By the time I'd maxed out on razor clams, he was halfway through his mise in the kitchen area of the RV—a fruit knife in hand. I tried not to laugh, handing him a proper kitchen knife from one of the magnetic drawers that was supposed to speed up the process of ingredient prep. It didn't.

"You need a handicap," he said indignantly, ears red. I obliged.

"I'll set up some outdoor dining," I suggested, recalling where Rexi kept her foldable furniture for camping trips. "Table. Chairs. A light."

He looked surprised, as though he'd meant for the handicap thing to be a joke. "Ah. Alright then. That sounds rather nice, really. The sun would be setting, and the view would indeed be fairly pleasant."

"The RV has a built-in gas stove on the outside, you know," I called out to him after pulling out the table and chairs, watching him struggle with the induction cooker. He paused, then gathered his ingredients, chopping board, pan and all to follow my lead. I swung by the driver's seat and pushed a button on the panel by the steering wheel. The built-in outdoor kitchen started rolling out.

"This is awfully ingenious," his eyes sparkled, staring at the automatic countertop lowering itself to a decent height. "I can't believe such a feature was installed! A necessary luxury."

"Your third advantage," I nodded at the gas stove, heading back into the RV to use the induction cooker he had trouble with. "I expect to be impressed, Mr. White."

"Speaking in a refined manner does not suit you, Leroy. Please revert to being an idiot."

I laughed, sticking my hand out of the window and flipping him off. Then it was getting right down to work or I actually stood a chance at losing to a critic. A special critic, but still. The plan was to go for something he'd never expect; which isn't easy once you consider the range of his knowledge about everything edible under the sun. Razor clams were pretty much diamonds in the rough. Known by foragers and fishermen but not the most popular pick with restaurants in the West. The only reason I knew about them was because they were huge in some parts of China, and, no surprises, Siegfried had been the kind to have me try the weirdest shit when I was young.

Although back then, all I really appreciated was chips and fried chicken.

Things started smelling like butter heaven as soon as I heard him hit the pan on the gas stove outside. A good cook on the garlic. Parsley. A good start.

Then there was me.

"Shit." I checked my bag of groceries. No garlic. I could have surrendered right then and there because no shit, I needed garlic. The dish was a fusion recipe I'd come up with on the fly; a Thai-style, spicy, grilled with a paste of lemongrass, shallots, galangal and chilies. Basted with an herb butter mix. Zested with kaffir lime.

My only option was to ask.

His initial reaction was to think that I was spying on him, trying to figure out his game plan when, quite honestly, I was all for the surprise he was going to impress me with.

"No looking!" He blocked his pan of sizzling clams by standing in front of it, back faced towards me. "We shall not condone cheating in any competition, friendly or not."

I gave him the finger. Then realized he wasn't going to see it, so crossed the distance specifically for a display of language. Then, I asked. Should have done it the other way round but, yeah. I'm an idiot.

"You using that clove of garlic?" I nodded at the lone bit he'd left on the chopping board. Untouched. He followed me gaze briefly.

"No. Why?"

"Can I have it?"

He stopped messing with his pan for a second and turned over his shoulder with a look. "Of course not! You are, at this very instant, my opponent. We are competing! I must win."

I pulled the card.

"Please."

He crumbled at the face, tossing whatever that was left of his garlic my way; ears steaming red in less than a second and gaze going everywhere except mine. It was enjoyable.

Within minutes, I was plating up in the RV with the smell of butter, lemongrass and spice in the air against a setting sky. Red and blue. Already, he was seated at the table with a platter of piping hot clams, still sitting on the pan since we hadn't much plates to work with. I set my version of dinner down beside his and took the seat across him. The breeze in his hair. Gentle.

"Shall we start?"

I smirked, handing him a set of cutlery. "Who first?"

"Have you tasted your own?"

I snorted. "No shit."

"Alright then, we shall start by swapping." He reached over to pull my plate towards him while pushing his frying pan across the table. His looked good.

"Ready?"

"Yes," he eyed the clam on the right, the one that had the best cook on it. "And be honest," he did not forget to remind, pushing up his glasses in a cute way. Not that he wasn't already. Cute.

We dug in just as the sun was beginning to set, warming the side of his face with a pink that looked almost as though he was sitting by a fireplace, reading that favourite book of his. The one with the birds. And the lapping of the waves against the shore, it made him seem like part of a dream. The kind I'd have on good nights. Nights that were actually filled with sleep.

It was the color of his hair under the blue-red sky, the breeze brushing against his shoulder, his downcast gaze as he ate. It was the way he looked; the way he felt, the way I missed.

If all that was somehow included in the taste of his dish, then this was more than Michelin. The kind of food you'd only get to enjoy in your dreams. Sometimes, they tasted sweet.

"The acidity. The spice. The galangal, and and and the lemongrass!" He was doing the thing. Quietly enthusing over something he liked with that look in his eyes.

I figured, back then, how nice it would be to have him look at me like that. Instead of the plate of whatever it was that I'd made. For some reason, being his chef wasn't good enough.

