He moves slowly, giving me time to change my mind, to pull away. His hand comes up to cup my face, his palm warm against my cheek, his thumb stroking gently across my cheekbone. I let my eyes drift closed, leaning into the touch despite every warning bell going off in my head.
And then he's kissing me.
It's soft at first, gentle and questioning, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. Nothing like Vincent's kisses, which were always demanding, always taking. This is different. This is Silas asking permission with every movement, giving me space to say no, to pull away, to set the boundaries I need.
But I don't want to pull away. I want to sink into this, to let myself have this moment of sweetness and connection. So I kiss him back, tentative at first and then with more confidence, my free hand coming up to fist in his t-shirt, anchoring myself to him.
He makes a low sound in his throat, his other hand sliding down to rest on my hip, and the kiss deepens just slightly. Not overwhelming, not too much, just enough to make heat pool in my stomach and my knees go weak.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and flushed and terrified that I've ruined everything. That I've crossed a line I can't uncross, that he's going to look at me with regret or worse, pity.
But when I force myself to meet his eyes, all I see is warmth. Affection. Want.
"I've been wanting to do that for weeks," he admits, his voice even rougher than before. His thumb is still stroking across my cheek, gentle and grounding. "Watching you with the kids, seeing you make this house a home again. You have no idea what you've done for us."
I open my mouth to respond, to say something that won't sound completely ridiculous, when he reaches around me for something on the counter behind me. His chest presses against mine briefly, solid and warm, and my breath catches in my throat.
He's reaching for the flour canister, I realize. Just grabbing an ingredient for breakfast. But the casual intimacy of the movement, the way he doesn't immediately step back, makes my heart race all over again.
"We should probably start breakfast," he says, but he's smiling like he knows exactly what effect he's having on me. "Before the kids wake up and find us like this."
"Right. Breakfast." I try to step back, to give us both space, but my elbow catches the edge of the flour canister. It tips, spilling white powder across the counter in a cloud of dust.
"Shit." I reach to steady it, but I'm too late. Flour goes everywhere, coating my hands, dusting across Silas' dark shirt, settling on the counter in a fine layer.
For a moment we both just stare at the mess. Then Silas starts laughing, the sound surprised and genuine and absolutely beautiful. I've heard him laugh before, small chuckles when thekids say something funny, but never like this. Never this full, unrestrained joy that lights up his whole face.
"I'm so sorry," I say, trying not to laugh myself as I survey the damage. "I didn't mean to..."
He reaches out and swipes a finger through the flour on the counter, then boops me on the nose with it. Flour explodes across my face, and I gasp in mock outrage.
"Did you just..."
"Maybe." His grin is wicked, playful in a way I've never seen from serious, workaholic Silas. "What are you going to do about it?"
The challenge is impossible to resist. I grab a handful of flour from the canister and fling it at him. It hits his chest, creating a white explosion across his dark shirt. He looks down at himself, then back up at me, and something shifts in his expression.
"Oh, it's on."
What follows is absolute chaos. We're both grabbing handfuls of flour and throwing them at each other, laughing breathlessly as white dust fills the air. I duck behind the kitchen island when he advances on me with a particularly large handful, giggling so hard my stomach hurts. He catches me around the waist, pulling me back against his chest, and dumps flour directly over my head.
"Truce!" I shriek, but I'm laughing too hard for it to sound convincing. "Truce, I surrender!"
"Do you?" He turns me to face him, both of us covered head to toe in white. There's flour in his hair, on his eyelashes, across his cheeks. He looks ridiculous and wonderful and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are, of his hands still on my waist, of the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious.
"What's going on in here?"
We both freeze, turning to find Isaac and Riley standing in the doorway in their pajamas, staring at us with wide eyes. Isaac'smouth is hanging open in shock, while Riley looks like she can't decide if she should be concerned or delighted.
"Miss Amelia and Dad are having a flour fight," Riley announces, and then her face splits into a huge grin. "Can we play too?"
Before either of us can respond, Isaac lets out a war cry and charges into the kitchen. He grabs a handful of flour from the counter and launches it at Silas, coating his father in even more white dust. Riley is right behind him, giggling as she scoops up her own ammunition.
The kitchen descends into total mayhem. All four of us are throwing flour, ducking and weaving, laughing so hard we can barely breathe. Isaac gets me right in the face with a particularly well-aimed handful. Riley manages to dump some on her own head by accident and just laughs harder.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes us all pause, guilty children caught in the act. Wyatt appears first, his blond-brown curls still sleep-mussed, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. His blue eyes go wide as he takes in the demolished kitchen, the four of us covered in white, flour coating every available surface.
"What..." He starts to say something, then just starts laughing. "Oh my god. What happened in here?"
