She smiles. "What are you nervous about?"
You. This. The fact that I want this to be more than just a weekend. The possibility that you might not feel the same way.
"Making sure you're comfortable," I say instead. "Making sure this weekend is... good. For both of us."
"I think it will be," she says softly. "I have a good feeling about this."
Something in my chest loosens. "Yeah. Me too."
I climb out and grab her bag from the back, then open her door. She takes my offered hand to step down, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm. She feels it too, I can tell by the way her breath catches. But she doesn't pull away. And neither do I.
We stand there for a moment, her hand in mine, the cold air making our breath visible between us.
"Come on," I say finally, reluctantly releasing her. "Let's get you inside where it's warm."
I lead her up the steps to the cabin, acutely aware of her behind me, and push open the door.
The interior is warm, fire crackling in the hearth, exactly as Jonah promised. The space is open, living area with comfortable furniture, kitchen in the corner, stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
"This is amazing," Iris says, stepping inside and looking around with wide eyes.
I set her bag down by the stairs. "Your room's upstairs. First door on the right. I'll take the other one."
She turns to me. "Separate rooms?"
"Yeah. Figured you'd want privacy."
"Oh. Right. Of course." She sounds almost... disappointed?
But before I can analyze that, she's smiling again. "Thank you. For thinking of that."
"You hungry? I brought food. We can make dinner together if you want."
Her whole face lights up. "I'd love that."
And just like that, the nerves fade. Whatever this weekend brings, we'll figure it out together.
Chapter 4 – Iris
The kitchen is smaller than mine at home, but somehow cozier. Silas moves through it with surprising efficiency, pulling out ingredients he must have stocked earlier, chicken, vegetables, pasta, fresh herbs.
"You cook?" I ask, watching him from where I'm perched on a barstool at the counter.
"Basic stuff. Military taught me not to starve." He glances at me, and there's something almost playful in his eyes. "You?"
"I live alone. It's either cook or survive on cereal and takeout."
"Lovesbury doesn't strike me as having much takeout."
"Exactly. So I learned to cook." I slide off the stool. "Put me to work. I'm not good at just watching."
He hands me a cutting board and vegetables. "You can start on these. I'll handle the chicken."
We work side by side, and I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way his hands move with precision, the flex of his forearms under his rolled-up sleeves, the focused expression on his face. He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... you're very precise. Very methodical."
