Page 14 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

CALLOWAY

M y kitchen had never felt smaller than it did with Fraser in it.

He sat at my little table, leg stretched out carefully, watching me move between the stove and the counter with those patient green eyes.

I’d insisted he rest while I cooked. His leg had been bothering him more than he’d admitted all day, and the careful way he’d lowered himself into the chair confirmed it.

“I feel useless sitting here,” he said for the third time.

“You’re k-keeping me company.” I stirred the pot of beef and barley soup I’d started that morning in the slow cooker, knowing I’d be too tired after the festival to cook from scratch. “That’s not useless.”

“Still.” But he smiled, settling back in his chair. “It smells amazing.”

“My grandmother’s r-recipe.” I pulled bowls from the cabinet, trying not to be too aware of how domestic this felt. How right. “She used to say the s-secret was?—”

“Love?” Fraser guessed, teasing.

“Time,” I corrected, smiling despite myself. “Everything good takes t-time.”

“Wise woman.”

I ladled soup into bowls, then cut thick slices of the crusty bread I’d picked up from Brianna’s yesterday.

My hands were steady now, here in my own space, doing familiar things.

The festival crowds had drained me more than I’d expected, but this—quiet companionship, simple food, Fraser’s presence—was slowly refilling whatever internal reserves I’d depleted.

“This is incredible,” Fraser said after his first spoonful. “I might need this recipe.”

“F-family secret,” I said, but I was already mentally writing it down for him.

We ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of spoons against bowls and the old house settling around us.

“Thank you for today. For noticing when I needed a break. For not making me ask.”

I looked up from my bowl. “We all n-need someone to notice.”

“Yeah, but…” Fraser paused, seeming to choose his words. “I’m not used to it anymore. Being seen like that. My crew used to watch out for each other, but civilian life is different. People are polite but distant. Today felt like being part of something again.”

I understood that too well, the difference between being surrounded by people and actually being connected to them. “The f-festival brings out the best in people. Makes everyone feel like f-family for a day.”

“That’s what my crew was like,” Fraser said, his voice taking on that storytelling quality I’d come to love.

“Ten or so years ago, we had this rookie, Martinez. Kid from East LA, tough as nails, but he’d never been camping in his life before joining up.

His first big fire was in Montana, middle of nowhere.

We’d been spiked out for five days, sleeping in the dirt, eating MREs. ”

He paused to take another spoonful of soup, and I leaned forward, already drawn into the story.

“Third night, we hear this godawful yelling from Martinez’s sleeping bag.

We all jump up, thinking bear or snake or something.

Turns out a field mouse had crawled into his bag, looking for warmth.

This kid who’d faced down gang members in LA was screaming bloody murder over a mouse the size of my thumb. ”

I smiled, picturing it.

“We could’ve mocked him, you know? Made his life hell.

That’s what some crews would do. But instead, our captain—this grizzled old guy named Buck—he sits down next to Martinez and tells him how he cried when he came across a badly burned deer who’d gotten trapped in a forest fire.

Then each of us shared our most embarrassing or vulnerable moments.

By morning, Martinez wasn’t the rookie who’d screamed about a mouse. He was one of us.”

Fraser’s eyes had gone soft with memory. “That’s what real family does. They see you at your worst and make space for it instead of using it against you.”

“You make it s-s-sound almost magical…”

“Magical? No, far from that. We had fights and clashes for sure, especially when we were exhausted. But underneath, we had each other’s backs. We were still family.”

“That’s hard to r-replace…”

Fraser let out a long sigh. “Impossible. It’s a connection forged in fire. Literally.”

“Are you still in t-t-touch with your former crew?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard when they’re constantly out there. In the coming winter months, it’ll be easier, and we’re having a meetup in November.” He swallowed thickly. “It’ll be good to see them again. And my parents and brothers. They’re all still in Montana.”

“Are you c-close with them?”

He hesitated. “Not as close as I’d like, but that’s inevitable when you’re gone as much as I was. And my decision to settle here instead of in Montana doesn’t help either.”

“You didn’t want to st-st-stay there?”

“I needed a change of pace. A fresh start.”

“M-my parents m-moved to Florida. We’re not close.” I wasn’t even sure why I was telling him that. Maybe because I wanted to acknowledge his pain without making it too obvious?

“Why?”

