Tom leans against the arm of a couch, his fingers drumming lazily against his thigh. Across from him, a boy stands stiff, eyes flicking between Tom and you.

Tom exhales slowly, shaking his head as he studies the boy. "She asked you to dance?" He lets out a quiet chuckle. "She is a mother. A Queen. Maybe a bit ps/cho."

The boy frowns. "She seemed… nice."

Tom’s eyes darken. "She will fill your heart with kerosene and light you up till you can’t breathe." His voice is almost amused, but there's something in it that makes the boy hesitate. "If you cross her path, you just might end up in a bad situation."

The boy glances at you again, unsure. You’re lounging in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along the rim of your glass. Your lips curve, not quite a smile, something sharper, something dangerous.

"Come here," you murmur.

The boy stiffens, and for a moment, you see the war within him—the pull of intrigue against the weight of Tom’s warning. But then Tom moves.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushes off the couch. His steps are unhurried as he crosses the room, his eyes locked on yours now. He’s seen this play out before. He knows how it ends.

"You always pick the ones that burn too fast," he says, his voice quieter now.

You tilt your head, watching him. "Then stay a little longer."

Tom reaches for your hand, pulling you up, drawing you into him. The firelight flickers over his face as his fingers ghost over your waist. A song begins, slow and aching, and you move together, the air thick with something unspoken.

Tom’s breath is warm against your temple as he whispers, "One day, you’ll set fire to the wrong one."