Something inside me crumpled. The bravado, the teasing, all of it. “He made me feel small,” I said finally. “Like I had to apologize for every messy part of myself. Like I was… an inconvenience.”
My throat burned. “And now you look at me like I’m one of your half-finished stories. Like I’m something you can fix if you just edit hard enough.”
That stopped him cold. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of wood giving in to flame. Then, quietly, “You’re not broken, Colette.” He took one step toward me. “God, you’re just… alive. In a way that I haven’t been in years.”
Something in my chest twisted, sweet and painful all at once. He was close enough now that I could see the tremor in his hand, the line of tension down his throat. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You’re impossible,” he murmured.
“You like that about me,” I whispered.
And then — the world stilled. My hand rose without permission, fingertips grazing his chest, feeling the shudder that ran through him. His breath brushed my cheek, hot and unsteady, and I swear the air itself leaned in, begging us to close that last inch.
A sharp crack split the tension — a branch outside, snapping under the weight of snow.
We both startled, the spell shattering.
I stepped back first, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He exhaled like a man who’d just survived something perilous.
Neither of us said a word.
We didn’t need to.
The fire filled in what we couldn’t.
The silence after nearly kissing someone feels different from other silences. It’s not empty — it’scrowded.
By the time I’d managed to unclench my fists and breathe again, he was already moving, like motion itself could erase the moment. He picked up his mug, stoked the fire, busied himself with anything that didn’t require looking at me.
I followed his lead. Or tried to. I reached for the kettle, nearly burned my fingers on the handle, and said, too brightly, “More coffee?”
His answering grunt might’ve meantyes,no, orplease stop speaking before I do something stupid.
I poured anyway.
The smell filled the room — dark and bitter and safe — and I watched the steam rise, wishing it could fog up my memory as easily as it blurred the air.
He finally sat down at the little table, the wood creaking under his weight. “You don’t have to,” he said, without specifying whatitwas — make coffee, apologize, exist in his orbit.
“Too late,” I said. And somehow that made him smile, barely.
It was easier after that. Noteasy, exactly, but manageable. He started sorting through a stack of papers, muttering about drafts and deadlines. I curled up in the armchair with my book — though I couldn’t recall a single word I read.
Every time I turned a page, I could feel his eyes flick toward me. Every time his typewriter clacked, I found myself glancing up.
We orbited each other like two magnets pretending not to notice the pull.
At some point, he made a quiet joke about how I’d probably spill ink everywhere if he let me near his drafts, and I told him that was a deeply unsexy assumption to make about a woman.
He choked on his coffee.
And just like that, the air shifted again — lighter, not harmless, but something close to peace.
CHAPTER 16
Silas
