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Two fires. One match.

You’d think I’d know better by now.

I’ve danced this dance before — high heels clicking down dark alleys of desire, smoke in my lungs and danger in my veins. I’ve lived ten lives, some of them under different names, but none of them prepared me for this kind of storm.

There’s a heartbeat inside me that isn’t mine. A tiny, pulsing reminder of a night wrapped in old songs and warm skin. He’s the kind of man who bleeds in lyrics, who drinks silence like whiskey. We had a history, fast and reckless. Love? Maybe. Lust? Definitely. A marriage that felt more like a beautiful firework — blinding, loud, and destined to fizzle into ash. But he got under my skin. Still does. And now, I carry more than memories.

But then there’s the other one. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t ask for permission. Cold eyes, sharper edges. He doesn’t look at me like a challenge — he barely looks at me at all. Just enough to keep me wanting, always one step behind whatever game he’s playing. He knows. Of course he knows. Every flicker of interest I try to hide, he reads like a headline — and he uses it. When he wants to, how he wants to. A touch here. A smirk there. Just enough to make me think I might matter, then gone like smoke.

He plays with me, and I let him.

There’s something masochistic about the way I crave it — the power imbalance, the chase, the ache.

I’m no innocent here. I’ve seduced kings and stolen crowns. I’ve played the long game, lied with a smile, and loved like it was a weapon. But this? This feels like choosing between oxygen and gasoline.

Part of me wants to run — not from them, but from myself. From the woman I was, the woman I’m becoming, and the woman I might be forced to be if I let either of them close enough.

I don’t know if I want safety or chaos. I don’t know if I want a future, or just another night.

But I do know one thing:

I’ve never been afraid of fire.

I am the fire.

And eventually, someone’s going to get burned.