Page 26 of The Death of Kisses

“I never really learned to cook,” she admitted softly, a tender vulnerability in her voice. “Growing up, we had too many people — servants, butlers — they handled everything. Lilly, though… She loved to cook. That spark, that fire in her—she was something special.” Her face suddenly shifted, a silent story passing through her eyes as she gazed down at the half-eaten pie, lost in memories I couldn’t quite reach.

“She must have been wonderful,” I whispered, my throat tightening. I knew that ache of loss — losing someone who once meant everything. My eyes drifted to the daisy pendant hanging from her neck, a fragile reminder of hope amid sorrow.

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, her voice restoring some lightness, “I’ll bring you guys a fresh pie tomorrow—since I managed to slobber all over this one.” Her words hung in the air, playful and warm.

That laugh burst out of me before I could hold it back, so free and genuine, as I waved her off with a smile.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m heading to get dressed for bed. Just turn off the light when you’re done,” I said softly, feeling everything settle into place.

As I turned to leave, Charlie saluted with her fork, a dollop of whipped cream splattering on her cheek, and in that moment, I couldn’t help but laugh again—pure, effortless happiness.

With her around, everything just felt so right.

It didn’t take long for Charlie to softly glide into my room, a gentle yawn stretching across her face like a silent confession of exhaustion and vulnerability.

“There’s an oversized shirt over there if you want to change out of those jeans,” I mumbled, my gaze flickering up from my laptop, which was streaming Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, though my mind was elsewhere—completely captivated.

She peeled off her long sleeve shirt, and I was stunned — mesmerized —by the sight before me. Her muscles danced beneath her skin, rippling with strength as black lines inked a story across her back—intricate details that swirled and curled, whispering secrets of hidden worlds. Greek ruins and at the very nape of her neck, a Medusa tattoo entwined, wrapping around her as if guarding her story, her spirit. In that moment, I understood—the tattoos I’d glimpsed peeking from her collar and neck all week were pieces of her soul. Her story waiting to be told.

Charlie’s muscles shifted and tensed as she slipped into my oversized T-shirt, every movement felt like a dance with grace. I watched in awe as she bent over, removing her jeans, revealing the scars inside her thigh—burn marks, at least a dozen, each one a silent testament to battles fought, stories written in pain. Outside, her thigh was adorned with delicate lilies. It deeply moved me, as if she was desperately clutching onto every memory—both the beautiful and the painful—with such unwavering intensity. I couldn’t look away. Curiosity swelled within me, bursting like a fire in my chest at the sight of her—raw, real, utterly breathtaking.

She gently slipped into the bed beside me, her bare leg brushing against mine, and a wave of emotion surged within me. I was on the verge of asking if she wanted me to shift over, but her eyes had already fallen shut, surrendering to the exhaustion that consumed her, holding her in that quiet, intimate moment.

My mind rebelled against stillness. Every attempt I made to focus on the movie dissolved the moment it formed, slipping away before I could grasp it. I waited for Charlie's breathing to deepen beside me, longing for sleep to finally pull her under its gentle spell.

But it never came for me.

Something restless and relentless simmered beneath my skin, an unshakable ache.

Frustration gnawed fiercely at me as I reached for my laptop. The screen's glow cut through the darkness between us, illuminating the shadows in my mind while my fingers moved almost on instinct, typing words I knew by heart but couldn't silence.

PineRidge Bowling Alley Fire: Tragic Strikes

The headline flashed onto the screen in an instant.

I stared, immobilized.

I'd read the article so many times I could recite it from memory—every detail, every witness statement, every photograph seared into my mind.

And yet, I always return.

My chest clenched tighter as I scrolled, each word a punch to my gut.

The heat.

The smoke.

The sirens blaring through the night.

That strange, swirling rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins as flames devoured the darkness above.

I hated remembering it.

At least, I told myself I did.

My eyes lingered on a photograph of the wrecked building.

Blackened beams jagged through the sky.