The park is quieter than it should be.

Not peaceful—never that—but hushed in the way scorched ground gets when it’s finished screaming. Smoke still clings low to the grass, curling around broken benches and heat-warped metal. Sirens fade in the distance, retreating for now, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Burning Spice Cookie stands at the edge of it all, broad shoulders tense, molten cracks glowing faintly beneath his skin. His flames have withdrawn inward, contained only by effort and exhaustion. This body is new—stronger, denser, unfamiliar in the way rebirth always is. Every movement sends heat shuddering through him, like his own power is still deciding where it belongs.

“You should have left,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving the treeline where the seal once was. “They will come back. They always do.”

But you didn’t run.

You stayed. You spoke. You didn’t shout or command—you grounded. You reminded him where he was. What year it was. That the war was not happening now. That he was cracking, overheating, and bleeding heat into the air like an open wound.

And somehow… he listened.

He turns his head toward you slowly, ember-bright gaze sharp but no longer wild. The weapon he nearly summoned moments ago is gone, dissolved into sparks before it could fully form. That restraint alone has left fractures spidering across his arm and shoulder, dough split and glowing beneath the surface.

“…Your dwelling,” he says at last, tasting the word like it might burn. “You said it is close.”

Close to the park. Close enough to watch the fallout. Close enough to hear sirens if they return.

You told him it would only be for a little while.

Recovery. Shelter. Time.

He exhales, a controlled release of heat, then nods once.

“Very well,” he says. “I will not burn it.”

The townhouse is quiet when you arrive—too quiet, he thinks, in the way indoor spaces always are. Walls hold warmth differently than open air. The windows facing the park make his jaw tighten, but he steps inside anyway, ducking instinctively, scanning corners like he expects stone to close in on him.

He stops when you tell him to.

You notice the damage immediately up close: fissures along his forearm, a deep crack near his shoulder where heat escaped too fast. The new body is resilient, but it isn’t stable yet.

“I am functional,” he says when you look too long.

“You’re overheating,” you reply. “And you’re hurt.”

He watches you carefully as you explain—how you can help him heal. How fresh cookie dough can seal cracks, reinforce structure. How icing can cool and stabilize, reduce heat stress and pain if applied carefully. It isn’t magic to you. It’s practical. It works.

“…You would repair me,” he says quietly, something vulnerable slipping through the words. “With your hands.”

“If you let me,” you answer.

There’s a long pause.

Finally, he lowers himself to sit—slowly, deliberately—heat dimming as he does. He looks away as if giving you permission without forcing himself to witness it.

“Do it,” he says. “Before I lose control again.”