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The crackle of the campfire was soft but steady, casting flickering shadows across the tents and wagons scattered around Clemens Point. The rest of the gang had long since drifted to sleep, their snores and the rustling of the lake’s breeze the only accompaniment to the warm glow of the fire. It was a rare moment of peace, a quiet oasis in the chaos of life on the run.
You sat cross-legged on a log, a bottle of whiskey dangling loosely from your fingers. The warmth of the fire mingled with the pleasant buzz in your veins, and the evening felt… perfect. Across from you, Charles was working on a small piece of wood, his knife moving with slow, deliberate precision.
“Y’know,” you slurred slightly, a grin tugging at your lips, “I think you’re the only one who doesn’t turn into a blabbermouth after a drink or two. You’re like… mysterious or somethin’.”
Charles chuckled softly without looking up from his work. “Or maybe I just like to let you do the talking.”
You laughed, leaning back to gaze at the stars overhead. “You’re lucky I’m good at it then. Could you imagine if we both just sat here in silence? Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Just sittin’ here… staring at each other, not saying a damn word.”
“Sounds peaceful,” Charles replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The two of you fell into easy conversation, laughter punctuating the quiet moments as the night deepened. He shared a rare story or two from his childhood, and you countered with your own half-remembered tales, each sillier than the last. The whiskey flowed freely, and the fire burned low, but Charles remained focused on his carving, his knife glinting in the firelight.
You couldn’t help but notice the way Charles’s hands moved as he worked, his fingers steady and deliberate, guiding the knife with a precision that seemed almost hypnotic. The muscles in his forearms flexed subtly with each stroke, and the rhythmic motion of his carving was oddly mesmerizing. The firelight cast a warm glow across his skin, illuminating the fine lines of concentration etched into his expression. A flush crept into your cheeks, unbidden, as you caught yourself staring for a little too long. Your thoughts wandered to how strong and capable those hands seemed, and you quickly shook your head, blaming the whiskey for the heat rising to your face. Get it together, you scolded yourself silently. You’re tipsy. That’s all it is.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. You leaned forward, your gaze zeroing in on the small object in his hands. “Alright, I gotta ask. What are you making over there? You’ve been at it all night.”
“You’ll see,” he said simply, his tone teasing.
“Oh, come on!” You groaned, nearly tipping off the log in your tipsy enthusiasm. “You’ve gotta give me somethin’, Charles. A hint? A clue? Is it for Dutch? Or maybe it’s somethin’ for Pearson’s stew pot.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Not for Dutch. And definitely not for Pearson.”
You squinted at him suspiciously, narrowing your eyes. “So it is for someone. Who?”
He hesitated, his hands pausing briefly before resuming their steady work. “Someone who deserves it.”
That stopped you short. Your heart gave a little flutter in your chest, and you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the strange weight behind his words. “Well, whoever it is, they’re lucky to have you making something for ‘em.”
Charles didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned the small carving over in his hands, inspecting it closely before finally letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s for you,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Your eyes widened as you stared at him, the warmth in your chest spreading like wildfire. “Me? Charles, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, his voice soft but unwavering as he held the carving out to you. His fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, and you couldn’t ignore the warmth that lingered where your hands had touched. “Here. It’s not perfect, but… I thought you’d like it.”
You stared down at the small wooden figure in your hands, the firelight dancing across its surface. It was a bird, its wings carved in delicate, sweeping strokes as though frozen mid-flight, each line etched with care and precision. Your breath hitched as your thumb traced over the details, the weight of the carving somehow grounding and disarming all at once. “Charles,” you whispered, your voice catching on the lump in your throat. “It’s… beautiful. I don’t even know what to say.”
He said nothing for a moment, his silence stretching between you like the taut string of a bow. When you finally glanced up, his gaze was fixed on you, dark and unyielding, filled with something that made your chest tighten. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I just… I wanted you to have something from me."
Your pulse quickened, the words lingering in the space between you, heavy with an unspoken weight. “Charles…” you began, your voice trembling. The air seemed impossibly thick now, every crackle of the fire punctuating the steady drum of your heartbeat. His eyes didn’t waver, that quiet intensity rooting you in place.
“I mean it,” he continued, his tone steady but almost vulnerable. “You’re not just a friend to me. You never have been. And I’ve been too much of a coward to tell you that until now.”
The confession sent a jolt through you, a mix of shock and something deeper, something that made it impossible to breathe for a long, suspended moment. His expression didn’t falter, but his hands clenched briefly at his sides, betraying the nerves beneath his calm exterior. “Charles…” you tried again, but words failed you, caught in the storm of your emotions.
Instead, you acted. Leaning forward, you closed the distance between you, the world narrowing to the warmth of the fire and the space between your lips meeting his. His kiss was soft at first, a tentative brush, before deepening with quiet urgency, as if this moment had been waiting to happen all along. The scent of pine and woodsmoke surrounded you, grounding you even as your heart soared.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing unsteadily. A small, shaky laugh escaped you, and you smiled, your cheeks flushed and your hands trembling slightly. “I think… I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” you admitted, the words spilling out in a quiet rush, heavy with nerves and joy.
Charles’s lips quirked into a rare, soft smile, his hand brushing against yours in a gesture that felt both grounding and electrifying. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows that danced around you as the world seemed to fall away. In that moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the whiskey.