Silas surrenders the mittens to a volunteer for careful sorting. When he stands, I'm still crouched, which puts me at eye level with his hips. I stand too quickly, stumbling slightly. His hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow. Even through my sweater, his touch burns.
The corner of his mouth tilts up. I have the insane urge to kiss him right there in front of children and volunteers and God himself. Big problem. Huge problem. I step away, my fingers tingling. Silas coughs and moves on.
I’m making this weird. I really need to get my shit together.
An hour blurs past in a rush of activities. Matching kids with boots in their size. Helping an elderly woman select a warm coat. Organizing blanket bundles for distribution. Through it all, Silas stays close. Not hovering, but present.
When a father thanks him for the autograph, Silas signs without the usual grimace. When kids cluster around asking about hockey, he actually answers their questions. Patience replaces his normal gruffness.
I watch him crouch to a child's eye level, explaining how to hold a hockey stick properly using a broom handle. Something warm and soft blooms in my chest. This version of Silas, patient and kind, feels more dangerous than the Ice Man persona he wears at the arena.
The media arrives, cameras flashing, and Silas handles the questions with practiced ease. I stand slightly behind him, watching how he deflects praise to the community, mentions the rec center's twenty-year legacy, and thanks the volunteers.
Professional and polished. Nothing like the growly man who barely speaks to me even though I live in the same condo.
When the last reporter packs up, the coordinator thanks usprofusely. "You two are wonderful together. Such a lovely couple."
"Oh, we're not..." I start.
"We work together," Silas finishes, but his hand finds the small of my back again.
Outside, the sky has darkened to pewter. Snow begins falling, fat flakes drifting down in lazy spirals.
"Ferry's probably still running," I say, pulling out my phone to check the schedule, but I frown when I get no signal. "Or not. I can't get reception."
Silas tries his phone. "Same. The storm's moving in faster than predicted."
“Mr. Huxley?” A woman rushes out from the rec center. "I’m so sorry. The ferries stopped ten minutes ago. A storm warning just came through on the radio. You're stuck until the morning at least."
My stomach drops. "There's got to be somewhere we can stay."
"There’s a bed-and-breakfast two streets over." She points. "Mrs. Zhao usually has rooms. Want me to call?"
"Please," Silas says.
She disappears inside. Returns a few minutes later. "You're in luck. The last room is available. She'll hold it for you."
We thank her and head into the now-heavy snowfall. The walk takes ten minutes, long enough for snow to accumulate on our shoulders and hair. Silas walks close, using his larger frame to block the worst of the wind. His jacket stays open, angled to shield me from gusts of fresh snow.
I pull out my phone to check for messages but there's still no signal. Everything important got left in the car we took from the ferry dock anyway, except the small backpack I brought for the day.
The bed-and-breakfast appears through the storm like something from a painting. Yellow light spills from windows onto a wraparound porch. We make a mad dash from the street to the front door, with Silas taking the brunt of what has now become a full-fledged snowstorm. Inside the inn, I shake off my jacket, laughing.
“I can’t believe we were just caught in that,” I say. Silas runs a hand over his hair, sending a pile of snow onto the floor.
A woman in an oatmeal-colored sweater greets us with practiced warmth that widens slightly when she recognizes Silas. "You must be our stranded guests. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the Honeymoon Suite. It's the only room that isn’t occupied at the moment."
"Sounds fine," Silas says, shaking off some residual slush from his jacket. "We'll take anything."
"Sounds perfect." She hands over a brass key. "Breakfast at eight, unless the power goes out. Then it's coffee if the generator cooperates."
We climb narrow stairs to the top floor. The room waits behind a white door with a ceramic plaque. Inside, a fireplace flickers in a tiled hearth. The bed dominates the space, built for newlyweds who can't keep their hands off each other. Quilts in red and cream, mismatched nightstands, a window seat overlooking dark water.
And outside, the beautiful backyard scene is quickly overtaken by piles and drifts of fast-accumulating snow. Silas sets my backpack, which he insisted on carrying, down carefully. "I'll take the floor."
“What? Are you crazy?” I cut my eyes at him. "You aren’t sleeping on the floor, Silas."
"I've slept on worse."
