I met his gaze — god, those eyes — and for the first time in forever, I didn’t look away. “I thought this was… I don’t know—” Myvoice snagged. “—the universe’s way of paying me back for all the shit it’s put me through.”
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try and manage or lessen what I was feeling. Silas just sat, one hand cupping my cheek as though I was fragile, the other curled into the skin of my hip,holdingme.
“A fun and sexy little romp.” I finally managed, doing my best to blink away tears that had sprung up. “But now you’re…real? And… even with your permanent scowl you might just have raised the bar for anyone that might come after.”
His lips turned downward with that comment – as if the thought ofafterandnot himdisgusted him.
Truth be told, it might disgust me too.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” My voice trembled. Not from fear — not exactly — but from the enormity of it. Of him. Of how different this was… and how desperately I wanted it anyway. “If I let you slip through my fingers, Silas. I want this. I wantyou.”
Silas let out a breath, like I’d just said the exact thing he’d been praying I would. His grip tightened — gentle, sure — and I felt it everywhere.
“Okay,” he said softly, borderline reverently. “Then that’s enough for me.”
And just like that, I wasn’t falling alone anymore.
The water had gone cold by the time either of us remembered to move. The world outside the tub might as well have disappeared — the wind, the snow, the ticking of the old clock somewhere in the cabin. All I could hear was our breathing, syncing in the quiet.
When Silas finally stirred, it wasn’t to ruin the moment. It was to preserve it. “Come on,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something else entirely. Something that set a fire deep in my bones “You’re freezing.”
He stood first, slow and careful, water sluicing down his skin. He offered me his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world — like I hadn’t just told him he was the closest thing torealI’d ever felt. When I took it, his fingers closed around mine, steady and certain.
He wrapped me in a towel so big and warm it might as well have been his arms, rubbing slow circles across my back until goosebumps gave way to a different kind of shiver.
“Better?” he asked, not meeting my eyes.
I nodded, even though it wasn’t true.
Nothing about this wasbetter. It was beautiful and it was doomed and I knew it.
He moved through the small washroom as though he’d been living there for years — draining the tub, tossing another towel over his shoulders, wringing water from his hair. Every small, domestic movement cracked something open in me.
Because it felt like a glimpse of something I was never meant to have.
Something I might never get again.
“Do you always take care of people like this?” I tried to sound light, teasing. The words wobbled anyway.
He looked up, towel still in his hands. “Not usually.”
And that — that quiet, simple honesty — almost undid me.
He reached for me again, his thumb brushing a strand of wet hair from my cheek. “You’re shivering, Colette”
I tried to laugh, but it came out small. “Yeah. Guess I’m not built for mountain life.”
He smiled — faint, crooked. “You’ll just have to stay close to the fire, then.”
I knew what he meant.
I also knew he couldn’t mean it. Not for long.
The thought hit like a bruise blooming under my ribs — that in a day or two, maybe less, there’d be clear roads, more reliable cell service, and the real world waiting with its lists and expectations.
That I’d have to leave this cabin, and him, and the version of myself that felt brave enough to fall. I turned away before he could see the sting in my eyes, clutching the towel tighter.
He didn’t stop me, but I felt his gaze on me — warm, unrelenting, like sunlight I didn’t know how to look at directly.