"Razor clams tend to taste extremely heavy and rich on the tongue, especially when it's even the slightest bit overcooked—I can only hope mine isn't, have you tasted it?—but to combine Thai flavor profiles with an otherwise Western preparation, I suppose, you basted it in butter and parsley? A foolproof way of enhancing the flavor, by the way. Oh, and!" He paused, looking up all of a sudden and staring at my plate. "Are you, um. Does it taste... bad?"

I laughed. "No. It's good. Very good. You win."

He was the kind to protest. Like, he wasn't going to take the win from my lips because he was just the kind to be hard on himself. "W-what! No. No, I refuse. You win."

"No, you."

"No! No, that is not how it works."

"You win, end of story."

"You didn't even—alright. Fine. Tell me why." He leaned back, crossing his legs. Folding his arms. "One good reason."

"It... tastes better than mine?"

I watched him gawk, and then launch into a detailed, professional analysis of why my dish was objectively better than his and I sat there, listening to the dream. Surprise, surprise. Zero romantic content. Just him talking about flavor profiles, texture, and spices. I'd be lying if I said I was bored.

The light on the side of his face faded with the sky. Torched yellows disappeared, left a trail of oranges that turned, gradually, into purple. It was getting a little colder too. And we weren't exactly done with dinner.

He seemed to notice. "Well um. We could certainly do with a light. Or would you prefer to dine indoors?" He pointed at the RV. I vaguely recalled Rexi having a drawer of scented candles for some reason. Unlikely that she'd keep a stock full of it in there but, after searching for a minute or two, I came across two. One completely unused.

I came back with the thing and a box of matches and saw that he'd placed a bottle of wine on the table. I laughed. "Someone spent more than five pounds."

He smiled, musing. "Special occasions allow for rules to be broken."

"Gotten good at taking risks, huh."

"Calculated ones, I've always been rather... good at them." His smile faded at the candle in my hands; gaze faltering. Words slowing to a stop.

I placed it in the middle of the table. His eyes followed; as though it was an object he hadn't seen in a while. "What are you doing?"

"Making this a candle-lit dinner?" I tried for the obvious, unsure about how he was sounding. Like the magic of the dream was gone in an instant and this was when I would wake.

"Yes, I can see that," he said stiffly, still staring at the block of wax. "But lighting a candle with winds going at, I don't know, seafront-wind-speeds is, well, impossible. Even a fool would know that. You'd have to be re-lighting it every minute, if you can even get it to burn in the first place."

I shrugged, sliding the box of matches over to him. "Let's hear your idea."

"We start a fire," he said almost immediately, as though he'd thought of something for years. "It's much stronger. Not to mention, the more feasible option in an environment like this."

The firefighter in me was wary. Years ago, I wouldn't have been. "Also the more dangerous option, but okay."

"Well... candles can be equally dangerous, no?" He picked up a couple of stray branches around and got to work. I helped.

Soon he was cupping tufts of dry grass in his hands and telling me to strike a match and light the tips while he blew on the flame. The spark turned into something substantial, and he let it rest among a couple of branches. We re-arranged the chairs so that the fire was in the middle and sat around it, quietly finishing the rest of dinner.

The wine had a screw cap, which was a relief because that meant it wasn't expensive and I didn't like the idea of him spending heaps on a bottle like the last time. This was supposed to be my treat. A thank you for yesterday.

I got out mugs. He poured me a quarter. I did the same for him. We clinked. And drank.

"What's wrong with candles?" I asked him.

"There is nothing wrong with them," he said, gazing out onto the shore. "Just... not here." I nodded.

He started again. "Thank you, for today." "Did you like it?" "Today?" "Yeah." "I enjoyed myself immensely. Did you?" "Yeah."

"You surprised me, by the way." "Why?" "You remembered. That promise you made; about us. Going to the beach." "Is it?" "...sorry?" "Is this still your first?" He paused. "Yes. Well, I suppose over the years I hadn't really had the time or... um, no. Admittedly, I was somewhat hoping that we'd have this together. Someday. And now we do. Although, yes, the thought is uncharacteristically idealistic of myself, I agree. But somehow, I did not stop hoping. So thank you." He met my gaze. "I liked it. As in, I liked today."

The fire colored his eyes warm; a look that was strange but somehow, familiar. I emptied my mug and he reached over to re-fill it.

Our fingers brushed.

It was dark now. Not a streak of light in the sky save a couple of white, bright flecks dusting black. And then, on the lower end just above the sea, a crescent moon.

I followed his gaze. He had it raised, towards the night, or the stars. I did not know.

"What now?" I asked, knowing we'd get around to it someday. The question. Just, a fork. Choosing; either or. At least, some form of direction.

He did not look my way—staring at the core of the flames on the ground. "Do you think it's possible for fire and ice to exist in the same space?" A question to a question. That little shit.

I sighed. Thought about it for a while. If it was time to come clean or at least, show him the scars no one else could see.

"Do you know what happens when fires get with ice?" I said. Looking up. Stars. "The fire, it melts the ice. And the ice, it turns to water and water puts the fire out. In the end, both are destroyed."

I felt him shift in his seat and the breeze, coming to a stop. As though waiting for him to speak.

