Darkseid was brooding again.
And when a cosmic warlord broods, things tend to get very... apocalyptic. Literally.
He stood at the edge of the burning cliffs of Apokolips, hands clasped behind his back like the world's angriest poetry professor, staring into the hellscape like it owed him money and had the audacity to be late paying it back.
Behind him, Steppenwolf shifted uncomfortably. That was no easy feat considering the guy looked like he was made of bladed armor, testosterone, and unpaid therapy bills.
"My lord," Steppenwolf began, his voice like gravel being politely sanded down, "if I may... suggest a more measured approach."
Darkseid didn't look at him. He never did. That would imply he considered your face worth acknowledging. Instead, he remained a towering silhouette of judgment, voice deep enough to make thunder feel insecure.
"Measured?" he said, slow and rumbling. "Like the measured failure that was your last conquest, nephew?"
Okay. That stung. Steppenwolf winced, as if someone had just insulted his haircut and strategic competence in the same breath. Which, to be fair, Darkseid had just done.
"I mean only to suggest observation, my lord," he said quickly. "This... boy. This anomaly on Earth. He is untested. Raw. Perhaps it is wiser to watch before we act. Send a scout. A shadow."
Darkseid tilted his head ever so slightly. In his language, that was basically flipping a table.
"You fear the child?"
"I fear ignorance, my lord," Steppenwolf said diplomatically. "The child is... inconvenient. Powerful. Possibly divine. Possibly annoying. Which, in my experience, is the worst combination."
Darkseid was silent. Long enough that somewhere in the cosmos, stars started sweating.
Then he raised one hand and snapped his fingers.
Now, you wouldn't think a finger snap could sound like an avalanche getting punched by a volcano. But that's what it sounded like.
A Boom Tube exploded open behind him with all the subtlety of a rock concert inside a blender.
From its churning, brimstone-scented depths emerged a voice—cheerful, melodic, and the spiritual opposite of comforting.
"You rang, sweetums?"
Granny Goodness stepped out, all smiles and murder. She looked like the lovechild of Mary Poppins and a tactical nuke. Her hair was in flawless curls. Her armor was polished to a mirror shine. And her eyes sparkled with the kind of warmth normally reserved for rabid wolves.
"Granny," Darkseid said, sounding like he was announcing a dental appointment. During a funeral. For the dentist.
Granny gave a perky little curtsy, which was made about ten times more terrifying by the fact that she did it while holding a war hammer shaped like a teddy bear.
"Oh, I do love when you summon me, Great Darkseid. Are we baking cookies or breaking necks today?"
Steppenwolf muttered, "Please say cookies."
Darkseid ignored him. "There is a variable on Earth. Unclassified. Immense power. I want surveillance. Covert. Consistent. Unbroken."
Granny's eyes glimmered like someone had just told her the babysitting assignment involved a flamethrower and an unlimited candy budget.
"Say no more, dearest. You want someone sneaky, adaptable, and resilient. With just the right touch of homicidal flair."
"I want someone who will not die screaming," Darkseid corrected, his tone flatter than a neutron star.
Granny sighed dreamily. "So picky."
Then she straightened, eyes narrowing just a bit.
"Whom shall I send? The Furies? Kanto? That weird guy who only speaks in backwards riddles?"
Darkseid's gaze darkened. Which was impressive, since his default mood already resembled an eclipse.
"Send Barda."
There was a pause. Not dramatic. Stunned.
Even Granny blinked.
"Barda? Are you sure? She's been a tad… enthusiastic lately. She threw a satellite at a diplomat. Twice."
"She is strong enough to withstand him. Wise enough to know not to engage."
"And subtle as a flaming wrecking ball," Steppenwolf added helpfully.
Granny waved a hand. "Oh hush, Steppy. You're just mad she flipped you during training."
"She flipped a building during training," he growled.
"I was under it!" Granny said, grinning fondly. "What a rascal."
Darkseid turned to the horizon, cloak billowing dramatically because of course it did. "She is not to interfere. She is to watch. If she engages without permission, I will tear the stars from the sky and strangle her with their fire."
There was a pause.
Granny chuckled. "Right-o. I'll make sure she packs her best binoculars. And her good boots."
Another Boom Tube opened—smaller, meaner, and audibly angrier.
From inside came the sound of something very large groaning in protest. Then a figure stepped out.
Big Barda.
