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For an hour, we grill steaks and peppers, eating by the glow of scattered tea lights. Our conversation is pure nonsense—weather, music, TV shows. I forget Steffen’s shadows, forget my past and present. It’s like floating in a bubble I never want to pop. When only starlight and candles remain, Steffen leads me to the fire pit, then vanishes inside to fetch s’mores fixings and a knitted blanket for warmth.

I watch him as he places a toasted marshmallow between graham crackers. He offers it to me, and I take it but end up holding it and then asking him something I regret. “What happened to your family? Why is that photo in your nightstand and not sitting proudly on top of it?”

He looks away and blinks like he’s trying to hold closed a door that leads to the past. “You broke your own rule. My understanding was that we would avoid those topics.”

“I did,” I admit, as I push the cracker down and watch the marshmallow squeeze out.

Steffen runs his hand through his hair and shifts closer to the fire as if he wishes to become one with the flames. “My father died two years ago; the fuel tank on his yacht exploded, causing the ship to sink,” he admits in a painful breath. It must ache because he reaches for his ribs and rubs them.

A chill blankets my body. “I’m sorry.”

He grabs the marshmallow stick and holds it in the fire. It’s metal, so it doesn’t burn. Is it meant to represent him, invincible, surviving the flames when his father couldn’t?

Broken graham cracker bites start to crumble around my fingers. I grab a small plate and set the s’more on it so I don’t ruin more of it from my tight grip.

Steffen clears his throat. “It was an attack. One we should have seen coming, but that’s the problem with friends. Sometimes you let your guard down.” He leans to the very edge of the lounge chair, drops the stick in the fire, and instead places his hands out as if he needs to warm them.

My mouth dries. My eyes roam over Steffen. So far he’s the only person I do trust.

“I trust you,” I admit. I just need him to know that. Orange flames shine into his blue gaze, but I see no relief, only more stress filling them.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and says, “I will do everything I can to give you what others didn’t.” He pulls his eyes away from the flames with force. “A choice.”

I roll my lips in and dip my chin. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He watches, as if each letter I speak is a bullet; he sits still, taking the hit. Men like him are not used to ‘thank you’; they just want results.

“How did you survive?” I ask.

He leans closer to the fire. I edge another inch off my seat, uncomfortable with his proximity to the flames.

“I don’t know if I made it out, Rylan.” He snickers cruelly, like he’s staring his demons down.

He shoves his hands closer to the fire. Worry rockets through me; the flames look as if they are licking his palms.

“I still feel trapped, still feel the weight of my father’s body on me. The ceiling fell on top of us when the fuel tanks exploded. I was pinned under my father. I couldn’t move, no matter how hard I tried. Then the boat split and the water rushed in. The cold felt like a harsher burn than the flames chewing on me. It was a battle of water and fire over who would claim me. Eventually the water won. It pulled down the boat, shifting my father and the ceiling above him. I slipped free, but was dragged deeper into the depths.”

His hands slide closer to the flames.

I spring into action, tossing the blanket aside and lunging for him. I grab his wrist and yank him away from the fire.

“Steffen!” I scold, shoving him back into the lounge chair and dropping to my knees beside him, stone biting into my skin. My ankle protests, but I ignore it, flipping his hands over and pressing my fingers to his palms. Even his calluses can’t hide the heat—his skin is slick, flushed, nearly burned.

I let out a shaky exhale, a sound caught between a growl and a sob.

How did I end up with a man this reckless?

“You could have burned yourself!” I snap. “You’re completely unhinged.”

“You make me feel like I’m not,” he says, voice distant, still wrestling his demons.

Guilt prickles through me—I asked, so now I have to fight them, too.

He adds, “You make me feel like a door that opens and closes without a squeak. Hinged perfectly. No pain anymore.”

“Perfectly imperfect,” I mutter, as I continue to rub his palms.

His lip twitches. “I want to open the door and let you walk inside, Rylan.”