When I return, our father is slumped unconscious on the floor. Riven looks up at me, panting, blood on his hands.

I don’t say anything, because there’s nothing I need to tell him. Instead, I hold up the cans of varnish, silently telling him my plan.

Riven looks at me, chest rising fast, his eyes wild and dilated. He smirks when he registers that I want to burn this place to the ground before he tells me, "That’s my good girl."

I start pouring and he doesn’t hesitate. Riven grabs the second can and follows me. Room by room, we baptize the house in flammable liquid. The rugs, the bedposts, the cracked photo frames.

We pass the staircase, and I pause. There’s a framed photo of us from that first year. I’m sixteen. Riven is seventeen. We’re standing on opposite sides of the porch, but even in the image, we’re turned slightly toward each other. Like gravity was always pulling us together. I take the frame down, hurl it to the floor, and feel the sharp thrill as the glass shatters. I reach down and grab the photo, a memento I want to keep from our past.

Riven doesn’t ask if I’m ready, he’s watching me intently, waiting for my cue.

I look at him expectantly, and he hands me a book of matches from his back pocket. I waste no time before I strike the match. The fire catches like it’s been waiting for this moment too.

It spreads fast. The varnish feeds it like kindling. The flames roar like they’re alive. I step back, watching the curtains blacken and peel.

I imagine the house breathing its final breath.

“What now?” I ask, breath shallow.

Riven stares into the flames for a moment and then he turns to me.

“We disappear,” he tells me before posing a question. “Do you trust me?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He smiles at me, and Riven hardly ever smiles.

It’s a special fucking moment, and I think in many years from now, I’ll still remember this moment and how he looked.

Riven grabs my hand and leads me out of the house, but he pauses when we reach the front porch. His hand moves to my jaw and then he kisses me.

Our first kiss is not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything we’ve never said, poured into every brush of his lips. My fingers curl into his jacket. His hand slides around to the small of my back, dragging me closer, and I feel the firm pressure of his palm flattening between my shoulder blades.

His other hand curves over my breast, thumb brushing against the swell like he’s trying to memorize the shape. I gasp against his mouth.