Seven feet of pure warrior queen, arms folded, scowl in place, looking like someone who had just been dragged out of a perfectly good nap.
"I swear, if this is about that orphanage fire again, that was not my fault," she said. "Those kids started it."
Granny beamed. "Darling! How's my favorite murder munchkin?"
"Annoyed. And mildly homicidal," Barda muttered.
"Perfect mood for recon," Granny said. "You're going to Earth, love. Shadow duty. No punching."
"No guarantees," Barda warned, already stepping into the portal. "If this mystery god-boy starts monologuing, I'm smacking him with a mailbox."
Granny looked over her shoulder. "She's gonna be great."
As the Boom Tube snapped shut, Steppenwolf let out a long, suffering sigh. "She's going to pick a fight."
Darkseid, still staring into the roiling fire of the Apokoliptian horizon, said simply:
"If she does… then we will learn if the god-thing bleeds."
And somewhere in the multiverse, a very shiny, very broody young demigod just sneezed and got the sudden urge to look over his shoulder.
Something was coming.
And her name was Barda.
—
Lightray snapped his fingers like a DJ about to drop a sick beat. "Alright, I know we're knee-deep in celestial brooding and ominous silences, but maybe someone should actually check on our mystery demigod before he pulls a Prometheus and lights up the universe with a cosmic matchstick of destiny?"
Izaya—the Highfather himself, King of New Genesis, Rocker of the Eternal Beard—arched one snowy eyebrow so slowly it deserved its own time-lapse documentary. His voice rolled out like honeyed thunder. "Observation. Not interference."
"Scout's honor," Lightray said, raising two fingers in what was probably meant to be a peace sign. Unfortunately, no one on New Genesis had ever taught him what Scout's honor meant, and he was pretty sure he saw it once on a vintage Earth sitcom involving laser swords and space wizards.
Orion made a noise in his throat that sounded like a volcano politely clearing its throat. "You'll need someone who can handle him. If he proves dangerous."
Lightray grinned like he'd just been handed the script to a telenovela. "Jealous, much?"
Orion turned his head so slowly it was honestly impressive, like a planet realigning its orbit just to glare. "I'm being careful, fool."
And there it was. The classic Orion insult. The man could put an entire history of passive aggression into one syllable. You had to respect the craft.
Izaya gave his staff a tap against the marble floor. The sound wasn't loud, but it rippled through the Celestial City like a bell echoing through crystal. The kind of sound that made you feel like something important was about to happen. Probably something with destiny. Or doom. Or brunch.
"I will not send one who would provoke him with suspicion," Izaya said, giving Orion a sideways look that could slice through armor. "Nor one who might charm without understanding."
Lightray placed a hand to his heart and gasped. "Was that shade? I accept your subtle insult with grace, Highfather."
For half a second, Izaya's beard twitched. That might've been a smile. Or gas. Hard to tell with cosmic beings.
"We will send one who understands both war and peace," Izaya continued, voice growing quieter, more certain. "One forged by loss, like him. One who knows the weight of freedom... and love."
Orion straightened like someone had just yanked his spine into attention. "No." His voice could've broken stone. "Not her."
"Yes," Izaya said without missing a beat.
"You would send Bekka?" Orion asked, sounding part shocked, part wounded, and entirely like a guy realizing his ex might be moving on and it's with destiny's favorite golden boy.
"She is the best among us," Izaya replied, calmly cosmic. "And she will choose for herself."
Lightray let out a low whistle. "Whoa. This just got dramatic. You good, O? Need me to call the healers for that bruised ego?"
Orion didn't answer. He was busy trying to crush every visible emotion into a tiny black hole and shove it somewhere deep beneath his sternum.
Izaya raised his staff again. This time the air shimmered. Light twisted. Reality hiccuped.
And then—she appeared.
Bekka.
Warrior. Peacemaker. Daughter of destruction and keeper of impossible grace. Her armor shimmered like starlight dipped in midnight, and the sword at her side practically hummed with restrained drama. She looked like she'd walked straight off the cover of a graphic novel and knew it.
She took them all in with one glance. Eyes like calm storms. Hair pulled back like she meant business. A presence so poised, even the room straightened its metaphorical tie.
"You summoned me, Highfather?" she asked, her voice the perfect mix of regal calm and try me, I dare you.
Izaya inclined his head. "There is a new god awakening among mortals. Not of this realm, but bound to its future. I ask you to watch over him. Not to interfere. Not to guide. Only to understand."
