Chapter 4
Silas
I sat on the arm of the couch, unbuttoning my flannel to dry some in the heat of the fire, and watched the snow build against the window. The wind had started to sound different — the kind that didn’t stop after an hour.
Colette kept fussing with the string of lights long after they’d stopped cooperating — tucking and untucking the same strand of tinsel, rearranging a bowl of ornaments like she could order out of chaos.
It was something I recognized. The need to keep busy so the ache couldn’t catch up.
She noticed me looking. “You can stop staring like we’re about to be buried alive.”
I didn’t bother to smile. “We might be.”
She made a face at that, but when she came closer to the window herself, her breath fogged the glass. “Is it that bad?”
She was close enough to touch. I could feel the warmth from her body. Could have counted the Christmas red threads that held the hem of her giant sweater together.
“Worse than you think. Roads’ll close before the morning. Even if we could reach someone, I doubt they’d make it up here until the plows clear the pass.”
Her shoulders slumped just slightly, like a thread inside her had gone slack. “Of course.”
I hesitated, then said, “There’s food. The owner’s service stocked the place before my arrival.”
“That’s why there’s so much stuff here.” Her head turned, eyes narrowing. “Your arrival.”
I nodded once. “Mine. I always request a full pantry and firewood. You’re welcome to share, unless you’d prefer to live on cocoa and denial.”
That startled a laugh out of her — too loud, too raw, like it broke past her defenses before she could stop it. She covered her mouth. “God, sorry. That was—”
“Welcome. You seem less likely to kill me after that egregious sound.” I said. Then, after a beat: “Do you mind if I make dinner?”
Her brows went up. “You cook?”
“Enough to survive.”
“I don’t trust that answer.”
“I don’t blame you.” I stood, rolling up my sleeves. “Still. Better than burning the place down.”
She looked like she wanted to argue but didn’t. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m helping.”
I almost smiled at that — almost. “You can set the table.”
She narrowed her eyes, but there was a spark now — the kind that hadn’t been there when she’d first screamed at me.
I opened the fridge, grateful for something to occupy my hands. Everything was perfectly arranged, just as I’d paid for it to be: eggs, butter, vegetables, a small roast wrapped in paper. Comfort in order. Predictability.
“Who even eats a roast alone?” she asked from behind me.
“I was planning on pretending it was a deadline,” I said.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I turned, leaning against the counter, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
She didn’t look away. For a heartbeat, the storm and the fire and the quiet all folded in around us — the first fragile stillness of the night.
And somewhere under it, the unmistakable knowledge: neither of us would leave soon.
The kitchen wasn’t much — half a counter, a sink, and a single cast-iron skillet that looked older than either of us. But it was enough. I found rhythm in small things: olive oil, salt, the scrape of a knife against a cutting board.
She moved around me like static, restless and too bright for the space. Setting the table, rearranging it twice, humming under her breath. I wasn’t sure she even realized she was doing it.
When I reached for the spices, she was suddenly there, opening the wrong cabinet, laughing softly when she found cereal instead.
“I thought I’d help,” she said.
“You’re doing an excellent job of that.”
Her eyes cut toward me — narrowed, amused. “Are you always this polite, or is it just the storm talking?”
“I’m out of practice,” I admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to share space.”
“Same.”
Something about the word “same” made me pause. I glanced up, and she was already looking away, pretending to fuss with a stack of mismatched plates. The sweatshirt hung off one shoulder again, bare skin catching the glow of the fire.
The knife slipped a fraction. I steadied it. Kept chopping.
We didn’t talk much after that, and somehow it was easier that way. The cabin filled with the smell of garlic and rosemary. Outside, the snow kept falling, thick and sure, sealing us in.
When I finally handed her a plate, she looked almost suspicious. “This smells like an actual meal.”
“It is.”
“You really are full of surprises, Mr. Reed.”
I sat opposite her, elbows on the table, and watched her take the first bite. She made a sound low in her throat — approval or relief, maybe both — and I had to look away.
“You said you came here for solitude,” I said. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Her fork paused midair. “You’re awfully nosy for someone who was just invited to dinner out of pity.”
“I wasn’t invited. I offered.”
“Same difference.”
She tried to sound flippant, but her voice cracked around the edges. I didn’t press. I just nodded, taking a slow bite of my own, letting her have the silence. People told you more when you didn’t ask.
After a while, she spoke again, quieter. “It means I needed to stop pretending I was fine.”
That landed somewhere under my ribs. Too familiar. Too close.
I set my fork down. “Then maybe we’re both in the right place.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, sharp and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure whether I was teasing her or telling the truth. I didn’t clarify.
The fire popped. The wind howled. Between us, the plates were emptying, the room warmer than it should’ve been.
When she stood to clear the table, I found myself saying her name without thinking. “Colette.”
I stood too.
She looked back, startled.
“You can leave the dishes,” I said. “It’s late. The storm’s not letting up.”
She hesitated, then smiled, small but real. “You really can’t stand letting anyone work, can you?”
“Not when I can help it.”
Her smile lingered as she turned away, and for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn’t feel like punishment.