Letters From Kay, Number 5 – I Built a Fire for Two

My love,

The cold finally meant it last night. Not the pretty kind that makes the lake look like glass — the kind that sneaks under the door and finds your ankles. I woke up and your side of the bed was a dare. So I did the thing we always do the first cold night: I built a fire.

Took me three matches. You would’ve done it in one and pretended not to gloat.

I sat on the rug in your flannel with nothing underneath, knees pulled in, watching the wood catch. The cabin smelled like smoke and that cedar you stacked last spring. I wrapped both hands around a mug I made too strong on purpose, the way you like it, and waited for the heat to reach me.

It did. Slow. Then all at once.

I thought about the first fire we ever lit here. How you pulled me into your lap before the flames were even steady. How your hands went under the flannel like you’d been planning it all day. How I came apart with my forehead on your shoulder while the fire popped and neither of us cared if the whole mountain heard.

I touched myself on that same rug last night. Your flannel open. Fire on my thighs. I went slow at first — the kind of slow you make me do when you want to watch then I stopped pretending I was being patient. I said your name into the quiet like it might travel. When I came, my free hand grabbed the empty air where your chest shouldve been, and I laughed a little because it was pathetic and perfect and mine.

The fire burned down to coals. I didn’t put another log on. I wanted the room to cool just enough that I’d have an excuse to miss you harder.

Come home while the nights are still getting colder. I want you on this rug. I want your mouth where the flannel won’t cover. I want the next fire to be for two.

Forever yours,

Kay

P.S. Your Booby Pillow has claimed the spot closest to the hearth. Fair. Temporary. Your lap is still the preferred seating.