“Better?” he murmured.
“Much.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he’d touch me again. Then his arm slid across the space between us, hesitating just long enough for me to lean into it. My back met his chest, his chin resting lightly in my hair.
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, the snow whispered against the glass, steady andunending. Inside, the world was small — breath, heartbeat, the faint rustle of linen as I shifted closer, until there wasn’t room for even a thought between us.
I should’ve said something. About what this wasn’t. About what it couldn’t become once the storm passed.
But his breath was warm against my neck, and the fire cracked softly, and for one fleeting, impossible moment, I let myself imagine this was a life we could keep.
The storm had gone quiet overnight. I could hear the wind moving through the trees, not angry now, just tired. The light creeping through the window was thin and gray, the kind that made everything look softer, kinder, like the world hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet.
Silas had fallen back asleep beside me. On his back now, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting near where my shoulder had been before I’d rolled away. The blanket had slipped to his waist. I caught myself staring — at the shape of him, the lines and angles that looked like they’d been carved for permanence.
And God, I felt stupid.
Stupid for lying here, for feelinganything, for how easy it had been to fold into him last night like I’d done it a hundred times before.
He was older. Experienced. Measured in all the ways I wasn’t. I was twenty-eight and barely knew how to keep my life upright, much less my heart. He’d probably seen a hundred women like me — too young, too messy, too eager to believe that warmth meant safety.
I tugged the blanket higher, trying to gather the pieces of myself that had scattered in the night. But his smell — pine and smoke and something quieter underneath — clung to my skin.
Strangers, I reminded myself. That’s what we were. Strangers who’d shared a storm, a bed, a breath.
And yet…
When he stirred, his hand brushed blindly against the mattressuntil it found mine;, something in me cracked all over again. I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
His thumb moved lazily over my knuckles — barely there, like muscle memory. Still half-asleep, he murmured, “You’re still awake?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out small, not like me at all.
“Go back to sleep, Colette.” He shifted closer, the blanket rustling, heat closing the space between us again. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said softly. “Come here.”
And when his hand tightened just slightly around mine, I hated how much I wanted to believe that maybe — just maybe — I didn’t have to be.
CHAPTER 20
Silas
The words leftme before I even knew I’d spoken them. She froze for half a second, then shifted toward me — slow, careful, still half asleep.
When she tucked herself against me, the world just… steadied. The storm outside could’ve torn the roof away and I don’t think I would have noticed. Her body was warm against mine, soft in all the ways I hadn’t dared imagine.
I pulled the blanket higher, cocooning us in that narrow space between the fire’s glow and the first hint of dawn. Her hair brushed my jaw when she sighed, and something deep in my chest twisted.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to hold someone who wasn’t performing comfort — who justwas.She didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand or expect or fill the silence with explanations. She just breathed, and I matched her, breath for breath.
When her hand found mine under the blanket — slow, uncertain — she laced our fingers together against the soft curve of her stomach. That simple touch did something I wasn’t ready for.
This wasn’t about rescue. Or guilt. Or loneliness. It was something small and human andreal.