“I d-d-didn’t always st-stutter.”

Fraser turned to face me fully, giving me his complete attention without crowding. Just present, waiting, the way he always did.

“W-we were at the q-quarry. Family picnic. I was f-five and couldn’t swim yet, but I wanted to be b-brave like my older cousins.

” The memory was old but still sharp, like sea glass that could still cut if you held it wrong.

“I went too d-deep. Went under. My cousins couldn’t find me.

They said I was down for almost three m-minutes before my uncle pulled me out. ”

“Jesus, Calloway.”

“They d-did CPR and m-m-managed to get m-me back. B-but when I c-came to in the hosp-pital, I couldn’t stop sh-shaking. Couldn’t speak without the words st-sticking. The doctors said it would be temporary, but…” I gestured helplessly. “Forty-three years later, still waiting for t-temporary to end.”

“I’m sorry,” Fraser said, and I could hear that he meant it—not pity, but genuine sorrow for the scared child I’d been.

“The thing is,” I continued, needing him to understand, “m-my parents never st-stopped trying to get me f-f-fixed. Sp-speech therapy, p-p…” I had to take a breath and restart.

“Psychiatrists, s-social workers, and m-more speech therapy. N-nothing worked. They m-meant well, b-but all it d-did was make me f-feel broken. D-d-damaged. They c-could never accept that this was now who I w-was.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fraser said again, and I felt the words deep inside me.

“I learned to be okay with it. Found ways around it, through it. It g-got better when I m-moved to New York. Then M-Marcus made me believe it didn’t matter.

That I wasn’t b-broken, just different. When he d-d-died…

” I had to stop, breathe through the tightness in my throat.

“When he died, it felt like d-drowning all over again. Except this time, no one came to p-pull me out.”

Fraser’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me, but he kept still. “You pulled yourself out.”

“Did I?” I laughed, but it came out cracked. “I’ve been t-treading water for seven years. That’s not the same as s-swimming.”

“Maybe not,” Fraser said quietly. “But you’re still here. Still fighting. That counts for something.”

I stood abruptly, needing movement, needing to not see the understanding in his eyes that threatened to undo me completely. “M-more soup?” I asked, even though his bowl was still half full.

“I’m good.” He watched me move around the kitchen, putting distance between us under the guise of cleaning up. “Calloway?”

I kept my back to him, gripping the edge of the counter. “Y-yes?”

“Thank you for telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.”

The simple acknowledgment, without platitudes or promises that everything would be fine, made my throat tight. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Tell me about your b-brothers,” I said, wanting to shift the focus off my own complicated history. “Are they f-firefighters too?”

“God, no.” Fraser laughed. “They think I’m crazy. Well, they did. Now they think I’m broken.” He said it matter-of-factly, but I heard the sting underneath. “They’re all in logging, like our dad. Good, honest work that doesn’t require jumping out of planes.”

“How m-many?”

“Three older brothers. Mac, Dougal, and Ewan. My mom’s Scottish, in case you couldn’t tell.” His smile was wry. “I was the baby, the one who was supposed to stay close to home. Instead, I ran off to fight fires and came out as gay. Family disappointment on multiple fronts.”

“They don’t accept you?”

“Oh, they accept me. In theory. In reality, I’ve never felt safe with my sexuality.” He shifted, adjusting his leg. “So I’ve kept my distance, set up boundaries for my own sake.”

I understood that too, the careful compartmentalization, the way you could love people who couldn’t love all of you. “Is that p-part of why you came here? Instead of g-going back to Montana?”

Fraser was quiet for a long moment. “Partly. But mostly… I couldn’t go backward. Couldn’t pretend to be who I was before. This—” He gestured at his leg, at himself, at the space between us. “This Fraser needs a different life than that Fraser had.”

“The person you are now seems pretty g-good to me,” I said, then immediately wanted to take it back. Too much. Too revealing.

But Fraser smiled, soft and surprised. “Yeah?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice with anything more.

We sat in comfortable silence as darkness settled fully outside.

“Your back must be killing you,” he said, changing the subject with his usual grace. “All that bending over boxes.”

“It’s f-fine,” I lied, then caught his look. “Okay, it’s s-sore. But manageable.”

“Pot and kettle again. We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

We. Such a small word to carry so much weight.

After dinner, I showed him my library, the converted bedroom lined floor to ceiling with books. His face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.

