Page 36 of Befriending the Bear
“I know we said we’d t-take it slow. Day by day. And I want that. I n-need that. But I also need you to know that last night meant s-something to me.” His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his wine glass. “You m-mean something to me.”
“You mean something to me too,” I said, the words inadequate for the feeling that had been building inside me since that first collision in the parking lot. This slow burn between us was killing me. Thirty years jumping into wildfires, and I’d never felt heat like this, the kind that started in your chest and spread outward until every nerve ending was on high alert. “More than I expected. More than I was ready for.”
He smiled. “We’re a p-pair of disasters, aren’t we?”
“Maybe, but the best kind. The kind that understand each other.”
We finished dinner with easier conversation, talking about books we’d been reading, plans for the library’s winter programs, anything but the electricity crackling between us. When our plates were empty, Calloway stood to clear them, but I caught his hand.
“Let me. You cooked.”
He hesitated, then nodded, settling back in his chair while I loaded the dishwasher. Domestic and simple, but I was hyperaware of his eyes on me as I moved around his kitchen like I belonged there.
“D-do you want to w-watch a documentary?” he suggested when I finished. “There’s one about Yellowstone that l-looks interesting.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We moved to the living room, and he turned on the TV. He’d already pre-selected the documentary, which gave me all the warm flutters inside. He’d known I would appreciate the topic. He started to sit in the armchair, then seemed to reconsider, settling on the couch instead. Not quite touching distance, but closer than before.
The documentary was beautiful, all sweeping vistas and hidden ecosystems. But I ended up watching Calloway more than the screen. The way his face lit up during the segments about wolf reintroduction, how he leaned forward when they discussed the underground fungal networks connecting trees.
“Did you know,” he asked after we’d taken a short break to refill our wine glasses, “that trees can recognize their own seedlings? They’ll f-funnel nutrients to their offspring through the fungal n-network.”
“Really?”
He nodded, animated in the way he got when discussing something he loved. “They take c-care of each other. Even acr-cross species sometimes. If one tree is sick, others will s-send it resources.”
“Like a forest community.”
“Exactly.” He turned to face me more fully. “Makes you wonder what else w-we don’t understand about connection.”
I didn’t have answers other than that I definitely felt deeply connected to Calloway, but that was too much, too soon.
The documentary resumed, but the air between us had changed. Every shift of position, every breath felt magnified. When Calloway shivered slightly, I grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and offered it to him.
“Share?” he asked, so quietly I almost missed it.
I moved closer, and we arranged the blanket over both of us. It required sitting near enough that our thighs touched, and I felthim tense, then slowly relax. On screen, geysers erupted, but all I could focus on was the warm weight of Calloway beside me.
By the time the credits rolled, we’d shifted incrementally closer. Calloway’s head rested against my shoulder, and my arm had found its way around him. It felt natural and terrifying and like everything I’d been missing without knowing it.
“I should go.”
“Mmm.” He sat motionless.
Neither of us moved. The room was dark except for the TV’s blue glow, creating a bubble of intimacy that felt too precious to break. Calloway turned his face up to say something—probably another thank you I didn’t need—but the words died on his lips.
We were so close that I could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, could count the laugh lines that spoke of happier times. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up, a question and permission all at once.
“Calloway…” I gave him one last chance to retreat.
Instead, he leaned in.
The kiss was tentative, barely a brush of lips, but it sent electricity through every nerve ending. Calloway made a soft sound—surprise or relief or maybe both—and I brought my hand up to cup his jaw, keeping the touch gentle, letting him set the pace.
He pressed closer, braver now, and the kiss deepened. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of wine and the basil from dinner. One of his hands fisted in my shirt, not pulling me closer but anchoring himself, like he needed proof this was real.
Our tongues met, sparks flickering all inside me, and started a slow slide, a sensual dance of push and pull. Kissing him was like watching a ground fire suddenly crown out. All that banked heat erupting into something bright and consuming and almost impossible to stop.
