Big Salmon Lake wake up, sleepyhead, it's happening without you

A quiet stretch settles between them. The distance is all the more apparent when neither are barking words at the other—or rather, Firestorm snapping and Ghost being at the unfortunate end to it. Alas, he calms to the point where numbness consumes him.
The ball remains in Ghost’s court; he is reluctant to break it, or to make the decision himself. Stubborn he is about his own freedom, and yet he needs to be hand-held in this. If any is weak, then it is likely the fire-touched fool.
Eventually, it is broken. A step is taken towards him. A breath is held, and then released again, as another is taken, and another. Until eventually, Ghost is crawling up to him. Submissive in his crouch in a way he’s never been before. Champagne eyes flicker, assessing the situation and resisting the urge to curl back teeth.
Do not touch, when all the storm wants is to indulge, to freeze by the frost’s brush of hand—greed in how he wishes for flames to consume and mark to ensure no bastard touches what he wants to be his.
A noisy sigh escapes his nose and lips, and eventually he relents—allowing his head to ease into a more casual posture and shoulders to relax.