“This is incredible.” He moved slowly along the shelves, trailing his finger along the spines. “How do you have them organized?”

“By f-feeling. Books that make me h-happy here, melancholy there. The ones that m-make me think are on that wall.”

Fraser turned to look at me, and his expression was so soft it made my insides ache. “That’s perfect.”

He understood. Of course he did. Fraser had a way of seeing straight to the heart of things, finding beauty in what others might call quirky or strange.

“What about these?” He gestured to a section I usually avoided showing people, the shelf that held the books Marcus and I had shared.

“Those are…” I swallowed hard. “ Our books. The ones M-Marcus and I loved together. He l-loved science fiction. Classic stuff mostly. Asimov, H-Heinlein, Le Guin.”

“Good taste.” Fraser pulled out a worn copy of The Left Hand of Darkness . “This was the first book that made me think differently about gender. About love being bigger than the boxes we put it in.”

“Marcus said the s-same thing.” The memory hurt less than I expected. “He read it to me when I had the f-flu once. Did all the voices.”

Fraser carefully replaced the book. “He sounds like he was good to you.”

“He was.” I moved to stand beside him, close enough to catch his cedar-and-coffee scent that was becoming dangerously familiar. “He made me l-laugh. Even when words were h-hard, he made everything feel possible.”

“That’s a gift. Being seen like that.”

Something in his tone made me look at him more closely. “Your ex didn’t…?”

“David was a good man. But he wanted me to be someone specific—the brave firefighter, the guy who had it all together, someone who was out and proud. When I couldn’t be that person for him…” He shrugged, but I could see the old hurt there. “He deserved more.”

“You weren’t ready.”

“No, but I can’t fault him for running out of patience.”

“M-maybe he wasn’t the right person. The right p-p-person would have waited.”

Fraser turned to face me fully, and we were standing closer than I’d realized. “Like Marcus waited for you?”

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn’t ready to examine. Yes, Marcus had waited. He’d learned my rhythms, had made space for my silences, had never once made me feel like my stutter was something to overcome rather than simply part of who I was.

“He d-didn’t see it as waiting. He saw m-me.”

“Lucky man,” Fraser said softly, and something in his voice made my heart skip.

I stepped back, needing distance, needing air. “It’s g-getting late. Your leg…”

“Right.” He didn’t call me on the obvious deflection. “I should go.”

We made our way to the front door. Fraser paused on the porch, silhouetted by the streetlight.

“Same time tomorrow? For the festival?”

“Y-yes.” The word came out too quick, too eager, but his smile made it worth the embarrassment.

“Good. Maybe tomorrow you’ll actually let me help with the heavy lifting.”

“M-maybe tomorrow you’ll actually bring your c-cane from the start.”

His laugh was rich and warm in the cool night air. “Fair point. Goodnight, Calloway.”

“Goodnight.”

I watched him make his way down the path, staring at him as long as I could. Only when he turned the corner did I close the door and lean against it, heart racing like I’d run a marathon.

What was I doing? This thing with Fraser—friendship, whatever it was—felt too easy and too hard all at once. Every moment with him chipped away at the walls I’d built, and I couldn’t decide if that terrified or thrilled me.

In the kitchen, our soup bowls still sat on the table.

I washed them slowly, trying to make sense of the evening.

We’d shared stories, pain, understanding.

He’d stood in my library and understood why I organized books by feeling.

He’d held Marcus’s favorite novel with careful hands and hadn’t made it weird or competitive.

My phone buzzed.

Made it home. Thanks again for dinner. And for today. And for trusting me with your story.

I stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. There were so many things I wanted to say. That his presence had made the festival bearable, that his stories made me forget to be self-conscious, that I was starting to look forward to things again, which terrified me.

Thank you for listening. Sleep well.

You too. See you tomorrow, partner.

Partner. Such a simple word to make my chest tight with want and fear in equal measure.

I turned off the lights and headed for bed, but sleep felt impossible. My mind kept replaying moments from the day. Fraser’s hand on my elbow when his leg cramped, the way he’d seamlessly deflected Eleanor’s and Brianna’s matchmaking, how natural it felt to work beside him.

Seven years of careful solitude, and this man was undoing me one patient smile at a time.

The really terrifying part? I was starting to think I wanted to be undone.