Bekka studied him. Then Lightray. Then—oh boy—Orion, who looked like someone had just told him the family pet was dating his therapist.
Finally, Bekka smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
"Do I get to decide how close I watch him?"
Lightray choked. "Okay, that's it. I'm getting popcorn. This is too good."
Orion turned away, jaw clenched so tight you could've cracked gemstones on it.
Izaya didn't blink. "You always do."
Bekka's smile faded, replaced by something quieter. Deeper. "Then I accept."
She turned and walked away like a storm politely excusing itself from a tea party.
Izaya looked toward Earth, where a certain boy—half fire, half fury, all future—was starting to rise. A boy who didn't know he was about to rewrite the cosmos.
The old gods were moving their pieces.
Now? Now the real story began.
—
So here I was, walking into what could only be described as a five-star love nest disguised as a bedroom, trailing behind the hottest redhead since fire was invented — Jean. Or "Flame of the Beginning," if you're into dramatic celestial nicknames that sound like rejected metal band titles.
Spoiler: I totally am.
The moment we stepped inside, Kara zipped in after us, her blonde hair swishing like she was starring in a shampoo commercial. "Oh my Rao," she gasped. "This place is insane. Harry, this is so you."
"Messy, confusing, and possibly about to explode?" I offered.
She gave me a wink that could melt lead. "I was going to say bold, dramatic, and ridiculously hot."
"Well," I said, giving her a shameless once-over, "takes one to know one, Sunshine."
Kori followed close behind, gliding like a glowing goddess in yoga pants. She tossed her hair back and twirled, soaking in the ambiance. "I approve. The temperature is just shy of magma. Perfect for passion and possible combustion."
"Cool cool cool," I muttered. "Just what I always wanted. A bedroom that doubles as a volcano."
Deedee — black lace, sharp eyeliner, Big Tiddy goth energy cranked to eleven — flopped dramatically onto the velvet chaise. "Don't be so uptight, Potter. Worst case scenario, we all die in a glorious firestorm of pleasure. Honestly? Iconic."
Megan — my Martian cinnamon roll — floated in with a giggle. She was cute with a mischievous edge. "Can confirm! The mood is, like, ten out of ten. Very... pheromonal."
I blinked. "Is that a real word?"
"It is now," she chirped, beaming. "I just read your brain. You're very nervous and pretending to be cool."
"Classic me," I muttered. "Fake it till you combust."
Tia strolled in with that blonde bombshell strut, all curves and chaos. "So this is where the magic happens." She smirked. "Or... is about to happen. Depending on how fast Harry stops talking and starts doing."
"Listen, I was going to make a witty comeback," I said, "but I tripped over your ego."
"Oh, sweetheart," she purred. "You wish."
Mareena — sharp, sleek, and ocean-eyed — leaned against the doorframe like she was the frame. "I give it ten minutes before someone screams loud enough to crack the windows."
"Hopefully in a fun way," I said quickly.
She tilted her head. "Hopefully?"
Zatanna twirled in like stage magic personified. "I brought champagne. And a couple wards. And a hex to cancel performance anxiety. Not that you'll need it." Her smirk was pure Zatanna — knowing and a little dangerous.
Raven? Raven was sitting cross-legged in the corner, book in hand, mood permanently set to "grumpy Wednesday Addams." She didn't look up when she muttered, "You better hydrate, Potter."
"Working on it," I said. "Mentally. Spiritually."
And then Jean stepped forward like a queen about to make her first knight — if knights got stripped of their armor and had their brains turned to pudding by sheer sexual magnetism.
Madelaine Petsch had nothing on this version of Jean. Hair like molten lava. Eyes like twin suns. That smile that said tonight, you burn, Potter.
"Ladies," she said, voice like a warm purr wrapped in velvet and gasoline, "I was thinking... maybe you'd all like to join us tonight."
Time froze. I froze. My everything froze — except for that one traitorous part of me that apparently took "Flame of the Beginning" as a personal challenge.
Jean turned to me, lazy smirk in place, and oh-so-casually flicked her ember-tipped finger down the length of my chest.
"And before you worry," she continued smoothly, "I did check. Harry's had an... upgrade."
All eyes turned to me.
Cue awkward British cough. "Uh. Thanks for the update, Jean."
Kara's eyes widened. "Wait. Like... stat boost upgrade?"
