“Too late,” I muttered.
But when I glanced at him again — hair damp from melted snow, coat slung over the chair, sleeves pushed up — he didn’t look like an intruder.
He looked… like someone who’d been exiled. Someone who knew how it felt to lose something and keep walking, anyway. The fire popped. Outside, the storm deepened. And in that little cabin, wrapped in tinsel and quiet, I told myself he’d be gone by morning.
Even though deep down I already knew better.
CHAPTER 4
Silas
I saton the arm of the couch, unbuttoning my flannel to dry some in the heat of the fire, and watched the snow build against the window. The wind had started to sound different — the kind that didn’t stop after an hour.
Colette kept fussing with the string of lights long after they’d stopped cooperating — tucking and untucking the same strand of tinsel, rearranging a bowl of ornaments like she could order out of chaos.
It was something I recognized. The need to keep busy so the ache couldn’t catch up.
She noticed me looking. “You can stop staring like we’re about to be buried alive.”
I didn’t bother to smile. “We might be.”
She made a face at that, but when she came closer to the window herself, her breath fogged the glass. “Is it that bad?”
She was close enough to touch. I couldfeelthe warmth from her body. Could have counted the Christmas red threads that held the hem of her giant sweater together.
“Worse than you think. Roads’ll close before the morning. Evenif we could reach someone, I doubt they’d make it up here until the plows clear the pass.”
Her shoulders slumped just slightly, like a thread inside her had gone slack. “Of course.”
I hesitated, then said, “There’s food. The owner’s service stocked the place before my arrival.”
“That’s why there’s so much stuff here.” Her head turned, eyes narrowing. “Yourarrival.”
I nodded once. “Mine. I always request a full pantry and firewood. You’re welcome to share, unless you’d prefer to live on cocoa and denial.”
That startled a laugh out of her — too loud, too raw, like it broke past her defenses before she could stop it. She covered her mouth. “God, sorry. That was?—”
“Welcome. You seem less likely to kill me after that egregious sound.” I said. Then, after a beat: “Do you mind if I make dinner?”
Her brows went up. “You cook?”
“Enough to survive.”
“I don’t trust that answer.”
“I don’t blame you.” I stood, rolling up my sleeves. “Still. Better than burning the place down.”
She looked like she wanted to argue but didn’t. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m helping.”
I almost smiled at that — almost. “You can set the table.”
She narrowed her eyes, but there was a spark now — the kind that hadn’t been there when she’d first screamed at me.
I opened the fridge, grateful for something to occupy my hands. Everything was perfectly arranged, just as I’d paid for it to be: eggs, butter, vegetables, a small roast wrapped in paper. Comfort in order. Predictability.
“Who even eats a roast alone?” she asked from behind me.
“I was planning on pretending it was a deadline,” I said.
