What’s so damning about flames, is how beautiful they are before consuming you.

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As a tyke, they warned me to stay clear of the fiery boy. “Don’t let the charming smile fool you” they said. “They all burn us.” But instead of frolicking with my sisters in the snow that never bit, I’d crouch in secret and observe the boy aflame.

I watched him try to build snow friends that would melt under his touch. There stick arms would go limp, faces would distort, until they turned into a pile of water once more. He would cry to his mother, and she would take her ball of sunshine back to the other side of the forest. But he kept coming back. And as we grew older, so did I.

It has always been a comfortable silence. I like to imagine he hears the slight rustles of the bushes. The rush of cold when I come near. And that he simply chooses to let me stay. Just how I choose him.

My sisters have all grown to be just what they should have. Cold and unfeeling. The perfect daughters of ice. But I suppose that makes me the black sheep. For my heart feels a burn whenever I see the boy on fire.

His hair is the color of a golden sunrise, eyes like a fox. Every day, he ventured away from the summer forest and sits by the whispering willow tree. He reads, or sings, or sometimes almost stares at me through the bushes I hide in. Except today he does none of that.

My eyes trail his steps, flinching when sparks of fire crackle at his feet. His eyes look mad, full of heat and something burning. The look is foreign in this unyielding lands.

“Boy” I call out, biting the tip of my serpents tongue in regret.

The fiery boy stops at his tracks, slowly turning my direction. “Yes?”

With great carefulness, I crawl out the bush and suck a breath in. I hope I am not unpleasant for a prince of flames.

“Who are you?” The boy asks, the flame leaving his eyes, yet not entirely.

“I am Anastasia” I say, bowing my head forward. I am not accustomed to the courtly manners for those like him, but I can’t find anything wrong with paying respect.

The boys eyes widen, to quick for any hesitation. “It’s you” he whispers, a spark of flame falling on me. I wince.

“It’s you” he repeats, stepping closer. Too close. I feel his heat scorch me. “The girl of snow.”

“Yes” I exasperate, shocked he knows of me. Heard my whispers over the years.

The boy on fires warm hand trails up my cheek, leaving a scorching pain of desire and warmth. “I break everything” he chokes out.

And while I may not know the half of what he means, I don’t step back.

“And I gravitate to the broken” I say, before leaning in a bit closer. He doesn’t move. And so I take it as a sign to bring my lips to his.

He’s hot and warm and everything nobody ought to be in these woods. But as I lean closer, he doesn’t move at all. His eyes shine of fear.

And then, as if ripped away from a perfect fairytale, I feel myself melt away. First his kiss was like a warm embrace. Now it’s suffocating.

“What’s going on?” I cry, as my arms and face slowly fade. Everything is slow.

“No! No, don’t melt!” The boy yells, his hands reaching towards my dripping face. I don’t know if it’s my flesh or tears he holds.

My body grows tired and warm and all I want to do is lay on the cold snow and feel like myself again.

I close my eyes, but they don’t open back up. I ought to have never fallen for the boy in flames.