3. Smoking Hot

THREE

Smoking Hot

T he typewriter glared menacingly, the sun flaring over silver levers and bronze keys. It was the most wicked object that Luca had ever seen, industrial and villainous and intimidatingly stylish all at once—like Al Capone cruising slow in his bulletproof Cadillac.

Underwood Champion Portable , read the insignia over the... back rolling bit? Where the paper fed in? Whatever the hell that part was called.

Even in 1938—the date stamped in the age-yellowed manual— portable must have been more aspiration than application. The damn thing weighed a ton, and there was no chance he'd be removing it from the tower. But that hadn't stopped him spending an hour fiddling with screws and adjusting levers and rummaging through boxes under the desk, full of old ink ribbons and antique paper so beautiful that he could've spent all day thumbing the fibrous, ivory surface.

And now, he was finally ready to begin.

Luca shuddered at the first key press. The impact was like he'd trodden on a shotgun shell—less a click onto the paper than a punch with a spring-loaded fist.

"Oh, mama!" he said at the authority that came with each keystroke.

This was exactly what he needed.

He'd been in the tower for almost two weeks now and hadn't written a damn word. Yes, he'd brought a stack of writing pads with him, way more practical than some beautiful relic from the Second World War. But a week of wandering the solitary woods in his free afternoons, scribbling notes onto those cheap yellow sheets, had produced nothing but a dozen chewed pencils and a teetering pile in the overflowing wastepaper basket.

Writer's block was an unusual experience for Luca. Typically, he loved an empty sheet. Where other writers saw a painful journey, Luca usually saw the potential to weave people onto the page.

And that was the main reason that Luca loved to write—the people . Because how could you reduce someone to a few hundred words of newsprint. How could you sketch the lines of their face with text. How could you show their body without pictures? How could you illuminate their subtle individuality with just a few paragraphs?

The truth was that you couldn't.

But you could still try.

And the best way to try was to care . To find someone—a stranger just moments earlier—and listen as though no person had ever told a story like this before. To find the small among the big and the enormous among the tiny. To detail how the experiences affected their life. Their family. Their happiness and freedom and joy.

If you could do that, then your stories would sing from the page.

Luca took pride in his storytelling. In the fact that so many readers came to his columns expecting sordid tales about tits and cocks, only to leave with lingering memories of Emerald the architect student, saluting the sun each morning without a stich of clothing, refusing to separate herself from the spirits of the soil. Or Daniel, the sixty-eight-year-old PhD student who was only now coming out of the closet, because he couldn't stand the thought of dying with that regret.

Because the scandalous topics might draw the readers in.

But it was the incredible humans that made them stay.

And right now, Luca was trying to tell a very human story of sexual frustration, without any of the frankness he usually employed. Because the "tightrope" that Macy mentioned—that infuriating line of being captivating without being too controversial—was painfully real.

And that was Luca's dilemma. Yes, this story had been his idea, but he still hated having to tone himself down for the mainstream. He wanted to start his literary rebellion now—to push back against those restrictions and write something that would piss off the Lone Star President and all his supporters. That would force the old bigots to read about people they thought were lesser and disgusting and not worth protecting.

But Luca knew that he couldn't.

Not yet.

Not until he'd won his new employer's favor.

And to do that, he had to make sure this article got published.

But how?

How could he talk discreetly about flashing his hole to a stranger? Or about his dreams of shoving his tongue—and plenty more besides—into Artair's beefy ass? How could he talk professionally about days of blue balls and jerking off three times a night? About fantasizing that he was swallowing Artair's big load, and wishing he could have his time again, just so he could see where that curious thumb might wander?

How could Luca be himself and still write this article?

It was a challenge for sure. And it was a challenge he needed to embrace.

After far too long staring into the picturesque distance, Luca forced himself to at least choose a title. One that he knew would walk that balance—cheeky and knowing, but not objectionable at face value.

In crafting it, he took inspiration from the posters on the wall. From another generation that had to allude to lust without saying things outright: the musicians of the 1960s and 70s.

