"You gave up your dreams for him."
"I chose family over dreams. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He's watching me with those intense eyes. "Sounds like you set yourself aside to take care of everyone else. Who takes care of you, Iris?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... I take care of myself."
"Do you?" He leans forward slightly. "Or do you just keep yourself so busy helping everyone else that you don't have to think about what you want?"
It's uncomfortably perceptive. "That's not—"
"I see you," he interrupts, voice low. "The way you talk about the center, the way your eyes light up when you mention volunteering, the way you jumped in when you thought I needed rescuing, the way you probably say yes to every request for help that comes your way. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?"
My throat tightens. "I don't need taking care of."
"Everyone needs taking care of sometimes." His hand moves across the table, stopping just short of mine. Not touching, but the intention is there. "Even people who spend their whole lives being everyone else's light."
The words hit me square in the chest. My eyes start to sting, and I blink rapidly.
"Iris." His hand finally covers mine, warm and solid. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't. You just... nobody's ever said that to me before. Nobody's ever noticed."
"I notice everything about you."
The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility. Then Silas pulls back, breaking the connection.
"We should clean up. Long day tomorrow if you want to explore."
"Explore?"
"The lake. The woods. There's good hiking around here. If you're up for it."
"I'd love that."
We clean up together, and the domesticity of it makes my chest ache. Washing dishes side by side, handing off plates and glasses, moving in sync like we've done this a hundred times before.
When everything's put away, we migrate to the couch. The fire is burning low, and Silas adds another log before settling on the opposite end from me.
The distance feels intentional. Safe.
"Tell me something nobody knows about you," I say, curling my legs under me.
"That's a dangerous question."
"I like danger. Apparently." I gesture between us. "Evidence: this weekend."
His lips twitch. "Fair point." He thinks for a moment. "I wanted to be a teacher. Before the military."
"Really?"
"Yeah. History, specifically. Loved it in school. But my dad was career military, expected me to follow. And I was eighteen and stupid and thought I knew what I wanted." He shakes his head. "Turns out I was decent at it. The military. Found my place, made rank, did good work. But sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd chosen differently."
"It's not too late," I say. "You could still teach. Go back to school, get certified…"
"I'm thirty-nine years old with a bad leg and PTSD. Not exactly teacher material."
"That’s not true, and you know it. You'd be an amazing teacher. You're patient, knowledgeable, and you actually listen when people talk. That's more than most teachers have."
