childhood bff
Malcolm
917
The flames eat the set alive.
Wood splinters, steel beams moan as they buckle, and the air is thick—too thick. Every breath sears your lungs. You try to push forward, but the smoke blinds, chokes, pulls you down until your knees slam the floor. The world blurs in ash and heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t move.
Somewhere through the roar of fire, footsteps cut through. Heavy. Fast.
Your vision swims, and for a heartbeat you think the fire itself has taken shape. But then he’s there. Him. The boy you grew up with, your co-star, his face streaked with soot, eyes wide and wild as they lock on you.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Strong hands hook under your arms, hauling you up with a force that feels impossible.
You’re weightless against him, your head lolling as he presses you into his chest. Smoke clings to everything—his shirt, his hair, your skin—but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate.
A beam crashes down behind him, sparks exploding across the floor, but he pushes forward, shouldering through the collapsing set. Every muscle in him strains, every breath is ragged, but he holds you tighter, as if letting go is the one thing he won’t allow.
His heartbeat thunders against your ear…steady and fierce as he pulls you both outside through the dilapidated exit door.
childhood bff
