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"Yes. We were about to get sweaty."
"Elaborate."
I swallow an involuntary chuckle, clearing my throat to hide it.
"He was stacking my firewood, and then was going to help me build my fire. When he was gone, then I was going to stand in front of it and let it warm me up."
He doesn't say anything, just grabs a few blocks of firewood and bends at the fireplace. I stand back, watching as his muscles ripple under his jacket, his scent slowly infiltrating the air, sweet and oaky, still. The fire blazes hot in minutes, filling the cottage with a coziness that only comes with rising mercury.
Standing, he brushes his hand, examining his work. "Not too shabby."
"I've seen worse."
He bites his top lip, nervous. "Better than Claude’s?"
"Do you really want to know?"
He makes a face. "Guess not. Well, I guess I'll be going."
No. Don’t go. Please.
"You came all this way just to build my fire?"
He holds my gaze for a second.
"I would travel ten times as far to do far, far less, Luna."
And then he leaves.
The air that night smells of sweet oak, even though I'm burning pine and ash.
He's back the next day, when I come back from the market, sweeping my front stoop.
"You need to be careful, these stones can get slippery. Last time you were here, you were mostly in the wheelchair, so I might not have told you. So keep the path clear of leaves, okay?"
"Okay."
He follows me inside, carrying an armful of split wood from outside and stacks them inside, bending to build my fire.
When he's done, he brushes his hand again. "Better?"
I ponder the flames for a moment. "Even a little less shabby than yesterday."
"Better than Claude’s yet?"
"I could tell you if you really wanted to know."
"Maybe tomorrow? If that's okay with you...?
I'm scared to say yes. Scared that if I do, I'll scared him away. But I’m scared if I don't say yes then he'll never show again.
I nod.
He gives me a smile and then quietly leaves.
The next day he brings me a little tin and leaves it on the kitchen table. The label just says "Moonshine" on it. After he makes the fire, sweeps the stoop, and leaves, I open it. It's tea. And it smells like me. Like warm night times by the fire and strawberries and cream. And I fall asleep in the rocking chair by the fire he built, sipping the tea he brought me.
On the fourth day, he's waiting on the pier when I step outside, ready to walk into town.
