He jumped at the knock. He'd let his mind wander back to that night again, exploring every fold and ripple of want and anguish, and before he knew it, minutes had passed and Theo was done. Fletch shook his head at where he'd allowed himself to go. There was no good that could come of lingering there, and yet, with a little drink in him and that spark of memory in the washroom, he was a moth to flame at every thought of holding Theo. Of running his hands through Theo's hair, and holding his face to clean the wound. It just reminds you of him, that's all, he thought bitterly as he rose from the bed. It scared him that this was the trade that whiskey offered: a moment of peace for a loss of discipline. He wanted both, damn it. He needed both.
After taking a second to compose himself, Fletch passed back through the door and found Theo by the hearth. He stopped and watched for a moment, eye darting between the nobleman and the haphazard stack of wood, before finally speaking up. "You trying to burn the house down, or...?" But Theo couldn't read him, obviously, with his back turned like that. Grumbling beneath his breath, he approached the fireplace and knelt, snatching the fresh wood back out of the flames and leaning it against the hearth. "Can I show you? So you don't kill us all? And then we should, you know...figure out this business with your fiancée."