Morning rose pale against her bruised skin,
a quiet confession of survival,
soft light grazing wounds the world would never see.
The road stretched before her—
endless, empty,
a ribbon of gray leading her out of the night she barely escaped.
Her steps were uneven prayers,
pain pulsing like a second heartbeat,
each breath an oath to endure.
The sky was cold,
a color between silver and sorrow,
and still she walked—
because stopping meant remembering,
and remembering meant breaking.
But fate has a way of finding those who flee.
The hum of an engine cut through the hush,
low and deliberate,
like a hunter announcing itself.
Her pulse stuttered,
fear clawing its way up her throat
as shadows stretched across the pavement behind her.
Not again.
Not today.
Yet the voice that rose wasn't a threat—
just a boy trying too hard to be her shield,
calling her name like a lifeline.
For a moment, safety felt real enough to touch,
warm enough to sit beside,
gentle enough to forget the house that hated her.
But destiny rarely arrives with gentleness.
It comes dressed in black,
carrying silence like a blade,
stepping into a room as though the walls were made to bow.
He moved like a shadow crowned in light,
a man carved from power,
from danger,
from something the universe kept hidden until now.
And when his eyes found hers—
the world loosened its grip.
Time held its breath.
Even the air seemed to hush,
as though afraid to interrupt the moment two storms recognized each other.
His gaze wasn't curiosity.
It was memory.
Revelation.
A quiet claim spoken with no words at all.
She looked away first—
but the heat remained,
curling beneath her skin,
a spark lodged deep where fear and longing meet.
He looked away second—
but only because he knew
flames burn hotter when they're denied.
That morning, she told herself it was nothing—
a momentary shiver,
a stranger's stare,
a spark too small to name.
But flames birthed in silence
have a way of growing,
of spreading into the spaces we swear are safe,
of turning quiet hearts into kindling.
And somewhere between the heartbeat she lost
and the breath she dared to take—
something unseen caught fire.
Not loud.
Not wild.
Just enough to change everything.
….
The road stretched out before me, pale and endless beneath the waking sun.
Each step sent a sharp echo through my ankle, but I refused to limp too visibly. The world didn't need another reason to stare.
The morning air carried that faint metallic chill of early hours — the kind that bites the skin and forces you to remember you're still alive. My hair caught the wind, strands brushing against my lips as I rounded the bend that led to school.
That was when I heard it — the low hum of an engine sliding too close behind me.
My pulse faltered.
A sleek black car slowed to match my pace, its tinted windows gleaming like the eyes of something predatory. My breath caught.
Not again.
I gripped my bag tighter and picked up my pace. The car did too.
A rush of panic climbed my throat, bitter and choking.
"Jesus, Blossom — it's me! Stop running!"
The voice tore through the tension, familiar and exasperated.
The window slid down to reveal James's face — half laughter, half apology.
"James, are you mad?" I snapped, hand pressed to my chest. "You scared me half to death!"
He raised both hands in surrender, guilt flickering behind his smile.
"I'm sorry, okay? You looked like you were being chased by a ghost."
"Maybe I was," I muttered under my breath.
He leaned closer, eyes scanning me — not missing the faint bruise near my collarbone or the stiffness in my step. "Why are you walking like that? What happened to your leg?"
"Nothing," I said too quickly. "Just twisted my ankle. It's fine."
James's brow arched. He never believed me when I said fine.
"Uh-huh," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "And when was the last time you ate?"
I sighed. "Why do you sound like my grandmother?"
"Because your grandmother would probably tell you the same thing," he said dryly. "Get in, Blossom."
Before I could argue, he'd already reached across to push open the passenger door. I hesitated for half a heartbeat, then gave in. The warmth of the car wrapped around me like a sigh, and for the first time that morning, I felt safe enough to exhale.
The city blurred by — glass towers dissolving into old brick, neon signs flickering like tired stars.
James drove in silence, his jaw set, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel.
We stopped in front of a restaurant that looked like it had been carved out of luxury itself — marble columns, gold fixtures, and an air so polished it barely felt real.
I blinked. "You're joking."
He shot me a grin. "Come on. Breakfast won't kill you."
"Maybe not, but the prices might."
He chuckled, stepping out and circling around to open my door like some old-world gentleman. His hand brushed mine — brief, careful — as he helped me out.
For a moment, our eyes met. The air between us softened.
Then he cleared his throat and led me inside.
The restaurant smelled of roasted herbs and honeyed wood. Jazz hummed low in the background — the kind of music that made silence sound expensive.
I followed James past glass partitions and velvet chairs until we reached a private lounge tucked away from the rest.
The staff bowed as we passed, eyes lowered with practiced respect.
"Wow," I whispered. "Since when do waiters bow to you?"
He smirked, pretending not to hear.
He pulled out my chair, and I sat, pretending not to notice how the room seemed to hold its breath for him.
"Order whatever you want," he said, handing me the menu.
I scanned the prices and nearly choked. "James, this menu costs more than my monthly rent."
He leaned back, lips twitching. "Then it's a good thing you're not paying."
I sighed and dropped the menu. "Fine. I'll have steak and yogurt."
"See? Was that so hard?"
The waiter appeared — tall, quiet, his eyes never once meeting James's.
He took our order with a bow and disappeared into the background like a shadow fading at dawn.
We sat in companionable quiet for a while. I traced circles on the edge of my glass, letting the rhythm calm me. James watched me — not the way others did, but as if he was trying to memorize the things I didn't say.
Then the air changed.
Not the temperature. Not the music.
Something invisible shifted — a silence that felt alive.
The hairs on my arms stood.
I turned, and that's when I saw him.
The man from yesterday.
He stepped through the entrance like a story unfolding in slow motion — tall, composed, radiating a quiet command that bent the room without a word. Conversations faltered. Even the light seemed to follow him, tracing the edges of his sharp features.
He didn't walk so much as move — with the self-assured calm of someone used to being obeyed.
And when our eyes met, the world stopped.
For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
His gaze was dark, steady — not the kind that merely looked at you, but one that saw. Deeply.
I felt stripped, exposed, as though every hidden thought had been laid bare before him.
There was something hauntingly familiar about the way he looked at me — like he'd seen me before, maybe in another lifetime.
My pulse quickened.
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. That was all it took for warmth to spread across my skin — uninvited, undeniable.
I turned away, pretending to focus on the silverware, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music.
"Blossom?" James's voice cut through the haze.
"Huh?"
"I said, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah," I breathed, forcing a smile. "Just... thought I recognized someone."
James followed my gaze but saw nothing worth noting. "Who?"
"No one," I lied, my voice too soft, too unsure.
But when I risked another glance, the man was still watching me — calm, unreadable, almost amused.
He looked away first, but something about that single glance lingered.
Like smoke that refused to fade.
Like a flame I couldn't see but could already feel burning beneath my skin.
That morning, I told myself it was nothing.
Just a look. Just a stranger.
But deep down, I already knew better.
Because sometimes, the most dangerous fires are the ones that start silently —
with nothing but a gaze and the sound of your own heartbeat answering back.