The windows hummed with wind, the snow a constant blur against the glass. The little cabin had gone quiet except for the fire, still eating at what was left of the woodpile.
Silas had dragged the mattress closer again before it got dark, practical as ever, his sleeves pushed up and his jaw set like he was at war with the cold. I’d helped — barely — and then we’d both found excuses to stay busy until there was nothing left to do but sit.
Now he was reading by firelight, the orange glow cutting a line across his face, softening the edges that always looked too sharp in daylight. I lay back on the mattress, listening to the slow turn of pages, pretending I wasn’t aware of every breath he took.
The air between us felt charged. Not like earlier, when I’d been teasing him for fun, but thicker, heavier—something I couldn’t name without breaking it.
I shifted, the blanket sliding down my shoulder. The fire popped.
He looked up.
Our eyes met in the flicker, and for a second the whole worldnarrowed to that tiny space between his quiet control and my reckless need to touch what I shouldn’t.
“You should sleep,” he said finally. His voice was rough, low from disuse.
“I should,” I agreed, but didn’t move. “Will you?”
He closed the book, set it aside, and leaned forward to stir the fire. “Not yet.”
The silence after that was almost tender. The kind that only exists when two people have run out of excuses to fill it.
I rolled onto my side, facing him. “You know,” I said softly, “for someone who wanted to be alone, you don’t make it easy for other people to leave.”
He huffed a small laugh, eyes on the fire. “That’s because most people don’t stick around long enough to care.”
I should have left it there. But I didn’t. “Maybe you just haven’t given them a reason to.”
He looked at me again then, properly this time, and the warmth in his gaze hit harder than the fire ever could. For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
Silas didn’t look away this time. Just watched me, quiet, steady, like he was waiting for me to say whatever was sitting behind my teeth.
I should’ve shut up. Should’ve rolled over and pretended to sleep. But the silence between us had teeth, and it hurt to let it bite. “I was supposed to be getting married,” I said finally, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “Supposed to…be married.”
Something on his face shifted — barely, but enough. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask. Just waited.
“It was last month,” I went on, staring at the flames. “Venue booked, dress fitted, invitations sent. I thought…” I laughed softly, the sound hollow. “I thought he was it, you know? The grand ending. My stupid happy-ever-after.”
The wood in the hearth snapped, sharp and bright. “What happened?” Silas asked quietly.
“He fell in love,” I said. Then, after a beat, “Just not with me.”
The words landed like a confession. I could feel the old ache bloom in my chest again — the disbelief, the humiliation, the way the world had cracked in one clean break.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, half-hoping it could smother the memory. “They didn’t even try to hide it,” I said, voice trembling despite myself. “I think that’s the part that still—” I broke off, pressing my lips together. “Anyway. That’s why I’m here. My sister booked this place when I said I needed to get away. She meant well.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “You deserved better than that.”
It was such a simple thing to say. No pity, no pretense — just truth. It hit harder than anything else could have.
I glanced over. His elbows rested on his knees, firelight catching the greys in his hair, and for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t look like a man made of composure. He just lookedtired. Kind. Real.
“Maybe,” I said, softer now. “But I keep thinking maybe I should’ve seen it coming. Maybe if I’d been… more. Or less. Or?—”
“Don’t,” he said, sharp enough to stop me. His eyes lifted to mine, steady and certain. “Don’t make excuses for someone who couldn’t see you.”
I wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. “You sound like a writer.”
“Sorry,” he smiled faintly. “Bad habit.”
