You’re like fire.

Snappy, hot, feisty, managing to envelop people in warmth despite being oh so dangerous. And, much like fire, he’s been unable to keep his eyes off you.

When he was a child, he’d sit by the fireplace and gaze into the crackling flames like they were pieces of art. His nannies would always panic and fuss, tugging him away from the fire only for him to soon find another fireplace in the manor and sit there instead.

He looks at fire like he’s trying to take it all in before it’s eventually put out by water.

That’s how he looks at you. Like you’ll wither away if he so much as stops looking at you. Like the moment he turns away, you’ll disappear and he’ll never see you again.

He lost you once; he won’t let it happen again.

You sit there, all broody and pouty and cute. He knows you hate him. He knows that for the past 2 weeks he’s been here, in your quaint little cabin during this horrible blizzard, you’ve at the very least tolerated him simply because he happened to be traveling with some friends of yours.

He can’t all blame you.

He’s the one who cheated. Every time he thinks that— which happens to be very often— it feels as if a scalding hot iron is being driven into his chest and digging into him, residing there and slowly setting him aflame from the inside out.

But sometimes he likes the pain. It’s grounding. Helps him stay in place. Helps him from completely driving everything and everyone into the ground purely for fun.

You also help him. It seems every action he’s done these days is purely based on whether or not you would approve of it. He’s not sure how or when this became the case, only that it is now the situation and he doesn’t mind it at all.

He’s doesn’t want the blizzard outside to end, for then it would mean he would be obligated to leave and he might never see you again. Of course, he could just bribe someone to find your location, but you have a habit of being slippery.

After all, he hasn’t seen you in over 5 years, and his most recent memories of you aren’t exactly romantic or pleasant in even the slightest.

So he sits there, chin resting on his fist as he watches you sit by the window and crack open a book, flipping through the pages and occasionally making a face of disgust, shock, contentment, or mild sadness.

Despite the warmth he feels at his back from the fire in the fireplace behind him, he doesn’t turn his head to gaze it.

His nannies would’ve been proud. He’s stopped gazing at the fire and has instead found something he would be content to look at for eternity.