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Artair waved a dismissive hand. “Who can say?”
Luca nodded, picking up the signals to not probe too deeply down that path, no matter how much his natural journalism instincts were twitching. “Let me guess. It’s complicated?”
Artair smiled warmly, as if relieved to be off the hook. “You could say that. What about you? No, wait, let me guess. Writer.”
Luca squinted. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the job offer or the article. “How the hell did you know that?”
Artair’s chuckle mixed with the splashes from Bowie, perched on the shore and batting at any fish that swam too close. “I’ve never met a fire watch who wasn’t some kind of creative. Poets. Philosophers. Artists. I met one girl who knitted an entire fashion collection for her college class over the summer.”
“Well, good guess then.”
“What can I say? I’m a genius.”
“Or you just got lucky.”
“No, Luca. How many times do I have to tell you this? I can’t get lucky because?—”
Luca groaned. “Yes, yes. You can’t get lucky because I’m complicated. God, I walked right into that one.”
“Mwahaha!” said Artair, holding his rod in the air like a victorious thunder god. “This will never get old!”
It was dusk and Luca was helping Artair stoke the fire, the white oak smoking with its distinctive, sugary sweetness. Bowie’s unblinking gaze darted between the newly strung line of fish and the recently removed one.
Artair—now re-dressed in his jeans—feigned not letting Bowie have any. That lasted for all of three seconds before he threw the fox several of the new catch, going starry-eyed at the way Bowie chomped away. Artair’s expression was like a momma bear happy that everyone was tucking into their dinner.
“Okay, that’s adorable,” said Luca. “But you can’t have just met him? He’s way too domesticated.”
“What can I say? Animals tend to like me.”
Clearly they have good taste. “Do you make him stay outside the tent?”
“Of course,” said Artair, in a shifty voice that screamed I absolutely haven’t spent the last week with him cuddled up inside my flannel.
“And you aren’t worried that he’ll go feral and bite your face off in the middle of the night?”
They both stared at the flop of fur, done with his dinner and already snoring. “Ummm, no. He’s pretty chillaxed. Besides, I can bring any beast to heel with a bit of food.” Artair followed that up by shoving a plate of smoked fish under Luca’s nose. “Ehhh? Want one? There’s plenty here if you want to stay for dinner?”
Luca paused at the offer. Not because the fish didn’t smell delicious—it did, rich and smoky and with that distinctive hint of coal that you only got from cooking over a campfire.
It was everything else that made him pause.
The evening was approaching, calm and clear. The first stars were peeking through the wash of night. The fire smoked as inviting and comforting as the look of Artair’s flannel—cozy and perfect for snuggling up to.
And that was the problem.
Because Luca could already see how it might go wrong.
They would eat by the fire, sharing stories and watching the night grow big around them. As the evening became cooler, they would move beside each other, taking in the warmth and the musk. Artair would place an arm around Luca’s shoulder, jokingly at first, but lingering. Strong and inviting and safe. Luca would nuzzle into him, watching the stars come alive as they lay against wool and grass.
And both of them would know that it was just a cuddle.
Because they’d talked about it.
Because they knew it couldn’t be anything else.
Just like they’d both know it didn’t mean anything when Luca rolled deeper into the embrace, running his hand absently across Artair’s belly and propping his knee over Artair’s thighs.
Because they’d talked about it.