I Can't Get No (Summer) Satisfaction

And just as Luca was finally getting into his writing groove, something happened that shattered his focus.

Because down in the northern valley, past the point where he'd explored, rose a pillar of smoke.

Luca blinked for far too long before juggling the radio. "Fire!"

" Ow! " said Sandy, still with a few hours left on her shift. "I don't actually need to hear you from the border, rookie. "

"Smoking fire! Fire smoke, fire!" he rambled, pressing his finger to the glass, as if it might help her understand.

"Okay, breathe . I know this might come as a shock, but fire lookouts will, on occasion, actually see a fire. Do you see a big map thing in the middle of the room."

"Yeah?"

"Then congrats, now's a good time to meet our friend Ozzy."

Sandy guided him through the strange but beautiful device—the Osborne Fire Finder. Two concentric rings were laid flat on the circular map table, with one able to spin on well-oiled brass bearings and one fixed in place with etched compass marks. Luca turned the inner ring frantically until a gunsight-like pillar, also etched with numbers and markings all up its height, was aligned between the smoke and a black string across the map's diameter.

"Read me the number," said Sandy, calmly.

"Three hundred and twelve degrees," said Luca, staring at the smoke like it was a wolf waiting to pounce.

"Just off northwest?"

"Yeah."

"Great. You're doing amazing, buddy! " she said, in the voice of a mother congratulating their child for not pissing themselves during their first Christmas nativity. "Now look at the map and give me your best guess on how far away it is."

"A mile? Maybe two?"

There was an uncomfortably long pause. " A few miles? "

"Yeah. Why? Is that bad?"

"So... it's not way out across the range?"

"What? No! It's down in the first valley. The one closest to me!"

"And you didn't see it when you woke up?"

"I think I would've noticed a pillar of smoke."

"Luca?"

" Sandy? " he said, exacerbated.

"Is the smoke rising in one fluffy little column?"

"Yes!"

"Do me a favor. Give the smoke a thumbs up."

"What? Why?"

"Trust me." Though his heart was racing now, Luca followed her instructions. "Now, is your thumb wider than the smoke?"

"Yeah?" said Luca.

He could almost hear the newspaper being regripped. "Then good news. You don't have a wildfire. You have a campfire . A big one, probably. Maybe some college kids living out their bonfire fantasy. But not a wildfire—those spread wide, and the smoke pattern is totally different."

"A campfire ?" he said, peering into the woods. He'd seen dozens of campfires before, although admittedly not from this height. The best camping spots were at the bottom of valleys, near water. Not at the tops of mountains.

Luca squinted. He could see the vague area of the smoke, but the source was hidden below the tree line. "No one's checked into the tower?"

"Most hikers don't. We can't force them."

"So . . . what should I do about it?"

"Nothing? Campfires are legal this summer because of all the snow and rain. As long as it doesn't spread, it's not our concern."

"Oh . . ."

Luca found himself strangely conflicted. It wasn't like he wanted the forest to go up in smoke. But after a week of zero excitement and zero people, getting to lead the charge of some water-bombing helicopters would've made for a better story than some intrepid family frying up their lunch.

"Actually... Northwest , eh?" said Sandy, with a strange little laugh that Luca couldn't quite place. "Have you wandered out that way?"

"Not yet."

"Then you know what? You can never be too careful. Why don't you strap on a pair of boots and go check it out. Make sure those campers are following proper procedure."

The excitement in Luca's voice was hard to hide. "Really?"

"Absolutely," she said, to the sound of turning newsprint. "I insist."

Luca wasn't lost . Sure, he didn't know where he was, but he didn't know where he was going either. So it probably evened out.

This deep in the valley the trees were so thick that he couldn't see the sky, leaving no sun or smoke to give context to the map. Fortunately, he'd taken a compass from one of the shelves, brass and vintage like so much of the tower.

Northwest. Toward the smoke.

He smelled it long before he saw it—warm and charred and surprisingly savory.

Sandy's assessment of a campfire seemed right. This didn't smell like the acrid smoke of pine needles and green vegetation. If anything, it was more like barbecue .

