She was fire. A flame in his arms, unpredictable and wild. She felt white-hot against his skin; his heart stuttered, overwhelmed. He was beautifully scarred, burned and reburned, over and over again, ad infinitum as long as she held him. Moments and decades, happily surrendering to their inferno.
"Han," she murmured and he closed his eyes. Reality blurred. He was young, and this was a quiet fantasy. He was older and this was a novelty: the burn of his life. He was older still and this was not new, yet they still blistered.
She was still fire; he still burned.
Author's Note: Written for Erin Darroch
