After Bruce left and the tent was dismantled, the pine forest behind Campo de Rosas became my personal kingdom once again.

It was around this time I started building a new fort with Samantha Andrews. The seasons were shifting toward winter, and I’d begun experimenting with campfires—primitive little creations that felt deeply satisfying, though health and safety protocols were notably absent.

The fort itself was simple but perfect—a natural shelter reinforced with leftover plywood from the house construction, nestled between rocky outcrops and the roots of old pine trees. It became our private world. Far enough from adult supervision to feel wild, yet conveniently located just 100 meters from my parents’ larder—a detail not lost on my younger self.

It was there, surrounded by the scent of smoke and sap, that Samantha and I kissed for the first time.

Now, dear reader, you must understand—our exposure to how this was supposed to be done was approximately the square root of zero. There were no cinemas in our world, no dramatic Hollywood embraces to model ourselves on. The only kisses we’d ever seen were awkward little pecks between adults who mostly seemed to dislike each other.

So our first kiss was… let’s call it tender but utterly unerotic—if that’s even a word. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was just… charged. With something warm and ancient and wordless. A feeling of safety. Of connection. Of being exactly where we were supposed to be.

For that brief moment, the fort felt like the center of the universe—a primordial paradise of crackling fires, stolen snacks, and something neither of us could name, but both of us knew.