As he got closer, a gray-blue mist settled between the trees. It carried a sweet note of burned sugar and rich dinners. Like every puff was laced with a strangely pleasant combination of caramel and roasting meats.

Ahead, the tree line thinned and the smoke thickened. The ferns underfoot melded with lush ryegrass.

And then, Luca was out of the forest and into a clearing.

On the right was a wide but shallow river, no more than waist deep.

On the left was an unexpected log cabin, the only other house he'd seen in the woods. It looked sturdy but ancient, with a steep roof and thick glass in the compact windows. The front door was open, with laundry draped over the porch. The only thing missing was a rocking chair and a jug of moonshine.

And in between the cabin and river, among a gentle field of swaying green, was the strangest fire that Luca had ever seen.

Because it wasn't an ordinary campfire.

It was some kind of smoking hut .

The fire itself was as big as three normal campfires combined, which probably explained why Luca hadn't seen anything from the tower before now. This wasn't the kind of fire you'd use to cook up some bacon.

The smoking pit was dug well into the ground and ringed by large rocks. Above it was canopy of lashed wood and green leaves, capturing the sweet smoke that billowed between strung-up lines of trout, their delicate flesh already colored like cumin.

And at the fire's edge, sitting wide-eyed and practically licking its lips with anticipation, was the fox he'd seen on his first morning in the tower.

Luca was sure it was the same one. The fur pattern was too similar to be a coincidence .

" Bowie ," came an unexpected voice from beyond the smoky veil. "Keep your paws back, buddy. I'll give you one when they're done." The fox gave a high-pitched whine and slumped to the grass. "Yeah, I know. I'm so mean to you."

Luca crept through the gray. The voice was familiar, but it couldn't be him .

That was over a week ago.

Luca stopped as soon as he cleared the smoke—eyes bulging and mouth slack.

Oh, wow . . .

It was indeed Artair Osmond.

And he was completely naked.

The man was lazing on his back by the grassy banks of the river. Despite the cabin just twenty feet away, he'd set up a separate camp near the fire—a thick, old-school canvas tent, held by strong ropes at the side and a lashed crossbeam along the top. Heavy cooking gear was stacked neatly out front, alongside a well-worn pair of boots. Peeking out of the canvas flaps was a luxe but vintage-looking air mattress, the low and squishy kind that self-inflated, rather than the blow-up balloons that always deflated overnight.

But there was no risk of deflating at this sight.

Surprisingly, Artair's skin wasn't burned pink, but had picked up a slight tan in the week since Luca had seen him, something he wouldn't have assumed from someone with such an Irish complexion.

Stocky arms were rested against thick and ruddy locks, the position revealing his unkempt armpit hair. Beefy legs were spread in a jumping jack against the grass, covered in rusty fur up his thighs and across his belly and thick on his shoulders, which were scattered in the same freckles that blessed his face.

And among that thatch was the single most perfect bear dick that Luca had ever seen—chunky and cut and pink-headed and hefty , even at total rest. It wasn't a monster, not some terrifying porn-star dong that draped over his hip and kissed the grass. Instead, it was the perfect size and girth to say: Come on, big boy, you know you'll never get tired of playing with this thing.

Luca gawped, wondering for a moment if he was dreaming. After all, this was the guy he'd thought about in so many spare moments and dark nights. The man who was so perfectly matched to his ideal body type that Luca had barely been able to restrain himself last time.

And now, he was right there.

Naked.

Proof that none of the fantasy was imagined. A physique that spoke equally of warm winter cuddles and rowdy spring frolics. Of softness and power. Of the comforting and the commanding.

And just when Luca was sure his tongue was about to loll out his mouth, he stepped on a stray stick—the crack echoing among the calm.

Artair turned to face him.

"Ohhh, right," said Artair, chuckling to himself. "The smoke ."

Artair's reaction was the opposite of when Luca had been found naked. There was no jump. No rush to cover himself. No attempt to roll off his back and hide his cock.

