Page 12 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

As Fraser kept playing, his repertoire moving from John Denver to Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, I got up and browsed his bookshelves.

He had an eclectic collection, ranging from travel nonfiction to thrillers, literary fiction, and a handful of poetry books, including the Mary Oliver one he’d mentioned.

I pulled out Gary Snyder’s Mountains and Rivers Without End .

Considering the epic work was all about nature, I wasn’t surprised it spoke to Fraser.

I opened a random page, and before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor, letting Fraser’s gentle music wash over me as I breathed in the peaceful rhythm of Snyder’s words.

When I finally looked up again, I had no idea how much time had passed, but considering dusk was falling, it had to be at least an hour. “I c-completely lost t-track of time,” I said. “S-s-sorry.”

But when I met Fraser’s eyes, he smiled. I’d been cataloging his smiles: the polite one he gave strangers, the amused one when he told stories, and this one, soft and pleased, like I’d given him something instead of the other way around.

“Nothing to apologize for. I love playing, and you love reading, so what better way to spend an hour than sharing that?”

“F-Fraser?” The question emerged before I could stop it. “Why are you being so p-patient with me?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Most p-people get frustrated. Or they f-finish my sentences. Or they l-look away, like my st-stutter is contagious.”

“Most people are idiots. Besides, patience isn’t hard when the person’s worth waiting for.”

Heat crept up my neck. “You d-don’t know me well enough to?—”

“I know enough. I know you see beauty in small things. I know you understand loss, but haven’t let it make you bitter. I know you came here today even though it scared you because you’re kinder than you are frightened.”

I stared at him, this man who read me like a poem—carefully, finding meaning in the pauses as much as the words. “I d-don’t know what to do with you.”

His laugh was rueful. “Join the club. I don’t know what to do with me either.”

I sat there on his living room floor, surrounded by books and the comfort of being able to be myself, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in seven years: possibility.

Not for romance. I wasn’t ready for that, might never be.

But for this. For a friendship that didn’t require me to pretend I was fine.

For someone who understood that healing wasn’t linear, that some days were harder than others, that the best you could do sometimes was show up.

“I should g-go,” I said eventually, though I made no move to stand. “It’s getting late.”

“You could stay for dinner. Nothing fancy. I was going to make pasta, and it’s easy enough to make for two.”

The domesticity of it terrified me. Cooking together, sharing a meal, extending this unexpected intimacy into something that felt dangerously like a date. But I was tired of letting fear make all my decisions. “I can h-help. I’m a d-decent cook.”

“Sounds good.”

And that’s what we did. He put me in charge of the salad while he handled the pasta, both of us moving around Fraser’s small kitchen with surprising ease.

The kitchen was small enough that we kept brushing against each other, his hip against mine as he reached for the salt, my back pressing to his chest when I turned to get plates.

When he reached around me for the olive oil, his breath ghosted across my neck, and my skin tingled. I forced myself to ignore it.

He told me about learning to cook in fire camps, making meals for twenty with limited supplies. I told him about Marcus’s experimental phase, when he’d tried to recreate ancient Roman recipes from Apicius, resulting in some truly questionable combinations.

“He p-put this f-f-fish sauce in everything,” I said, shaking my head at the memory. “He was so proud of b-being ‘historically accurate’ that I didn’t have the heart to t-tell him it was awful.”

Fraser laughed, a rich sound that filled the kitchen. “Did you eat it anyway?”

“Every b-bite.” I smiled despite the pang in my chest. “Love m-makes you do stupid things.”

“That it does.” He drained the pasta, steam rising between us. “I once ate an entire casserole made with canned tuna and crushed potato chips because David had spent all day making it as a special treat because I loved tuna. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever eaten in my life.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. I smiled through every bite and told him it was delicious.” Fraser’s expression was fond, nostalgic without being painful. “Despite having to work really hard to disguise that it almost made me throw up.”

We carried our plates to the table. God, I was actually hungry, my stomach rumbling. The pasta was simple with olive oil, garlic, lots of cheese, roasted tomatoes, and fresh herbs, but perfectly done. We ate in companionable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Fraser ate with obvious enjoyment, making little sounds of appreciation that did things to me I wasn’t ready to examine. When he licked a drop of sauce from his thumb, heat pooled in my belly, the kind I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I forced myself to look away. “This is n-nice.”

“It is.” Fraser twirled pasta on his fork. “I’ve missed this. Having someone to cook for. Eat with.”

The words could’ve been pressure, but they weren’t. They were truth, offered simply. I understood. I’d been eating alone for so long that I’d forgotten how food tasted better with company, how the ritual of sharing a meal could be its own form of communion.

“M-me too. Marcus loved dinner p-parties. Our apartment was always f-full of people. After he died, I couldn’t…” I paused, took a breath. “I couldn’t stand the n-n-noise. But the s-s-silence was worse.”

“The paradox of grief. You want everything to change and to stay how it was at the same time.”

We finished eating, and I insisted on helping with the dishes. Fraser washed while I dried, another domestic ritual that felt both foreign and familiar. Outside, full dark had fallen and rain pattered against the windows.

“I really should go,” I said as we finished, though every part of me wanted to stay in this warm, safe space.

“Let me drive you. It’s pouring out there.”

I almost refused since it was only a fifteen-minute walk, but the thought of arriving home soaked and cold made me nod. “Thank you.”

He grabbed his keys and a jacket, and we made our way to his truck. The cab smelled like coffee and something mechanical, oil maybe. The engine turned over with a rumble that seemed too loud on the quiet street. We said little as he drove, but it was a light silence, a comfortable one.

Too soon, we were pulling up outside my house. The porch light I’d left on seemed dim after the warmth of his kitchen. I didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to return to my empty rooms and careful solitude.

“Thank you. For d-dinner. For understanding. For…” I gestured helplessly, encompassing the whole evening.

“Thank you for coming over. For the book. For trusting me with your stories.”

We sat there for a moment, engine idling, rain drumming on the roof. This was the moment in movies where someone would lean across the console, where gratitude would transform into something else. But this wasn’t a movie, and I wasn’t ready for that transformation, might never be ready.

Fraser seemed to understand. He smiled, soft and patient. “See you soon?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. Soon.”