Chapter 5 Colette
Colette
I washed the dishes anyway. I know he told me not to, but I needed the noise — the clink of plates, the rush of water, the small illusion of control.
He moved quietly behind me, tidying without saying much. Every so often, I’d catch the faint scent of him — soap, smoke, and something colder. It wasn’t fair that he smelled good. That during the hardest season of my life, this older, and unbelievably attractive, man was just… here.
By the time the dishes were stacked, it was well past ten. The storm outside had thickened to a solid white wall. I kept checking the window, as if the sight of it might magically change. It didn’t.
He’d settled on the couch with a book — his own, probably, because who else could get away with that — and the firelight cut across his face in these sharp, quiet lines. The kind of face that looked carved, not made.
It was too still. Too… full.
“So,” I said, voice too bright, “this is fun. Cozy. A totally normal evening with a complete stranger.”
He didn’t look up. “Stranger seems generous.”
“I might still murder you in your sleep,” I offered.
That earned the ghost of a smile. “Between you and that snowstorm… I think I’ll take my chances.”
I lingered there a moment, hugging my arms to my chest, waiting for him to say something else. He didn’t. He just turned another page, calm as the snow outside.
Eventually, I gave up. “Goodnight, Silas.”
“Goodnight, Colette.”
He said it low — so soft I almost didn’t hear it — and the way it landed made something in my chest tighten.
The cabin only had one proper bed, tucked into a nook across from the couch, so close I could see the rise and fall of his chest when I finally lay down. I turned my back to him, determined not to think about it.
The wind battered the windows. The fire dimmed to a quiet, pulsing glow. And then, sometime in the dark hours between wake and sleep, the lights flickered once… twice… and died.
The silence that followed was heavy and complete.
“Silas?” I whispered into the dark.
Nothing. Just the hiss of wind and the groan of the cabin.
I sat up, heart hammering. It was black — dark you could drown in. “Silas?”
There was a rustle, an inaudible murmur, then the sound of him shifting. “Colette, it’s all right,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Power’s gone. Stay put.”
Easy for him to say. He sounded steady, and I was a heartbeat away from panic. The floor creaked, the undeniable sound of movement in the cabin, before something brushed my arm — a blanket, maybe, or his hand guiding it toward me — and my breath hitched.
“Fire will hold until morning,” he said softly, his voice closer than I expected. “Go back to sleep.”
“Do you always sound this calm when the world’s ending?” I muttered.
He didn’t answer, and for some reason, that made it worse.
I lay back down, pulling the covers tight, staring into the darkness where I knew he was. Too close. Too quiet. The air between us felt charged, alive, impossible to ignore.
And though I told myself to sleep, I didn’t.
I listened—to the wind, to the fire, to him.
And somewhere in the dark, I started wondering what, exactly, I’d invited into my solitude.
I tried to sleep.
Really, I did.
But the cold kept finding me. It crept in slowly, an ache that started in my toes and worked its way up until even the tip of my nose felt frozen. Every time the wind hit the walls, I flinched and pulled the blanket tighter, but it didn’t help.
The fire had gone from a glow to embers — still alive, but barely. Shadows climbed the ceiling like restless things.
I could hear his breathing across the room. Slow, steady, maddeningly calm.
“Silas,” I whispered again. “Are you awake?”
A rustle. “How could I not be, Colette? You won’t stop talking.”
“But it’s freezing.”
“Mm.” He sounded half-asleep. “The logs are nearly gone. We’ll need more by morning.”
I stared into the dark, teeth chattering. “That’s not helpful now.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Would you feel better if I left my warm place and checked the fire?”
“No,” I said too quickly. “I mean — yes, but I don’t think I want you to freeze either.”
He made an indistinct sound — something between a sigh and a laugh—and then I heard the couch creak. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.
The faint orange light caught him in pieces: the broad line of his shoulders, the edge of his jaw, the soft tumble of hair that had escaped whatever careful shape it had earlier.
He crouched in front of the hearth, coaxing the embers with patient hands, and for a second the entire cabin felt suspended — like we were the last two people left in the world.
“You should get closer,” he said without looking back.
“To what? The fire or you?”
His mouth twitched. “Whichever works.”
I hesitated, then slid out from under the covers, wrapping the blanket around me like armor. The floorboards bit at feet through my thick socks, and the cold hit harder now that I was standing.
I crossed the few steps to the fire and knelt beside him, the blanket pooling around us both. The warmth was immediate — uneven, fragile, but real.
He added another log, then another. The flames rose, chasing the dark back a little.
“Better,” I murmured, stretching my hands toward the light with a small shiver.
When I glanced sideways, he was already looking at me. Not in a way that felt dangerous — just present. Like he was cataloging every piece of the moment so he could write it later and ruin me with it.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” His voice was rough, quiet. “You look warmer.”
Something stuttered in my chest. “That was the point, Silas.”
He hummed, eyes dropping to the fire again, and I told myself that was the end of it.
But I stayed kneeling there, close enough to feel the heat off his body, the small shifts in his breath. The blanket slipped from one shoulder, and before I could fix it, he reached over — wordless, instinctive — and tugged it back up around me.
His fingers brushed my neck. Barely.
It was nothing.
So why did it feel like everything?
We didn’t move for a long time, just watched the fire catch and climb. Then, quietly, his voice cut through the silence. “You’ll never sleep like that.”
“Like what?”
“Half frozen.” He stood, brushing the ash from his hands. “Stay here.”
Before I could argue, he crossed the room — sleeves shoved to his elbows — and dragged the mattress halfway toward the hearth. It scraped softly against the floorboards.
“What are you doing?”
“Preventing hypothermia.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can.” He looked over his shoulder, with the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Unless you’d prefer the floor.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “I can’t sleep there. You’ll—”
“It’s just a mattress,” he said. “You need the warmth more. Probably better to be as close to the fire. Unless you’re afraid I’m an arsonist, Colette.”
Something in me twisted — some small, unsteady pulse of guilt and gratitude. “Are you?”
He just laughed as he spread one of the spare blankets out across the couch for himself. I climbed onto the mattress, still wrapped in my blanket, still shivering a little.
The firelight played over the room in slow, drowsy strokes. My heart was in my throat. I was with him — Josh — for years. And I’d never felt… cared for. Not like this.
Ridiculous.
“Warmer?” he asked.
“Yeah.” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. “Warmer.”
I lay back on the mattress, pulling the covers tight around me. It should have felt better — safer, warmer — but all I could feel was the space between us, thick and strange, humming with everything unspoken.
After a while, I whispered, “Silas?”
A low hum in the dark. “Mm?”
“Thank you.”
The pause stretched out so long I thought he might’ve fallen asleep. Then, his voice echoed in the small cottage. “Go to sleep, Colette.”
My name, low in his voice, felt like another kind of warmth entirely. I did what he said. Or tried to. But even as my eyes closed, I could still hear him breathing across the room, slow and steady, like the sound was keeping the cold at bay.