Page 40 of When The Noise Stops

We needed fire.

I was crouched by the fire pit, stacking kindling, when I heard footsteps behind me.

"Teach me."

I looked up. Lila was towering over me, hands on her hips, watching me.

"Teach you what?"

"That," she pointed at the fire pit.

"I don't know how to do that. I've never camped before. If I have to, I want to know how to at least set a fire. And we want to make authentic s'mores."

I stared at her. She was in the shortest pair of shorts. Her thighs gleaming. I had to look away.

"Please?" She tilted her head.

"I want to learn."

I stood up. Gestured at the pit.

"Fine. Come here."

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her—sugar.

"First thing," I said.

"You need tinder. Small stuff. Dry leaves. Twigs. Grass if you got it."

She nodded, serious, like she was taking notes.

"Then kindling. Bigger sticks. Then the logs. You build it up slow."

"Show me."

I showed her. How to arrange the tinder. How to leave space for air. How to strike the match and cup it, protecting the flame from the wind.

She watched. Intent. Focused. Her face serious in a way I hadn't seen before.

"Now you try," I said.

She took the matches. Struck one. Cupped it with her hands the way I'd shown her. Held it to the tinder.

Nothing.

"Try again."

She struck another match. Same thing.

"Your angle's wrong," I said.

"Here."

I reached over. Put my hand over hers. Guided her wrist, adjusting the angle.

She went still.

I could feel her pulse get faster under my fingers. She wasn't looking at the fire anymore. She was looking at me.