Page 35 of Befriending the Bear
I put the phone away and forced myself to focus on the immediate tasks. There would be time later to untangle the mess of emotions. For now, I had a garden to salvage and dinner to plan. Normal things. Safe things.
But as I worked, I kept remembering the warmth of another body in my bed, the feeling of being held through the storm. And despite all my fears, despite the voice in my head warning me about the pain of loving and losing, I was looking forward to six o’clock with an anticipation that felt dangerously close to hope.
12
FRASER
The afternoon dragged by with agonizing slowness. I’d checked my roof again: fine; replaced that one shingle: didn’t take more than a few minutes; cleaned up the minimal storm debris in my yard: fifteen minutes, tops; and even reorganized my tool shed: completely unnecessary. All while trying not to think about dinner at Calloway’s. About what had shifted between us in the storm-dark hours. About the way he’d asked me to stay for five more minutes this morning, brave and vulnerable all at once.
By four o’clock, I gave up pretending to be productive and took a long, hot shower. My leg was screaming from the morning’s tree work. Crouching, climbing, and chainsaw vibration were exactly the things my physical therapist had told me to avoid. But seeing Calloway’s grateful smile had been worth every twinge.
I stood in front of my closet longer than any grown man should, debating clothing choices like a teenager before finally settling on dark jeans and yet another flannel shirt. How many of those did I even own? Not that it mattered. We were friendshaving dinner. Friends who’d spent the night tangled together, breathing in sync while the storm raged outside.
Christ, I couldn’t even pretend anymore.
At a quarter to six, I loaded a bottle of wine into the truck. I’d picked a decent Malbec I’d been saving for something special. This felt special, even if I couldn’t quite name what “this” was. The drive to Calloway’s took three minutes, so I parked around the corner and waited a few more minutes, then sat in his driveway for another two, gathering courage I hadn’t needed since my first day fighting fires.
You can face a wall of flame, but you’re scared of dinner?I almost laughed at myself. But flames were predictable in their unpredictability. They followed rules dictated by wind, fuel, and topography. Calloway was something else entirely. A force of nature I didn’t understand yet but desperately wanted to.
I knocked at exactly six o’clock, and he answered so quickly he must’ve been waiting by the door. Or maybe he’d seen me park in the driveway and had wondered what the hell was taking me so long. He’d changed into a soft gray sweater and dark corduroys, wearing warm slippers that looked adorable on him.
“Hi, Fraser.”
“Hi.” I held out the wine, feeling awkward all over again. “Didn’t know what you were making, but this goes with almost everything.”
“Perfect. Come in.”
His house smelled incredible, like garlic and herbs, something rich and savory. But underneath was that unique Calloway scent I’d woken up surrounded by, that of old books and lavender. He had lavender sachets in his linen closet, he’d told me when I’d asked. That was so like him that it had made me smile.
“Smells amazing in here,” I said, following him to the kitchen.
“J-just pasta.” He moved to the stove, stirring something in a large pot. “Nothing f-fancy.”
But I could see the effort he’d put in, with fresh herbs on the cutting board, homemade sauce simmering, the good dishes set out on the small table. He’d even lit a candle, its warm glow competing with the overhead light.
“Can I help?”
“Wine?” He gestured to a drawer. “C-corkscrew’s in there.”
I opened the bottle while he plated our food, moving around each other with ease again. It was almost enough to make me forget the awkwardness, the weight of unspoken things between us. Almost.
“This is incredible,” I said after the first bite. And it was—a roasted vegetable pasta with a sauce that tasted like sunshine and comfort.
“M-Marcus taught me.” He paused, like he was waiting for the usual stab of pain. “He said anyone who c-could read could cook. Just had to f-follow directions.”
“Smart man.”
“He was.” Calloway took a sip of wine, and I watched his throat work. “He would’ve l-liked you.”
The statement hung between us, heavy with implication. I wanted to ask what that meant, why it mattered if his dead partner would have approved of me. But Calloway was picking at his pasta, clearly wrestling with something, and I’d learned to let him find his own way to difficult words.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “About l-last night. This morning.”
My heart rate kicked up, but I kept my voice steady. “Yeah?”
“I haven’t sh-shared a bed with anyone since Marcus. Haven’t w-wanted to.” He looked up, meeting my eyes with that mix of courage and fear I was learning to recognize. “But withyou, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt…” He searched for words. “Like b-breathing again after holding my breath for s-s-seven years.”
The confession hit me like a physical thing. I set down my fork, giving him my full attention. “Calloway?—”
