At five a.m., I give up on sleep and head downstairs. Make coffee. Stoke the fire. Stare out the window at the snow-covered forest and try to get my head straight.
I came here to help the veteran's center. To fulfill an obligation. But somewhere between Saturday night and now, this stopped being about charity and started being about her. About the way she makes me feel like maybe I'm not as broken as I thought. Like maybe there's a future worth having on the other side of all this.
I hear her moving around upstairs around seven-thirty. The shower runs. Floorboards creak. I pour a second cup of coffee and wait.
When she comes down, she's wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that makes her skin glow. Her hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and she's got a shy smile on her face.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning." My voice is rougher than usual. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I pour her a cup, remembering cream and sugar from yesterday, and slide it across the counter. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and electricity shoots up my arm.
"Sleep okay?" I ask.
"Great. You?"
I lie. "Fine."
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying but doesn't call me on it. "So. Ice skating today?"
"If you want. Lake should be perfect for it."
"I haven't skated in years. I'll probably fall on my ass."
"I'll catch you."
The words come out more intense than I intended. She stares at me over her coffee cup, eyes wide.
"I mean, I'll be there. To help. If you fall." I'm fumbling now, and I never fumble.
"I know what you meant." Her smile is soft. "And thank you."
After breakfast, we bundle up and head down to the lake. The morning is crisp and clear, sunlight making the snow sparkle like diamonds. Iris walks beside me, close enough that our arms occasionally brush, and each touch sends awareness shooting through me.
At the lake, I test the ice. Solid. Thick. Safe.
"Okay," I say, turning to her. "Rule one: keep your weight centered. Rule two: small steps, don't try to go fast. Rule three: when you feel yourself falling, don't fight it. Just go with it."
"Those are terrible rules."
"They've kept me alive in worse situations than ice skating."
She laughs, and the sound wraps around me like warmth. I want to hear it again and again.
I step onto the ice first, then offer her my hand. She takes it, and I carefully pull her onto the frozen surface.
"Okay," she breathes. "This is scarier than I remembered."
"I've got you. Just stay close."
We start moving, slow and cautious. She's wobbly, gripping my hand like a lifeline, but game. We make it about ten feet before her feet start sliding in different directions.
"Silas—"
I wrap my arm around her waist, steadying her. "I've got you."