"I'm not saying he's a God in all the way it counts," Jean teased. "But I am saying that his Mount Olympus just got a new pillar."
Kori choked on a laugh. "I told you he was fully upgraded."
Tia winked. "Guess we'll have to measure just how upgraded we're talking."
Deedee fake-sighed. "I hate being right. But also, I love being right."
Megan floated closer, a soft flush on her cheeks. "It's true. He's... beautiful. Like emotionally and physically and spiritually endowed."
"Okay, M'gann, stop reading my soul," I said, half-laughing.
"I didn't," she whispered.
Zatanna gave me an appraising look and clinked her glass against mine. "To your... magical growth, Potter."
"I'm just here so I don't get hexed," I muttered.
Raven finally looked up. "Try not to pass out. Or die. But if you do die, try to make it poetic."
Jean took my hand and tugged me forward, pressing her lips to mine — soft, slow, then suddenly searing. I forgot how to breathe, think, or even stand. Her voice dropped low against my ear.
"Ready, legend?"
I looked around at the gorgeous, insane, probably-going-to-break-me lineup of literal goddesses and aliens and sorceresses all smirking like they were hungry, and then looked at my reflection — the black-haired, green-eyed, slightly terrified demigod in the glass.
"Legend?" I said. "Babe, I'm about to rewrite the damn myths."
Jean smiled.
And Mount Justice?
Mount. Freaking. Erupted.
—
The Morning After Mount Justice Erupted (Yes, we're officially under magical quarantine. Don't ask.)
The sun hadn't even gotten its lazy ass out of bed, but somehow, the light was already sneaking through these charmed blackout curtains like it was auditioning for Golden Hour. Golden, soft, and way too eager to ruin what was probably the most epic nap in recorded history.
Now, if you're wondering why I'm awake and typing this out like some sleep-deprived Shakespeare, the answer is simple: my body and brain are still fighting over who gets to be more exhausted.
I'm lying in what can only be described as the aftermath of a tornado wearing silk pajamas — a sweaty, tangled heap of limbs and tangled sheets. Somewhere to my left, Kara (aka Supergirl, but let's be honest, she's just Kara to me) is snoring softly with one arm draped across my chest like I'm the comfiest teddy bear she's ever met. And yeah, that's as adorable as it sounds.
To my right, Deedee — black lace, sharp eyeliner, and maximum Big Tiddy Goth Energy (I swear she could snuff out a candle just by sitting down)— is stretched out like she owns the place, one leg thrown over mine like a victorious queen claiming her throne.
Kori — the literal human sunshine (because yes, she's actually glowing, and no, it's not the coffee)— is softly flickering like she's about to spontaneously combust from sheer post-coital joy. Or maybe she's just pissed she didn't get the last slice of pizza. Hard to say.
Megan (Miss Martian, but forever my adorable cinnamon roll) is curled up into a little ball, levitating about an inch off the bed because apparently, Martians float when their hearts are full and their minds are even fuller of 'holy crap, that was amazing' vibes. I swear, if she starts humming Disney tunes, I might actually melt.
Tia, my blonde bombshell disaster, looks like she just survived a marathon, a bar fight, and a lingerie contest — and somehow still looks like the main event. Mareena is chilling in her own corner, looking sharp and sleek like she just stepped out of a fashion shoot for "How to Own Your Sexy in 10 Easy Steps." Her hair's still wet — no clue if that's from some indoor waterfall magic or a strategic cooling-off method.
Zatanna? Oh, she's in the corner, face half-buried in a pillow, whispering half-spells in her sleep like she's prepping for some kind of magical encore.
And then there's Raven. The ever-grumpy goth princess of doom, sitting cross-legged with a mug of tea like she's just reading the morning news instead of surviving a human firestorm. Honestly, the girl's made of caffeine and sarcasm, and maybe that's why she's the only one who looks somewhat functional.
And finally, there's Jean. The Flame of the Beginning herself. Hair like molten lava that refuses to behave, skin shimmering faintly like she's just stepped out of a volcanic inferno, and a smirk that basically screams, Yeah, I did that. Try and keep up.
When she blinked open those eyes—two twin suns blazing into my very soul—I swear my heart did something it definitely shouldn't have for a guy who's faced down basilisk venom, Killing Curses, and at least one reality-warping apocalypse.
Look, I've been with all these girls before. Emotionally, intimately, and every weird kink and rhythm you can imagine. They call me magician, monster, miracle, Daddy—because apparently I'm a multi-role player in this weird adult fantasy sitcom.
