A match flares at the collarbone, lighting the little cathedral under the skin—prayer warming into want.

Salt-wet fingers lace with ash-dusted ones on a moonlit shore, embers bloom where they touch as the lighthouse cuts the dark.

The ache I choose, silk-sleeved, honey-dark. Nothing gentle, only precise.

A candle on a blade, a kiss that ruins tomorrow. We pocket the moon and call it love.

A lantern bearer meets a wolf in a moonlit forest, danger and desire circling the same flame.