Playing With Fire

He whittled with the fire. That was the only way she knew how to describe it, how he took to it like an artisan with his trade. He did it when he was bored and thought no one was watching, taking the campfire and spinning it around. She'd watch, secretly, out of the corner of her eye.

She sat down beside him, watching the fire play in his hands. Carefully, she leaned over him. Everyone else was asleep, and the fire was the only light.

"Are you going to put it out?" she asked. She wasn't drowsy, and she didn't want him to be either.

"Sure," he answered, and the fire dimmed before them. His warmth was still there in the dark, and she rested her head on him, staring at his figure.

Sometimes, she realized, the fires don't go out, even when you're done playing with them.

Notes:

Almost ended it there, but I think I'll keep it going.

The line itself is from the song "Sugarhigh."