But Jean? Jean was a whole different level of "holy hell, am I going to live through this?" Her body was literally hot enough to melt steel, and that's not some metaphor. We're talking interior-of-the-Sun levels of scorching. Her insides felt like molten gold — fire and silk and a nuclear reactor designed by Aphrodite herself.
I mean, I survived some nasty stuff before, but this? This was spiritual death and rebirth, powered by Phoenix sex. (Yes, that's a thing now. Science will catch up eventually.)
And thanks to whatever cosmic upgrade I got — which I'm pretty sure is borderline illegal in at least three universes — my stamina was off the charts. I didn't stop. They didn't stop. Raven, in fact, opened a pocket dimension just to scream without shattering the windows. (Not sure if she was impressed or horrified, but hey, team effort.)
Slowly, the girls started waking up. Stretching, yawning, smiling in that way that makes you want to apologize to the world for existing because damn, that's some next-level satisfied.
Jean propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me like I was the favorite book she just couldn't put down.
"You're alive," she said, voice low and husky with leftover heat.
"Debatable," I rasped. "My soul left my body around round six and forgot to come back."
She smirked and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss right over my heart — which, by the way, was still pounding like a war drum on steroids.
"I talked to the girls," she murmured, brushing my hair back with a finger too warm to be legal. "Apparently, there's a tradition."
Cue suspicious eyebrow. "Uh-oh."
Jean's smirk deepened, slow and sinful. "They said... joining you in the shower the morning after is a rite of passage."
I nearly choked on my own spit. "That's... not inaccurate."
She smiled like she just won the lottery. "I want that. But just you and me. Today. The others were... wonderful. Delicious, really. But I want you. Alone. In the bath. No distractions."
I blinked at her, more than a little impressed. "You're the Flame of the Beginning, and yet you're all about a solo spa day?"
Jean laughed, that fiery sound that made the whole room feel like it was catching fire again. "A man like you deserves a proper ritual. And besides... you're the new god who survived the Flame of the Beginning."
"Survived?" I said, wincing as I sat up. "I might still be hallucinating. You could be a sexy afterlife projection."
She leaned in, lips brushing my ear with a whisper that could start wildfires. "Then let me prove I'm real. Shower's this way, legend."
The sheet slipped down her curves like it was begging for attention, and she turned once at the doorframe — glowing confidence, that look that said you're mine now.
I sat up, groaning, grinning, and—yeah—already hard again.
"Mount Olympus," I muttered. "Try to keep up."
And then, because some rites of passage? Are absolutely worth dying for.
—
Jean glanced back over her shoulder, that trademark devilish smirk tugging at her lips — you know, the one that says, I'm trouble, but you're into it anyway. Her eyes were sparking with something fierce, like a wildfire that didn't care if it burned down the whole damn forest.
"Actually…" she said, voice low and velvety, practically dripping with mischief, "I was thinking… the bathtub. Not the shower."
I blinked, probably looking like a confused puppy. "The tub? Are you trying to kill me with slow torture, or just, like, upgrade the scorched-earth treatment?"
She stepped closer, hips swaying like they had their own gravitational pull — the kind of hips that make you forget your own name. "Slow burn, sweetheart. I want to feel every second of this, like it's etched into our bones."
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Well, when you put it like that…" I snapped my fingers, and water surged into the tub like some magical hot spring. Warm, inviting, steaming like it was auditioning for a rom-com scene.
Jean raised an eyebrow. "Hotter."
Say no more. Snap. The water hissed like it was straight out of a volcano, and the whole bathroom smelled like fire and ozone — basically, my signature scent if I had one.
I eased into the tub, muscles already melting into the heat. Then Jean followed, smooth as liquid flame, sliding in and settling into my lap like she belonged there. Spoiler alert: she does belong there.
Our eyes locked — two freakin' suns about to collide and probably cause a blackout in the neighborhood.
"You know," I teased, "if you keep looking at me like that, I might just combust right here."
Her laugh was low, fiery, and way too sexy for 7:00 a.m. "Good. I like a man who can handle the heat."
I wrapped an arm around her waist, feeling that molten fire rolling off her skin. The water wasn't the only thing heating up in this tub. I could feel the kind of power that made your blood race and your brain short-circuit at the same time.
"Ready for round two?" I murmured, voice a notch rougher than usual — and yeah, I noticed she liked it.