Luca froze, unsure where to look or how to respond—which was an unusual situation for him. He was never usually tongue-tied around men. He had no problem approaching a stranger in a bar, or extending a conversation to the next table if they were saying something interesting. If anything, he'd made his name by asking complete strangers the most intimate and revealing questions.

However, the other people weren't usually buck naked.

The awkwardness of one fully dressed man staring at one totally naked man was broken by the little fox appearing at Luca's feet, propped up on his hind legs, tiny claws digging gently into the patch of skin between his knees and the hem of his shorts.

"Okay, I've got so many questions," said Luca, trying to maintain innocent eye contact. "Like, does this fox know that it's not a dog?"

Artair laughed. "Don't be mean to him! Bowie's just a little confused."

" Bowie? " said Luca, as the fox shook his head in satisfaction. "Like the singer?"

"Damn. I hadn't even thought of that! No, the patch of black around his neck. Doesn't it look like a little bow tie?"

Luca moved his fingernails around for a chin scratch, making Bowie bliss out and expose both his cute little fangs and his flexible neck. "Oh wow, it does . How did I not notice that? Why are you so well dressed, little man?"

" Duh , he's going to the opening of his next movie! Just look at that face. Those are some A-list cheekbones."

At this, Artair rolled on his side—not away from Luca, but toward him—a hand propped into his beard and his groin somehow even more on display. His comfortable belly was full and alluring at that angle, like a furry pillow that Luca just wanted to nuzzle.

Luca tried not to stare at Artair's cock too openly, but it was hard to miss. Even ignoring the heft, it was the one patch on his torso that wasn't covered in hair.

Just look at that grin! He's made zero effort to cover up. If anything, he's showing off!

Luca shifted focus between the tent and the cabin, trying to distract himself from the warming thoughts. "You know you've got a whole cabin here, right?"

"You never camped in the backyard as a kid?"

"Okay, you got me there."

"Besides, the cabin's got some issues. Take a look if you want."

Luca obliged, thankful for the distraction. He stepped up the sturdy porch, through the sturdy door, past a sturdy annex with sturdy shelves full of old-but-sturdy camping gear—clearly belonging to whichever sturdy person last lived here a long and sturdy time ago.

In fact, the only thing that wasn't sturdy was the roof.

Sunlight flowed into the kitchen. The exposed beams supported a ceiling with half the shingles missing, giving a free view to a swaying white oak against a backdrop of blue.

Luca clicked his tongue. "Okay, so there's a bit of a draft. But you'd still get a few thousand a month for it in Seattle."

"Oh, a Seattle boy?" drifted Artair's voice from outside.

"Yes and no," said Luca, reaching down and running fingers over the cool moss that had formed between the floorboards. There was something almost magical about the way nature was returning to the man-made space. "I moved there for college, but I grew up not far from here."

"What? In the forest? No, a cave system deep underground? No! You're secretly a river fairy?"

Luca shook his head, unable to bite back the grin. Dork. "No. Some small town you've never heard of. You? "

"All over, really. But San Francisco, originally."

"San Fran? Man, you're a long way from home."

"What can I say? I like the view up here."

Artair was closer for that last comment, standing in the doorway about six feet away. He'd put on clothes—a blue flannel, unbuttoned and bare chested, and a pair of jeans. The denim was tight and loose at the same time, hugging his ass, but hanging a little at the waist, showing off the top of his fiery-red pubic hair.

That image made Luca suddenly aware of his own stance. Because he was kneeling on the floor with his ass facing Artair.

Oh, God. Not again.

"I swear this wasn't deliberate," said Luca, jumping to his feet.

"Of course not. It's just how people in Seattle greet each other, yeah?"

"I'm serious! I was just . . ."

He stopped before finishing the sentence. Because saying: I was groping the moss, seemed much weirder than the other explanation.

Luca had expected the teasing to continue. Instead, Artair looked approvingly over the cabin interior—at the way the inside and the outside blended together so perfectly. "Beautiful, isn't it."

"Yeah, it really is," said Luca, breathing in the shade. "I love the way the ferns are starting to grow in the windowsill. Not on the windowsill. In the windowsill."

