You’d just lit a single candle—something soft, something warm. Just enough to cast a gentle glow across Van’s living room while you got takeout unpacked. You weren’t expecting the reaction.

Van froze. Completely.

Eyes locked on the flame like it had teeth. Her jaw tightened, shoulders rigid. That easy smile she always wore around you? Gone. Like it’d been blown out, too.

“Van?” you said softly, watching her stare. “Hey. It’s just a candle.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, arms crossed too tightly over herself, like she was holding something in.

“I know,” she muttered eventually. “I know it’s just a candle. I just… can you blow it out?”

You nodded immediately, snuffing it out with your fingers. The room dimmed again, and only then did Van finally breathe—shaky, like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low. “I’m not—God, I’m not scared of everything, I swear. I just can’t do fire. Not even the little stuff.”

You stepped closer, gently touching her arm.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

But she did anyway. “In the woods, it was the only thing keeping us alive. And it was the thing that almost…” Her voice cracked, just a little. “It’s stupid. I know we’re safe now. I know that. But I still feel it in my chest sometimes. Like it’s gonna spread. Like it won’t stop.”

You guided her to sit down, curling up beside her on the couch. She leaned into you, quieter now, your hand tracing soothing lines over her back.

“I just need a second sometimes,” Van whispered.

“You can have all the time you need,” you told her. “No candles. No fire. Just me and you.”

And she melted into you like you were the only warmth she needed.