Without missing a beat, she locked her fingers behind my neck and pulled me so close I could feel the fire inside her, like a living thing trying to burn a path right to my soul.
And then, slow and deliberate, she slid me inside her.
Cue the fireworks.
It was like being wrapped in molten silk, every nerve ending on high alert, every breath a firestorm.
Her hands dug into my shoulders like she wanted to carve me into her skin, no room for air, no space for anything but this.
I groaned — deep and low — the kind of sound that makes you realize, yeah, this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Jean's eyes fluttered shut, lips parted, heat radiating off her like a goddamn sunbeam with attitude.
"You're a pain in my ass, Harry," she whispered, voice thick with that perfect blend of sass and something dangerously close to worship.
"Only for you," I shot back, smirking, "because you're the only one who can handle my brand of crazy."
She laughed, that fire in her shaking like a promise. "Well, you're stuck with me, flame-boy. And I'm not going anywhere."
The water hissed and steamed around us, but the real heat? That was between us — a blazing, sacred wildfire that refused to die down.
And right then, I thought, yeah… if this is what it means to be reborn in fire, I'm ready to burn forever.
—
Jean moved on top of me like fire climbing dry wood — slow, consuming, inevitable.
Every roll of her hips sent sparks shooting down my spine like someone had hardwired pleasure straight into my bones. And her eyes… Gods, her eyes. Glowing embers, locked on mine, like she was reading every half-formed thought in my head — and daring me to think louder.
"You're thinking too much," she said, breathless but cocky. "For someone who's supposed to be lost in the moment."
I groaned. "I'm multitasking, okay? It's one of my many attractive qualities. Right next to devastatingly charming and excellent with my hands."
She gave me that look — head tilted, lips curved, red hair clinging to her wet skin like strands of liquid flame. "Mmhm. Guess I'll have to verify that claim."
Her fingers traced down my chest, slow and possessive, like she was mapping a constellation onto me — and staking her territory at the same time.
Spoiler alert: I didn't mind.
I caught her hips and pushed up into her, just enough to make her gasp — just enough to wipe the smug grin right off her face and replace it with something wilder.
"Still thinking too much?" I asked, voice gravelly and cocky in the way that gets me punched or kissed. (With my girls, it's usually both.)
She leaned in until her lips brushed mine. "You're a menace."
"You're a goddess," I murmured back. "A dangerous, impossible, walking wildfire of a woman… and you picked me. Which means either you're crazy or I'm lucky."
"Both," she whispered, before kissing me like she meant to leave scorch marks.
And holy hell, did she.
Her mouth was all fire and demand, no hesitation. She bit my bottom lip like she was making a promise and a threat all at once. And I? I gave in. Completely. Happily. I'd have let her burn me down to ashes if it meant I got to watch her rise again — glowing, powerful, mine.
The steam curled around us like smoke from a battlefield, the scent of fire magic and heat-heavy desire thick in the air. The water hissed and bubbled where it touched our skin, but we didn't care. Couldn't care.
This wasn't just sex. It wasn't just magic.
This was alchemy.
The transformation of two broken things into something elemental and holy. Fire and fire. Flame and flame. Two stars crashing together, reshaping the cosmos with every grind of hip to hip.
I held her tighter, hips rising to meet hers in a rhythm that felt less like motion and more like worship. She was everything — fury, grace, destruction, rebirth — and she was here, wrapped around me like a living promise that we were never going to be the same again.
"Harry…" she gasped, voice trembling with power.
"I've got you," I growled, wrapping my arms around her like I could anchor her to the world with nothing but want. "Always."
And then we shattered.
Together.
Lava bursting through stone. Fire splitting sky.
It wasn't quiet. It wasn't soft.
It was thunder in a bottle.
It was the sun screaming our names.
It was us.
When the storm finally passed, she collapsed against me, chest heaving, skin glowing, hair clinging to her cheeks like strands of ruby lightning.
I kissed her temple, slow and reverent. "So… bathtub wins, huh?"
She laughed, breathless and proud. "Told you. Slow burns are the hottest."
I smirked. "Sweetheart, if that was a slow burn, then I'm scared of what your idea of fast looks like."
She grinned, dangerous and divine. "Guess you'll find out."
And just like that, I knew: I was utterly, hopelessly, beautifully doomed.
Because fire never falls in love.
But somehow, I did.
---
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