Artair chuckled. "It's almost like nature is taking back its brothers. Wood and metal, returning to the earth."

The old countertop was cool as Luca leaned against it. "Look at you getting all poetic. But what else should I expect from a musician . "

"What? Who told you? Are all the fire watches detectives now?"

"I saw your guitar case when you came to the tower. Remember?"

"Maybe? I was kinda distracted by other things."

Luca grimaced. "Yeah. Sorry again about that. Probably not what you were expecting when you wandered into the tower?"

Artair leaned an arm against the wall, causing his shirt to open even farther, wool over soft fur and manly stock. He rested his free thumb into one of his empty belt loops, dragging down his jeans so far that the top of his shaft was showing. "Nah. It was better than I was expecting. You should do it again sometime."

On paper, the stance was the height of horniness. In practice, however, it was so ridiculous that Luca didn't swoon, he snort laughed.

Artair broke the hypersexual pose with laughter of his own. "Hey, that was a killer move! How dare you mock my flirting!"

"No, no, no. It was very effective. I'm sure it'd work fine on a lot of guys."

"Just not you?"

Luca gave a soft little sigh. There wasn't any accusation in Artair's voice. The meaning of his question seemed a lot more simple: What's the deal here, buddy?

It was a reasonable question to ask. Back in the tower, Luca had done a terrible job at hiding his attraction. Because in any other situation, he'd have leaned in for the kiss. Returned the wandering hands up those thick thighs. Slowly unbuttoned Artair's shirt, running his tongue over nipples and chest, relishing as the man grunted under his attention .

But instead, Luca had told him to stop. Right when it looked like things were getting hot, Luca had called it off.

No wonder Artair was confused.

And yet, the answer wasn't that simple.

As a rule, Luca tried to be as honest as possible. And he tried not to hide anything from the people who mattered.

But he'd also learned the hard way that you didn't go around telling strangers that you were a sex columnist. And you especially didn't tell insanely handsome men who obviously had the hots for you.

Luca knew that the hesitation was stupid. It wasn't like he was going to do anything with Artair. It wasn't like he could do anything with him.

But still . . .

Luca had already endured his fill of men hardening when they discovered what he did for a living. Of them thinking Luca was weird or twisted or suddenly just caging up, as though every word they said was now on the record.

And Luca didn't want that from Artair. Not this early and this soon. Because even if he couldn't screw the guy, it was rare to find someone that he could just volley dumb conversations around with. Who could pick up the playful banter and run with it.

Most of the guys Luca knew ran out of things to say at: You up?

Luca tapped his fingers against the bench. "Look, the flirtation is working well. Really well. And if I could go there, I would. In a heartbeat."

"Ah, gotcha. Boyfriend?"

"I wish. Exceptionally single over here."

Artair looked him up and down. " How? "

Luca laughed, knowing that Artair was only saying that because he didn't know him well enough. "It's complicated."

"Well, Mr. Complicated, I'm guessing I should probably cool it on the flirting?" said Artair, making a ridiculous set of finger guns.

Again, Luca pondered this. They'd only met twice now, but Artair was proving fun to talk to, and Luca was pretty sure that flirtation was a key part of this guy's charm.

You met them sometimes—men who could pull off playful conversations with any gender and any age. Even if everyone knew it wasn't going anywhere. Especially when everyone knew that.

Take them to a wedding and they'd soon have the bride and the groom and the mother-in-law blushing, with no one offended by the advances or annoyed by the attention.

And as limited as their interreactions were, Luca had to admit that no , he wasn't offended by the advances. And no , he wasn't annoyed by the attention, either. The guy was charming. And the last thing he wanted to do was neuter that charm.

"Maybe you could cut the flirting back like fifty percent ? As long as you know I won't be following through on any of it?"

"Gotcha. Next time you see me I'll just have one ball out, not two."

"Pffft. That makes no sense, mathematically. Two balls and a dick makes thirds. I said cut the flirting in half, not sixty-six percent."

Artair feigned mental arithmetic. "Ugh! Fine! One ball and half a shaft?"

"Length-ways or girth-ways?"

