“Still think I hate you?” he murmured.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Undecided.”
He smiled.
Reallysmiled.
I stared at him, stunned, and a little afraid to blink.
The fire crackled, casting light over the small spread I’d assembled. S’mores fixings, cider, a few tealights flickering in glass jars, and two chairs pulled close.
Ben sat back
“Want another?” I asked.
His eyes dropped to my lips again, and my heart fluttered.
“I meant a s’more,” I teased.
He gave the smallest nod and a wry smile. “Sure.”
His voice was lower than usual and rougher. His was the kind of voice that curled around my skin like heat, and I wasn’t even sure if he wanted the marshmallow or was just trying to keep the quiet from swallowing us whole.
I handed him the skewer and tried not to watch too intently as he turned it slowly in the flame, the firelight painting warm hues across his face.
“You know,” I said, “for someone who claims to be allergic to fun, you’re not half-bad at this whole hanging-out-by-a-fire thing.”
“Don’t let that get around,” he said, rotating the marshmallow with a little flick of his wrist. “I have a reputation.”
“For glowering?”
“For solitude.”
“Well,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “you’re doing suspiciously well for someone who acts like proximity is a crime.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and for a moment, neither of us smiled.
The silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt taut and suspended as if we were standing on the edge of something sharp and shiny.
“You always talk like that?” he asked, quiet, amused.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to distract someone from reality.”
I blinked. “I—maybe. Sometimes.”
“And is it working?”
My heart thumped hard enough that I was sure the marshmallows could hear it. “I don’t know. You’re hard to read. You tell me.”
He didn’t respond, but he set the stick aside, the perfectly toasted marshmallow forgotten.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he stood.
I followed suit before I could stop myself.
He took a step toward me.
