when love burns hot
842 Words
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When Love Burns Hot
By Tessy
The evening air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and the quiet weight of unsaid things.
Jonny leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, eyes on the clock. It was almost 9 p.m. The dinner he’d made sat untouched on the table — creamy pasta, her favorite — now cold, like everything between them lately.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Rose stepped in, soaked from the unexpected rain. Her hair clung to her skin, and her heels clicked a little too loud on the floor.
“You’re late,” Jonny said, voice low.
She didn’t meet his eyes as she pulled off her wet coat. “The meeting ran long.”
“Of course it did,” he said, pushing off the counter. “It always does now.”
Rose glanced at him, her eyes tired. “Don’t start.”
Jonny let out a short laugh. “Start what, Rose? A conversation? God forbid we talk anymore.”
She sighed, walking past him. “I’m not doing this tonight.”
He followed. “No, of course not. You never want to do this. You come home like a stranger, eat in silence, sleep on the edge of the bed, and I’m supposed to just accept it?”
She stopped halfway to the bedroom and turned. “Do you think I want to feel this way?”
Jonny’s voice rose. “Then say something! Do something! Because I’m drowning here, and you just keep pretending like everything’s fine.”
Rose’s face crumpled for a moment, then she blinked fast to hold it together. “You always think you’re the only one hurting.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The air thickened between them, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Jonny ran a hand through his hair. “Rose... I made dinner. I tried tonight.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That’s the problem!” he snapped. “You don’t ask for anything anymore. You don’t need me.”
“I do,” she said softly. “I just don’t know how to show it without breaking.”
He stepped closer. “Then break, Rose. I’d rather hold the pieces than be kept outside.”
Her lip trembled. “I’m tired, Jonny. Of the fights. The pretending. The pressure to be perfect when I feel like I’m falling apart.”
Jonny’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to be perfect. I never wanted perfect. I wanted you. The messy, loud, honest you who cried during movies and danced in the kitchen at midnight.”
Rose looked down. “She’s still here. Somewhere.”
“Then let her come back.”
She moved toward the couch and sat, hugging herself. The tension slipped into quiet now, the kind that feels heavier than yelling.
He joined her, close but not too close. “Do you remember that night we first moved in here?”
She gave a faint smile. “We slept on the floor. Ate Chinese food out of the box.”
Jonny chuckled. “And spilled sweet and sour sauce all over the rug.”
“We didn’t even care,” she said, voice drifting. “We were so... in it. In love.”
“We still are.”
She looked at him, slowly. “Are we? Or are we just holding on because we’re afraid to let go?”
“I’m holding on,” he said, “because I believe in us.”
Her eyes filled. “It’s hard, Jonny. Loving someone when everything feels like it’s changing.”
“But not everything has to,” he said. “We can choose each other. Every day. Even on the hard ones.”
She looked away, wiping a tear. “I miss the way you used to touch me... like I was all you saw.”
“You still are all I see,” he whispered. “I just got lost trying to fix things I didn’t know were broken.”
“I’m scared.”
“So am I. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe with anyone else.”
There was silence again, but softer now. Not empty — waiting.
Jonny reached out, gently brushing her fingers. She let him.
He leaned in, forehead to hers. “Let’s stop fighting the fire between us. Let it burn. Let it burn hot, and real, and deep — because that’s what we are.”
A breath.
Then her lips met his, not rushed, not desperate — just real. Slow and aching with all the words they hadn’t said in weeks.
When they pulled apart, Rose whispered, “Stay with me tonight.”
“I never left,” he murmured.
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Later, as they lay in bed wrapped in sheets and each other, rain tapping on the window like an old song, there were no more sharp words. No more distance.
Just warmth.
And the fire between them.
Burning hot. Burning true.
- Writer