" Length . Come on. I'm not a monster," said Artair, ducking into the storage room and returning with two fly fishing rods. "And speaking of long poles."

Their fishing lines arced overhead, like stalks of grass blowing in the breeze. The water ran cool past Luca's legs, the rocks beneath the waterline smoothed by the centuries and soft against his bare toes.

It had been a few years, but the muscle instinct of fly fishing was still there, sleeping in the memories of golden light and childhood days. When the summers felt like they might never end. When the seasons felt like you became a whole different person by the end of it.

The way you had to flick the line for height and accuracy.

The way the beads of water were flung into the air, catching every drop of sun, like a scattering of fine jewels.

The way you had to be patient and take advantage of your moment.

Luca squinted to see where his lure had landed. "So what's the deal with this gear? The tent and fishing poles and cooking equipment? I'm guessing this isn't some family retreat?"

"Nah, the cabin's a really old government outpost. Kinda like your tower. The equipment got abandoned a few decades back and now it's a secret campsite for those in the know." The bigger man watched as Luca recast his line. "And not bad technique, surprisingly."

"Surprisingly? Please . It's not my first time."

"Good, virgins are the worst. Particularly for us big boys, am I right? "

"Yeah, so I can see ," said Luca, conspicuously not looking in Artair's direction.

The reason for averting his eyes was that Artair had taken off his jeans before wading into the stream. To avoid getting them wet, of course.

And he'd switched them for a jockstrap of his own.

Forest green.

Mesh.

And with elastic so thick that is made his perfect bear ass pop like nothing Luca had seen in real life. It was all Luca could do not to bite on the fishing pole, just to stop himself screaming.

"How is that a fifty percent reduction in flirting?"

"What do you mean?" said Artair, innocently. "You saw me naked before. This is way more covered."

Luca grumbled. "Why do jockstraps make guys look even more naked than when they're actually naked?"

"I know, right?" said Artair, with a wicked little laugh. "But seriously, I can put the jeans back on if it's too much for you?"

Luca tugged his line, tempting a rainbow trout. The pink and green scales glinted in the afternoon light. "It's fine. I know you're being a tease and I'm not giving you the satisfaction."

"I know. You mentioned. Because it's complicated."

" Ba-dum tish, " said Luca, shaking his head at the terrible joke. "Here all week."

"Here all summer , hopefully."

Luca's shoulders unexpectedly relaxed at that. "Really? The whole summer?"

"Yeah, why not? Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"No!" he said a little too quickly, which only made Artair grin wider. "It's just... you don't look like you've got many supplies?"

The forest stretched out under Artair's gaze. "That won't be a problem. It's not like these woods are short of food. As long as you know which berries to pick and which to flick. Herbs, fruit, probably even a tomato or two from a discarded sandwich."

"And that's enough?"

It was a genuine question. Luca had never tried wilderness survival, although he'd always been impressed by those who had. On those occasions he'd done a full camping hike with friends or family, it had only been for a few days, when everyone had packed so much food that it was impossible to go hungry. But looking at Artair's camp, he couldn't imagine spending months out here with no other supplies—with the only way back to civilisation a fifteen-hour slog to a highway.

Artair gave a carefree shrug. "Trust me. This isn't my first time."

"Lucky. Virgins are the worst. Am I right?"

"Okay, I'm going to need you to be about fifty percent less cute?"

"You first," said Luca, feeling the blush spread across his cheeks. Talking to Artair was dangerous. He had a laid-back vibe that was incredibly relaxing to be around. There were times in the conversation that Luca had to remind himself that this was only their second time meeting. "So is this your normal life? Just wandering into the wilderness on your own."

Again, a shrug. But this time it was a little less carefree. "I guess."

"No job in the city?"

"I do this and that. You know how it is."

"And the guitar. Are you in a band or something? "

"Something like that."

"Is that what you'll go back to when the summer's over?"

Artair waved a dismissive hand. "Who can say?"

