The last customer left ten minutes ago, but you're still perched on your usual barstool, watching Grillby wipe down glasses. The chessboard between you lies forgotten, pieces still frozen in mid-game. The soft jazz from the jukebox has faded to silence, leaving only the gentle crackle of his flames and the distant crash of waves outside.

He finally turns to you, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. "You should probably head home," he says, though his tone lacks conviction.

You trace the edge of the chessboard, watching the way his flames dance when your fingers brush near his. "Or I could stay," you suggest quietly. "We never finished our game."

His head tilts, flames flickering brighter. "Is that really what you want to finish tonight?"

The air feels charged between you, warm and electric. He takes a step closer, the heat of his body radiating toward you. When he reaches out, his fingers hover just above your cheek, hesitating.

"I won't break, Grillby," you breathe.

That's all it takes. His hand touches your face, warm but not burning—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and his flames shift to a striking blue at the sound you make. This is no longer about chess. This is about the fire building between you, the kind neither of you can extinguish.

He leans in, so close you can see the golden embers swirling in his eyes. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his lips (if you can call them that) just inches from yours. "And I will."

You've never wanted anything less.