Fire With Fire.

1.

Passion was a concept I'd only read about in books, or seen in movies. You know, the kind which consumes you – engulfing your senses, thoughts and body with every light touch, replacing your blood with electricity and fire. It all seemed so.. fictional.

Until him, of course.

— — —

"Hey sweetie, help me with this, will ya?" My dad popped his head out from behind the big box he was carrying.

The warm air clung to my skin as the glistening grass crumpled beneath me. I stared up at the glaring summer sun behind the protection of my dark sunglasses, feeling my eyes sting with blindness nonetheless.

I sigh, lifting myself from the ground. My eyes take a moment to adjust themselves.

"I don't get why he has to stay with us." I comb my over grown fringe back, grabbing the heavy box from him and placing it in the garage. We had been doing this for hours under the hot sun.

"Oh, come on now. He just needs a few days." My mom smiles at me as she walks past us.

"What if I hate him?" I arch my brow, smirking. 

My parents. They married fresh out of high school, and I  think you could guess why (Cough cough me).
My dad stays at home. He was forced t retire from being an architect after a minor heart attack. My mom's a lawyer. She's barely around. We hardly got days like this one, spending quality time together. So I was pretty pissed it had to be spent clearing out the spare guest bedroom for my dad's friend.

"You'll love him." My father nudges me, and I smile back at him forcefully.

He lifts a box off the ground, but shows some struggle.

"Here, let me." My mom rushes to grab it. She's been paranoid since the heart attack. I don't blame her. Minor or not, the thought of losing my dad was a scary one.

"I think that's the last of em. Great job, my loves." He smiles, kissing my mom's cheek. Strings of sweat layer our foreheads, and the air is humid, making the clothes I wore cling uncomfortably to my skin.

"This guy better be worth it."