"It's not on fire, it's searing," he says, entirely unbothered. He’s sitting beside me on the plush sheepskin rug, naked as the day he was born, looking like a heavily tattooed Norse god holding a tiny wooden stick. "You have to burn the outside slightly to get the inside melted. It's science, baby."
"It's a flaming torch," I correct, leaning over to blow out the tiny orange flare dancing on the blackened sugar puff. "You're supposed to rotate it above the coals, not shove it directly into the heart of Mount Doom."
"I know what I'm doing," he insists, though his lips twitch into a subtle, amused smirk. “I really do.”
He carefully slides the sticky, slightly charred marshmallow off the stick onto a graham cracker with a large square of chocolate, pressing another cracker down on top unti