Luca nodded, picking up the signals to not probe too deeply down that path, no matter how much his natural journalism instincts were twitching. "Let me guess. It's complicated? "

Artair smiled warmly, as if relieved to be off the hook. "You could say that. What about you? No, wait, let me guess. Writer ."

Luca squinted. He hadn't mentioned anything about the job offer or the article. "How the hell did you know that?"

Artair's chuckle mixed with the splashes from Bowie, perched on the shore and batting at any fish that swam too close. "I've never met a fire watch who wasn't some kind of creative. Poets. Philosophers. Artists. I met one girl who knitted an entire fashion collection for her college class over the summer."

"Well, good guess then."

"What can I say? I'm a genius."

"Or you just got lucky."

" No , Luca. How many times do I have to tell you this? I can't get lucky because?—"

Luca groaned. "Yes, yes. You can't get lucky because I'm complicated. God, I walked right into that one."

" Mwahaha! " said Artair, holding his rod in the air like a victorious thunder god. "This will never get old!"

It was dusk and Luca was helping Artair stoke the fire, the white oak smoking with its distinctive, sugary sweetness. Bowie's unblinking gaze darted between the newly strung line of fish and the recently removed one.

Artair—now re-dressed in his jeans—feigned not letting Bowie have any. That lasted for all of three seconds before he threw the fox several of the new catch, going starry-eyed at the way Bowie chomped away. Artair's expression was like a momma bear happy that everyone was tucking into their dinner.

"Okay, that's adorable," said Luca. "But you can't have just met him? He's way too domesticated."

"What can I say? Animals tend to like me."

Clearly they have good taste. "Do you make him stay outside the tent?"

"Of course," said Artair, in a shifty voice that screamed I absolutely haven't spent the last week with him cuddled up inside my flannel .

"And you aren't worried that he'll go feral and bite your face off in the middle of the night?"

They both stared at the flop of fur, done with his dinner and already snoring. "Ummm, no. He's pretty chillaxed. Besides, I can bring any beast to heel with a bit of food." Artair followed that up by shoving a plate of smoked fish under Luca's nose. " Ehhh? Want one? There's plenty here if you want to stay for dinner?"

Luca paused at the offer. Not because the fish didn't smell delicious—it did, rich and smoky and with that distinctive hint of coal that you only got from cooking over a campfire.

It was everything else that made him pause.

The evening was approaching, calm and clear. The first stars were peeking through the wash of night. The fire smoked as inviting and comforting as the look of Artair's flannel—cozy and perfect for snuggling up to.

And that was the problem.

Because Luca could already see how it might go wrong.

They would eat by the fire, sharing stories and watching the night grow big around them. As the evening became cooler, they would move beside each other, taking in the warmth and the musk. Artair would place an arm around Luca's shoulder, jokingly at first, but lingering. Strong and inviting and safe. Luca would nuzzle into him, watching the stars come alive as they lay against wool and grass.

And both of them would know that it was just a cuddle.

Because they'd talked about it.

Because they knew it couldn't be anything else.

Just like they'd both know it didn't mean anything when Luca rolled deeper into the embrace, running his hand absently across Artair's belly and propping his knee over Artair's thighs.

Because they'd talked about it.

Because they knew it couldn't be anything else.

Just like they'd both know it didn't mean anything when they got rock hard from the physical contact. When the stories slowed, and they looked into each other's eyes for a little too long. When they realized how close their faces were together. When they realized how easy it would be to taste each other's beauty.

Luca stared at the plate of fish, breathing deeply on the dusk's calm.

Did all that stuff have to happen? No. Of course not.

But it could.

And right now, he just didn't trust himself .

"I should probably get back before it gets dark," he said, pulling a little torch from his pocket.

"Fair," laughed Artair, sneakily throwing another fish for Bowie, who raced away after it.

The man looked him over in the silence that followed, before giving a long, slow sigh.

And Luca didn't need to ask what the matter was. Because it was exactly the same for him.

Both of them wanted the perfect evening of campfires and cuddles. And, equally, they both knew where that might lead.

Which is probably why Artair chuckled under his breath as they each waved goodbye. And why neither made any attempt to give a farewell hug.