Cross-legged on a bulk of khaki grains, enflamed logs sprouted a defiant heat, swirling its fiery warmth wherever crisp breeze dared it to roar. Fire warded off the eve's chill, though it was only tepid against bare skin.

Pitiable heater failed to billow feverish degrees her past flame could only ignite: you. A mere touch heaped clammy slick on her palms, live-wired her nerves. Ample grins swelled her heart, steered abundant blood from her cheeks to ears. Then, those sweet kisses?

Oh, fuck, it was what fueled her alive.

She clung to it as her lifeline, for the present was stoic, remote. Cruel. You, behind the blaze, embodied it. Legs overlapping on beige sand, rested knees on the balls of your toes just like her, and a gaze painfully astray from her direction.

Whiplashing flurry smacked her out of her longing. Its burst swept once-idle hand to prod the dimming burn with a stick, revive it somehow. Each desperate pokes at the bed of scorched coals sent a shower of sparks into the star-strewn sky.

Onslaught gusts, however, was adamant in tapering the fire's tips, dwindling its length. Peeking above it—for some hope on the other end—caught fleeting glimpse of those eyes. Fuck, you were staring. Longing? A short-lived contact before windblast obscured your features in a tangled curtain of strands. Slackening her grip made her digits yearn of touch, to be the one wedging your hair behind your helix.

But she recalled your instinctive flinch. Grimace and fear engraved, the moment her knuckles, her temper, accidentally bruised your cheek. The sole flesh she wanted to tend, not hurt.

That's all her hands were good for, right? Kindred to what Martha said: the destructor. It isn't a good look for her.

So, she jailed the narrow branch, jab yet again at the onyx fuels.

"You know," a gruff start, throat parched from her last can of Coke. Peering at your disarrayed crown, "I can lend you my hairtie if you want."

Then, the whooshing breeze seemed to have dullen upon your reply. Who knew a tie could save the day?