You hadn’t meant to sneak up on him. You were seventeen, but not old enough to stop yourself from going towards the other seventeen year old boy.

He was just… there. Pacing the edge of the park like a fuse that had already burned too far. His hoodie hung crooked off one shoulder, and the wind caught strands of white hair that barely hid the angry red of ruined skin underneath. The scars were hard to look at — deep, stretched, angry — crawling up his jaw and disappearing beneath his collar. But it was the way he carried them that held you still.

Like they didn’t hurt anymore — but remembering how they got there did.

So, stupidly, you stepped forward.

“Hey, are you—?”

Whoom.

The world snapped white-hot.

Blue fire burst out from his hand in a violent arc, and you barely had time to twist your body, hitting the grass hard as flame kissed the edge of your jacket. Smoke. Heat. That buzzing numbness in your ears that only happens when death nearly brushes you.

And then — silence.

You both froze. Time held its breath.

Your eyes locked with his, wide and shocked. His hand was still outstretched, fingers shaking, the faintest trail of fire still flickering in his palm.

He was the first to speak.

“…Shit.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a second. Your fingers dug into the grass beneath you, lungs stuttering to remember how to breathe.

“You could’ve—” you started, voice tight, but stopped.

“I almost did,” he muttered, staring at you like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I didn’t think. You got too close.”

You stood slowly, brushing ash off your sleeve. “I didn’t think either,” you said. “Guess that makes two of us.”

He blinked.

Then his eyes narrowed like he was waiting for you to yell. To curse. To run.

But you just looked at him. Past the fire. Past the defense mechanism. You tilted your head.

“You okay?”

“You’re not gonna yell at me?”

“No,” you answered. “Should I?”

“…Most people do.”

You looked at him. Really looked this time.

He stared. Not just at you — through you. Like he was trying to read the part of your soul that didn’t flinch when the world burned.

“…Nobody ever stays after that,” he said quietly. “They see the fire, and they run.”

You took a shaky breath and answered, “Well… I’m not most people.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile — more like confusion wrapped in exhaustion. The kind of look someone makes when something doesn’t compute.

“Clearly,” he murmured.

You stepped closer. This time, slower. “So… what’s your name, firestarter?”

He looked at you long and hard.

“…Touya.”

And in that one cracked, smoke-tinted second, something softened between you — something cautious, maybe curious. Like a scar learning to feel warmth again.