Embers by the Lake

Two strangers drawn close by chance, sparking a night full of tension.

The Leaping Frog wasn’t exactly the kind of place Nicholas Grayson thought he’d be working after four years of grinding through a Computer Science degree. But the Pacific Northwest was stingy with job offers, and rent didn’t pay itself. So here he was hair still damp from his morning swim at the community center, sleeves rolled past his elbows as he polished pint glasses under the warm amber glow of the bar lights.

The pub had always been a familiar spot during his college years a cozy, wood-paneled refuge on rainy evenings. But tonight, there was someone new.

She walked in with a friend, brushing raindrops from her light brown wavy hair, green eyes scanning the room. She had a confidence in her step that caught him off guard, the kind that made people unconsciously shift to make space without even realizing they’d done it.

LeAnne Townsend. He didn’t know her yet, but the name would come later after the first order, after the first smile.

She and her friend took seats near the bar. Nicholas approached, his lanky, semi-muscular frame moving with a certain nervous ease he’d picked up from years of swim meets.

“What can I get you?”

Her eyes met his. There was a spark there curious, assessing. “Something warm,” she said, voice soft but clear. “You’ve got a hot cider, right?”

“Coming right up.” He kept his tone casual, but as he poured, he caught himself glancing her way more than once. She was talking to her friend, her hands animated in the telling of some story, but every so often her gaze flicked back to him like a tide that couldn’t help but return.

Over the next hour, her friend drifted away to mingle, and Nicholas found himself talking with her between drink orders. She was from Oregon, she said, Puerto Rican on her mother’s side, and had just come back from a weekend at a cabin by a lake. “We made s’mores by the campfire every night,” she told him, smiling at the memory.

He chuckled. “Haven’t had a s’more in years. Not since my swim team trip to Chelan.”

“You’re a swimmer?”

“Was,” he said with a shrug. “College meets. Kept me from turning into a total desk potato.”

She laughed at that, and something in him relaxed. They talked about everything from music to the best late-night food in the city, until the din of the pub seemed to fade behind the low thrum of their voices.

By the time her friend returned, she’d already asked him what nights he worked.

Two weeks later, they were at that same cabin by the lake.

The evening air was cool, the scent of pine heavy around them. A campfire crackled, throwing light across her face. They’d spent the day paddling in an old canoe, the quiet only broken by the dip of oars and the occasional call of a loon. Now, their legs brushed as they sat on the log bench, passing a half-built s’more back and forth as if it were some fragile peace treaty.

“You’re not roasting it right,” he teased, watching her marshmallow catch fire.

She blew it out, grinning. “I like them burnt.”

“You would,” he said, but his smile gave him away.

They fell into silence for a while, the fire popping softly between them. She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing into his arm. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send a pulse of awareness through him.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?”

“Spend time like this with someone I just met.” Her eyes flicked to his, green irises catching the firelight. “But...with you, it feels like I’ve known you longer.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak right away. Instead, he let the moment stretch, their breaths mingling in the cool night. “Feels the same,” he said finally.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of smoke and pine. Somewhere in the dark, the lake lapped gently at the shore.

When she stood and held out her hand, he took it without hesitation.

Inside the cabin, the fire in the stone hearth was small but steady. The place smelled faintly of cedar and old coffee grounds. She pulled off her jacket, tossing it over a chair, and he noticed the way her hair curled slightly at the ends from the damp air.

“You’re quiet,” she said, turning to face him.

“Just thinking,” he replied.

“About what?”

“That I can’t tell if this feels fast...or exactly right.”

She stepped closer, her bare feet making no sound on the worn wooden floor. “Maybe it’s both.”

He could feel the warmth from her even before she touched him one hand resting lightly against his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as if testing the ground before crossing. His breath caught, but he didn’t move back.

Her eyes searched his, like she was trying to read something just beyond the surface. And then she smiled slow, certain. “Nicholas,” she said, his name softer than the fire’s crackle, “you think too much.”

His hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. The simple contact felt heavier than it should, his pulse thudding hard in his ears.

“You make it hard not to,” he murmured.


Word Count: 883
Prompt: Round 367 (August 3-9): Campfire, S'mores, Cabin, Lake, Friend
Written for: "The Weekly Quickie Contest"