This close to him, she could see tiny laugh lines at the edge of his eyes. They were kind eyes. His features were strong, and he looked dour from across the room, but here, she could see the humor.
Her brain shied away from that realization. Noticing things like that was a dangerous thing.
She stuck a gooey square on the fork and offered it to him as she laid out graham crackers and chocolate. The chocolate had a bloom on it, and the graham crackers were stale, but it was still going to be spectacular. There was no such thing as a bad s’more.
He examined the marshmallow on the end of the fork like it was some kind of unknown specimen. She grinned as she coaxed a log toward the entrance with the fire poker so theywouldn’t have to stick their hands in the stove and then put her marshmallow over the flame.
He did the same, and she watched hers brown just enough before quickly slamming it down on her chocolate.
He eyed her concoction as she took a gooey bite and then licked the marshmallow off her lips. A light shone in his eyes that disturbed her.
“That smells really good,” he said.
She grinned as she swallowed. She hadn’t had one in years, and the smoky campfire caramelized sugar with bitter chocolate and crumbly crackers was just about the most perfect food on earth.
He shouted, and she glanced at his marshmallow, which was now completely on fire and burning like a match.
“Shake it off!”
He tried to pull it back, freaked when it almost dropped on the floor, and then threw the entire fork in the stove. They both watched the marshmallow flame to nothing as the fork was buried in white coals.
“You really have not ever been around fire,” she said.
“It’s not a skill I’ve cultivated,” he said and shook his fingers.
She got up and grabbed him another fork. As she turned back, he stood up.
“You’re seriously giving up after one marshmallow?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “We only have so many forks.”
“You can do it,” she said as she thrust the fork into his hand.
This time, he didn’t take his eyes off the marshmallow, rotating it carefully over the flames.
“That’s probably good enough,” she said when it was brown. “Blackened is an advanced skill.”
He pulled it out, and she helped him stick it to the chocolate and then used the second graham cracker to scrape it off the fork.
She shut the door to the stove, so it didn’t get smoky as he took a deep bite and winced. He tried to blow on it and managed to get marshmallow all over his hand.
She knew he had better-than-normal senses. She’d heard nothing but the wind when he insisted there were chimes feet away. She hadn’t extrapolated that to the fact that every one of his senses was heightened. A deliciously hot marshmallow to her probably felt like a literal coal.
He swallowed, and she raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Who thought that up?” he asked and patted his hip. She realized he was probably looking for a phone. She watched in real time as he remembered that he didn’t have a phone, that he was wearing someone else’s clothes, and even if she got her phone, they weren’t going to have service.
He shook his head. “How do you live?”
“You mean with or without a constant connection to…” she trailed off.
“The font of complete human knowledge?”
“The complete font of misinformation, addiction, and conflict.”
“That’s how you would describe the internet?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I use it to do my job. There have been advantages.”
