Chapter 6 Silas
Silas
The light woke me.
Faint, filtered, the kind that comes through snow and cloud and doesn’t quite belong to morning yet.
For a few seconds, I didn’t know where I was. Just warmth. A pulse against my arm. The soft, steady weight of another body pressed close.
Then I remembered.
The couch. The fire.
Her.
Some time in the night, the distance between us had vanished. I vaguely remembered the draw of the fire, the blankets, her.
The couch hadn’t been enough, or maybe I’d shifted in my sleep, or maybe she had… either way, the result was the same.
She was here now.
Tucked against my chest like at one time — she’d been made to fit there.
Her hair smelled faintly of citrus, of something fresh and earthy. One of her hands had slipped under the blanket and come to rest against my ribs, fingers curled in like she was afraid of being caught.
I should’ve moved.
This wasn’t…
It wasn’t proper. It certainly wasn’t going to do anything for me in terms of my career.
I didn’t even know this girl, this woman who was crashing my solace.
But… I stayed. Breathing slow. Careful. Trying not to wake her, trying not to feel. Outside, the wind had gone still. The quiet felt thick enough to drown in. Her breath ghosted against my throat, and something deep in my chest ached in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
It wasn’t desire, not exactly. It was worse.
It was the sound of her heartbeat syncing with mine, of warmth finding me when I’d long since stopped expecting it.
Her lashes fluttered once. She didn’t wake, but her hand twitched, brushing my side. The smallest touch, accidental or not, and it burned anyway.
I shut my eyes.
Counted the seconds.
One. Two. Three.
Don’t make this something it isn’t.
The fire cracked softly, almost as if it were laughing.
Fuck.
I should have moved. I told myself that again, half-awake, the words dull as prayer.
Move. Get up. Put distance between you.
But the warmth was a trap. It had soaked into the fabric, into my bones, into the part of me that had forgotten what it was to be still beside another person.
I eased my arm from under her hand, slow enough not to wake her, and she made a small sound — barely there, but enough to stop me.
She shifted, nose brushing the inside of my wrist before settling again.
The sound that left my throat wasn’t a word. Just air.
I stared at the ceiling until the world steadied. Then I attempted to sit up, one careful inch at a time. The blanket fell away, cold air rushing in where her body had been. The shock of it helped; it was easier to think when it hurt. But the more I moved, the more she did too.
If I woke her, she’d find us like this.
If I didn’t… well, she’d still find us like this.
Somewhere outside, a branch cracked under the weight of ice. The sound made her stir, and my heartbeat kicked hard once — ridiculous, involuntary — before she blinked her eyes open.
Her breathing changed before I moved.
That was the first thing I noticed—the small hitch in it, the faint drag of air that said she was awake but pretending not to be.
The next thing was warmth. Too much of it. The fire had burned high again, and the room glowed in amber light, soft and slow.
I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten until now. My shirt had twisted in the night; the back of her hand brushed bare skin when she shifted. The touch was nothing, just an accident of space, but my pulse jumped anyway.
For a moment… something flashed before my eyes.
Her, pink haired and wild, beneath me. Lips parted, eyes closed. Sweat dripping down between her—
I blinked hard, doing my best to clear the thought.
I kept still, every muscle taut. The air between us felt alive, almost electric, and I could hear my own heartbeat — steady, deliberate, giving me away.
When I finally looked down, her eyes were open. For a heartbeat, we didn’t speak. Her gaze flicked to the place where our arms met, to the fine trail of heat still between us, then back to my face.
“Morning,” I managed.
It came out rougher than I meant it to.
She blinked, slow, as if still half-dreaming. “You’re not on the couch.”
“No.” I swallowed. “Didn’t mean to…fall asleep here.”
The corner of her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You’re warm,” she said softly.
That simple. That dangerous.
I pulled back just enough for air to slip between us, but the warmth lingered like an echo under my skin. I slid from the mattress, sitting back on my haunches as I poked at the fire.
She moved behind me, with the soft rustle of blankets and the quiet thud of her feet against the floorboards. I didn’t turn. I just kept coaxing the fire, jaw tight, pretending to study the flame instead of the sound of her moving through the cold.
“You took all the warmth with you,” she said finally.
It wasn’t accusing, not exactly. Just small. Tired. Like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. My hand stilled over the log I was about to place.
I could’ve laughed — made a joke, teased her, done anything to lighten it — but the words hit somewhere low in my chest. “I didn’t mean to,” I mumbled.
She made a soft sound — something between a sigh and a huff — and came closer. The blanket still clutched around her, cheeks pink from sleep, hair a little wild. She looked like a dream you weren’t supposed to wake from.
“Are you always this considerate?” she asked, “or just when you accidentally share body heat with a stranger?”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” I said, and still didn’t look up. “Sharing a bed with a stranger, that is.”
Her laugh was small, real. “That’s reassuring.”
The silence stretched again, but it was different this time — warmer, thicker. I could feel her at my side, just close enough that if I shifted, we’d touch again.
“You should sit,” I said, mostly because I needed the distance. “It’s warmer here now.”
“Right. Because you fixed it.” She said it as if it were a challenge, but she dropped to her knees beside me, anyway. From the corner of my eye, I saw the faintest grin stretched across her lips.
I felt her shoulder brush mine as she held her hands toward the flame. My pulse jumped as though it had no discipline whatsoever.
She tilted her head. “You’re really not going to look at me, are you?”
“I’m trying to,” I said, throat working around the words “be polite.”
Her smile turned slow, sharp around the edges. “Polite’s overrated, Silas.”
And before I could think better of it, before I could remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want what I already did, I looked.
Her eyes caught the light like amber glass. Her lips were parted, still soft from sleep. The fire popped, and for one wild second, I thought I might lean in.
Instead, I said, “Breakfast. I’ll make us something.”
And stood before she could see me shake.