The fire.
721 Words
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming the room as Damian stretched, a slow smile spreading across his face. Beside him, Justine was still dead to the world. After the night they’d had, he wasn't surprised; their relationship had hit a new gear, and neither of them seemed interested in slowing down.
Propping his head up on his hand, Damian watched her for a moment before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey you," she murmured, her eyes fluttering open. She pulled him in for a lingering kiss. "What’s on your agenda today?"
"Not much. I’ve got a shift at the shop at four, but I’m all yours until then." Damian raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. "What did you have in mind?"
Justine smirked, pulling the duvet a little higher. "I don't know... maybe a little more time in bed?"
"Doing what we do best?"
"Exactly," she laughed, nodding.
They lost the next hour to each other before the reality of hunger finally kicked in. A while later, the smell of sizzling butter drifted into the bedroom.
"Eggs over easy okay?" Justine called out from the kitchen.
Damian leaned against the doorframe, damp-haired and wrapped in a towel fresh from the shower. "That would be awesome, baby girl. Thank you."
The rest of the day was easy—movies, lazy conversation, and the kind of comfortable silence that only comes when you're really into someone. When 3:30 PM rolled around, Damian reluctantly geared up for work. Justine promised him a proper "do-over" dinner: the spaghetti bolognese they’d been too distracted to cook the night before.
By 7:00 PM, Justine was on a mission. She didn’t just want to cook; she wanted to make an impression. She slipped into a sheer red lingerie dress, complete with thigh-high stockings—a look she knew would leave Damian speechless. She set the table, lit the candles, and let a soft playlist fill the apartment.
While the sauce simmered, she stretched out on the couch to wait, scrolling through a crossword app to pass the time. But the warmth of the room and the soft music did their work too well. By 8:00 PM, she was fast asleep.
She didn't wake up to Damian’s key in the lock. She woke up to the piercing, metallic shriek of the smoke alarm.
Justine bolted upright, coughing. The room was hazy. Jeremiah, her cat, was nowhere to be seen, but the candle she’d left on the side table was on the floor. The flames had already climbed the curtains, licking at the ceiling.
Adrenaline spiked. She dashed to the kitchen, grabbed the extinguisher, and pulled the pin. After a frantic minute of white powder and choking smoke, the flames died out, leaving behind a blackened, sodden mess of what used to be her living room.
She had just managed to throw a gown over her lingerie when the front door was kicked open.
"Ma'am! Is everyone out?" a firefighter shouted, his heavy gear clanking as he entered the smoke-filled space.
"I'm okay," Justine gasped, clutching her robe shut. "My cat... he must have knocked over a candle. I got the fire out, I think."
"We'll take it from here. You need to evacuate immediately while we check the structure and ventilation," he commanded, ushering her toward the hall.
Minutes later, Justine was shivering on the sidewalk. Her neighbors, pulled from their beds and evening routines, stood in small groups, whispering and casting annoyed glances her way. She felt small, exhausted, and ridiculous in her silk gown and stockings.
Then, a familiar car pulled up. Damian jumped out, his face pale as he took in the fire trucks and the crowd.
"Justine! Oh my god, what happened?"
She looked at him, her eyes stinging from smoke and tears. "I... I tried to be romantic," she said, her voice cracking. "I lit candles, Damian. I fell asleep, and I think Jeremiah knocked one over. And now..."
She looked up at the darkened windows of her apartment and sniffled, her heart sinking. "Oh god, Damian—where's Jeremiah? I don't know if he got out."
- Writer