"You are not wrong, Leroy." He spoke in wisps. Like if words were a chill. "It is funny how I did not expect the truth, even though I so rigidly stick to the raw, unfiltered version of reality." There was something in his voice that gave him away. The slight tremble at the back of his throat at 'truth' as though it was a rock he tripped over.

I had not heard the sound of his tears in a very long time. It took me a second to realize he was crying.

"Thank you. For being honest."

I stared at him from across the fire. His face, half in the shadows, slightly blurred by the waves of heat and the effects of a drink; made worse by the thunder inside. That loud, fucking beat.

I asked the question.

"Do you still love me?"

No silence was ever as long as the one that I had to wait. The problem was not in the waiting. I could wait for days. Weeks. Months. Years, cuz I have. I have waited. But in the silence, there is nothing else except the sad sound of something in my chest going crazy because then, I'd have the answer to the question if he was the one doing the asking.

I thought I was done with fireworks. I thought I was fucking done with the flames; the fire; the heat; the burn. It took me so long, so hard to put it all out.

"No, of course not." He turned to me with this and every sound in the world died. "Loving you all this while would have meant I was stuck in the past—hanging on to the person you no longer are. So do I still love you? Of course not. But given a choice, I would give it a chance."

"Give what a chance?"

Vanilla smiled. Tilted his head to the side like he always did last time. "Fire and ice."

And then it was back, stronger than ever, thundering in my ears and taking over every nerve that was on fire. The sound was not unfamiliar but because I hadn't heard it in such a long time, it somehow seemed like the first. The very first time. I could not look away.

____________________

[Vanilla]

"You said you liked it."

Something was different about his tone. Or perhaps the way he'd said it—low and disarming, the aftermath of fireworks in the sky, the moment before the boom—made it seem like he was expecting a thrill.

"Sorry?"

"You said you liked today," Leroy stood, taking his chair in one hand, and setting it down beside mine. "Makes me think today has ended."

I stared up at him with perhaps the most befuddled expression on my face before he cracked a smile and sat down, levelling his gaze. It did nothing to change my confused disposition, slowed and perhaps slightly dulled by the sound in my ears. A weathering in the chest.

"Well I... I could check the time, but... I mean. Has it, not, um, ended? Is there something else we should be doing after dinner? Night um, fishing? Maybe." I was a silly mess of thoughts all around, mostly under the awful influence of his proximity that was just short of being an illegal act. He was leaning towards me, extending beyond the side of his chair with his eyes fixed on mine.

"I don't know," he laughed. Quiet. But equally disarming. "What do people do after dinner?"

"Take a bath, I suppose," I was nearly whispering at this point, taking into account how close he was at present and not quite being able to collect my thoughts after, well, a candid confession of my feelings and now this that followed suit. Good god, this would certainly do terrible things to the weak-hearted few in the world.

"Do I get an invitation?" He asked, reflecting my tone of voice. His gaze—a spark of the flames that had, over the course of conversation, died down—flitted to somewhere below my nose. Then, back up.

It clicked the moment he started to lean further into the space that was supposedly my own, dangerously, criminally close in a way that had me freezing on instinct. I was not thinking when I said his name but me coming to a standstill was, very naturally, the red light that had him stopping short.

He seemed to understand at once; backing up and returning the space that he took in an instant. I remained stock still, watching him recline in his seat and allow the silence to settle in.

This was how long it took for me to recover and by the time I did, it was far too late. Needless to say, I was appalled at the sheer disgrace, the epic tragedy and sudden disappearance of the Vanilla Julian White who'd booked a hotel suite with the straightest face some weeks ago, knowing exactly what he'd intended to do after dinner.

Apologizing was next in line upon collecting myself and unfortunately, my dictionary was doing a very poor job after the unexpected malfunction. "That, it, I was not... what that was, I had this moment of... of absolute stupidity like my mind was blank and oh good god I'm an idiot could we please redo the past minute a-and and um, start from the um, the part where you were close—"

I was not expecting him to forgive me after I'd practically turned him away so imagine the stopping of my heart the moment my entire field of vision was filled with him and then, the lips t-they, they, I mean, him and I, good god they were warm.

The heated locking lasted like a wave lapping against the shore, coming back for more at every seeming resurface.

By the time I was dizzy and breathless, I could only manage a quivery, awful "Wait."

He did; allowing me the time to recover but maintaining the proximity of warmth that was altogether highly illegal at this point. His gaze was lowered. I followed it and saw that I had subconsciously been holding onto the front of his shirt. Remarkably embarrassed, I retracted my hands. As though he was the surface of a boiling kettle. Scalding hot.

"Sorry, I."

Sober was not the best of dispositions to be embarrassed. I raised a hand to cover the bottom half of my face that was likely a burning, heated red, somewhat glad that the only source of light was the fire that had been reduced to glowing red embers.

"You make it so hard."

I paused, raising my gaze. "Sorry?"

"You make it hard to resist." He laughed, inches away; reaching over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind the curve of my ear. "Like, this is all part of a test and you were sent to make me fail."

I shared the spark of amusement in his eye. "Since when were you ever good at tests?"

"Not this one, for sure."

And then it was waves all over again.