Candles burned brightly in the halls, illuminating the path to your lover's chambers. The sight sent a chill down your spine. When you had left on a job outside of town (a man two towns over had been in dire need of stitches), you'd known it would be late when you returned. You'd told Christopher to go to bed without you before placing a goodbye kiss on his lips.

But the candles were lit. Which meant Christopher was awake past midnight again.

You tossed your medical bag aside as the door shut behind you. You tried not to wince at the sound of your medical gear clattering to the ground as you raced down the hall. Christopher Marlowe was an enigma, a living contradiction that refused to let anyone past the thorns surrounding his heart. But you' still learned a little in the month since he'd made you his lover.

If he was awake this late, he had writer's block. And if he had writer's block, he was probably doing something fucking insane like dripping wax on his fingertips or trying to climb the balcony railing. He said he just wanted to sit closer to the stars. You weren't sure you believed him.

When you burst into your shared bedchambers (he'd finally agreed to merge quarters yesterday), Christopher was knelt by the fireplace. In a familiar fit of rage he'd thrown his manuscript into the fire. Christopher's chest burned just as bright as the flames licking at the ink and parchment. A bubbling, toxic feeling that reminded him that he wasn't special, he was replaceable, and anyone could sit down and write a poem. So why should anyone give a shit about HIS?

It wasn't until he felt you on the floor too, pulling him back and grabbing both of his wrists, the Christopher realized he'd tried grabbing the pages out of the fire.