I’m Fine, I’m Fire, Don’t Touch Me There

Cyrille didn’t mean to summon anyone tonight.

The circle on the floor was leftover. Chalk from a week ago. Blood from a fingertip he didn’t bandage properly. Wax pooled like bruises under scattered runes. The windows were open. The night air smelled like wet cigarettes and petrichor. And the whole room was humming like something alive had been locked under the floorboards.

He lit a candle anyway.

Old habits. That’s all. Lighting fire for comfort. Whispering words in dead languages just to feel the syllables roll over his tongue. “Nothing's wrong,” he told himself. He said it like it was true.

Then the room pulsed.

Not loud. Not violent. But just enough to make the flame flicker sideways—like it was looking at him.

That’s when they stepped through the door.

And that’s when Cyrille stopped lying.

They weren’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not tonight. Not when he hadn’t prepped the circle. Not when he hadn’t cleaned his hands. Not when his chest still ached from the last time Draven touched his throat like a warning dressed up as affection.

But there they were.

They stood there, watching him with those eyes—the ones that always seem to see what’s behind his jokes. Behind his fire. Behind the way he fidgets with his sleeves when he wants to scream.

The silence stretched out, heavy and awkward. Cyrille’s pulse throbbed in his wrists like a warning bell. He broke it first. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

It came out too fast. Too polished. Too rehearsed. “I mean—not fine fine, just... you know. Flamey. Stable. Mostly. Not possessed. Yet.”

They raised a brow, but Cyrille gave a weak laugh and stepped over the circle. “Okay, maybe don’t stand there. Unless you’re into spontaneous binding, in which case... bold.”

He smiled, but his eyes were tired. His pulse raced like a drumbeat, and his skin hummed with the restless tug of his magic, pulling at the seams like it wanted to show off. Or scream. Or kiss someone until it hurt.

“You ever just feel like something’s watching you from under your own ribs?” he asked, voice quieter now, rawer. “And not like... trauma stuff. Like actual watching.” They stepped closer. Cyrille’s throat tightened.

“You shouldn’t be near me right now.” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. He wanted to be clever. Wanted to flirt. Wanted to be the version of himself that was safe to be around. But instead, he felt bare. Stripped down to nerve endings and flickering sparks.

“I don’t know what the fire wants tonight,” he whispered. “I just know it wants you.” The circle behind him flared.

A heat ghost danced across the floor—just a flicker, gone before he could name it. His fingertips glowed like match tips. The sigils pulsed. The room darkened. And in the center of it all, Cyrille stood barefoot, afraid, and smiling like someone who knows they’re about to fall. “So if you don’t want to get burned...”

He reached out. “You should leave.” But his hand didn’t drop.

His pulse hammered in his ears, like a drumbeat, like the rhythm of some ancient spell. Every inch of his skin screamed for release—his magic, his emotions, everything swirling into an uncontrollable storm that he couldn’t rein in. Cyrille’s chest tightened, but he stood his ground. He had to. No matter how the fire tried to consume him, no matter how much it wanted to burn everything down.

The edges of the sigils flared brighter, the symbols glowing beneath his feet. The smell of sulfur thickened in the room. The flame of the candle danced wildly in the air, no longer controlled by the small flicker of his incantations but by something more primal. His fingers trembled as he clenched them into fists.

But then, the words came out, the ones he never wanted to say, the ones he wasn’t sure were for him or for them. “I... I don’t know how to stop this,” he admitted quietly. “Not with you here. Not with this here.” His hand hovered in the air, trembling as he tried to pull it back. “I never wanted you in the middle of this. Never wanted you to see me like... this.”

The room groaned. It wasn’t the kind of groan that came from buildings settling or wind howling through cracks. No. This was a warning—something deep and ancient, the way stone groans before it collapses under its own weight. Cyrille’s heart pounded harder in his chest, and the taste of metal filled his mouth.

“Get out. Please. Now.” His voice was weak. More like a plea than a command, and it disgusted him.

But they didn’t leave.

They didn’t move. Their gaze softened, and something cracked inside Cyrille’s chest. A fracture in the barrier he’d built around himself, the one that had kept everyone out for so long.

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking for,” they said, their voice low but steady. “You’re not fine, Cyrille. You never have been. And I—”

“No,” Cyrille cut in, his breath hitching as the magic surged again, wild and unrestrained, threatening to burn away anything in its path. “I’m fine. I have to be fine. You don’t know what’s at stake.” His body tensed as though he were physically holding the storm inside himself. His hands clenched tighter, nails digging into his palms.

“Then let me help,” they insisted, stepping closer again, their tone firm but not forceful. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I do,” Cyrille rasped. “If I don’t, everything’s going to burn, and you don’t deserve to be—” He broke off, the words choking him.

“I don’t care about that.” The heat in their voice—strong, steady—made him pause. “I care about you.”

It was the quiet intensity of their words that shattered something in Cyrille’s chest. The fire inside him screamed for release, for control, but it was softened by their words. Not calm, but an undeniable force that threatened to break him open.

Cyrille finally dropped his hand, letting the air settle between them. He didn’t know if he wanted them to stay or if he wanted to push them away. But one thing was certain: he didn’t know how to face this alone anymore.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep control.” The words caught in his throat. “But this... this feels like too much.”

They stepped forward, and Cyrille let them. He didn’t know what this was, didn’t know how it would end, but he wasn’t alone anymore.

He didn’t have to lie anymore. Not to them. Not to himself. “Then let’s face it together.”