Chapter 7 Silas
Silas
The pan hissed when I cracked the eggs in. I told myself to focus on that — on the sizzle, the smell of butter browning, the familiar rhythm of a task I couldn’t possibly screw up.
Behind me, she was humming to the faint tune of some Christmas song, the one that had been playing when I first walked in last night.
“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was perched on the counter now, knees tucked up, blanket draped like a cape. Her hair was a tangled halo — all soft waves and pale-pink streaks that caught the firelight like spun sugar.
“I know how to cook eggs,” I said.
“Famous last words.” Her fingers curled tighter around her mug, as if she could will the warmth into her very bones.
“They’re not that complicated.”
“You’d be surprised.” She grinned, eyes bright. “My ex once burned a pot of water.”
“You’re right. That is impressive.”
“He also cheated, so, you know. Not much of a cook or a person.”
My hand froze around the spatula. She said it so casually — a landmine buried in the middle of her teasing. I cleared my throat. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“Understatement of the year, Mr. Author.” She tilted her head. “What are you planning on working on up here?”
I focused on flipping the eggs, not on the teasing cadence of her words. “Fiction.”
“That’s helpful.”
“I didn’t think you’d care for specifics.”
“I don’t,” she blurted, then squinted. “Actually, that’s a lie. Please tell me everything.”
When our eyes met, hers were sparkling, and an almost feline grin tipped the corners of her mouth upwards. “Romance? Science? They did a pretty good job with the film The Way We Move, I think. Ansel Barlowe was a fantastic Theo—”
“Your hair isn’t naturally pink.” My words slipped out before I could think any better of it.
Colette’s grin only deepened. “What? Pale pink hair doesn’t scream ‘I’m totally not having a mental breakdown’?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.” She slipped down from the counter, padding closer to where I sat crouched over the small sterno.
I swallowed, forcing my attention back to the sterno. The eggs didn’t need me, but they were a convenient excuse to avoid the gravity of her presence.
“Maybe I thought it,” I muttered.
She was perched at the edge of the mattress now, close enough that the heat from her body brushed my arm. My pulse ticked faster, loud in my ears. I tried to remember to breathe evenly.
Tried.
“You know,” she said softly, “you could look up once in a while. Might make cooking more interesting.”
“Cooking is not a spectator sport,” I replied, but my voice sounded thinner than I intended. Her fingers twitched, idly tracing a fold in the blanket draped over her knees. Just that motion, that small almost intimacy, made the back of my neck prickle.
“Are you always this tense?” She asked, grin still playing on her lips. “Or am I special?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted to — wanted to say yes, wanted to tell her she had no idea what she’d done to me with that glance, that grin, that careless proximity — but I flipped the eggs again, ignoring how she seemed to creep closer still.
She leaned a little closer. “You’re going to watch me eat breakfast like a hawk, aren’t you?”
“I’m… attentive,” I said, giving her the barest hint of a smirk.
“That’s terrifying,” she whispered, eyes glittering.
I ignored the shiver that went straight down my spine at the sound of her voice, soft and teasing, and focused on flipping an egg. My hand shook a fraction. My chest felt too tight.
“You’re pale,” I said finally. The words were random. A deflection. Anything to stop thinking about how warm she was, how alive, how impossibly present in my little world.
“What?”
“You’re pale. Your skin. It—” I cleared my throat, muttering nonsense. “Never mind.”
Her laugh filled the cabin, light and chaotic, and it was a shock to the system — like a hand pressed against my ribs I didn’t want to let go of.
Her hand.
I turned slightly toward the fire, letting the light dance over her face, pretending it was the flames, not the way she had me cornered in the middle of the morning without touching me at all.
The heat between us was subtle, simmering, dangerous. And I had no intention of addressing it. I handed her the plate, trying to look casual, as if carrying hot eggs across the mattress edge wasn’t an ordeal of self-control.
She took it with one hand, fingers brushing against mine. I froze — just a fraction of a second, but long enough that she caught it.
“You’re twitchy,” she said, voice teasing, eyes sharp. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Not at all,” I said, and the words came out far too flat. Too quick.
Her grin widened. “Sure. Definitely not. You’re just… observant. Intensely, awkwardly, impossibly observant.”
I ignored her, returning to the stove. Focused on the eggs. The sterno. Anything but the fact that she was sitting so close, heat rolling off her like she belonged here, like she belonged too close.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying the plate like she was going to critique my technique. “You flipped that perfectly. Very domestic. Did you do a lot of… domestic things?”
“No,” I said, voice even gruffer than intended. “I… live alone.”
Her laugh was soft but insistent. “Oh, I can tell. You’re good at it though. Cooking, cleaning, brooding quietly.”
I glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “Brooding quietly is an art form, Colette. You wouldn’t understand.
“Cole,” she leaned back, smirk curling her lips. “Maybe I would. Maybe I’d like to study it up close.”
Heat prickled down my spine, and I had to focus on the eggs again, flipping one with a deliberate flick. Anything to keep my hands from twitching toward her. “Your name is Colette.”
“And everyone calls me, Cole.”
“No,” the word was softer than I had intended. “Not everyone.”
She laughed again, soft and knowing, and the sound sent something low in my chest tight and sharp.
I was aware of every inch of her leaning toward me, of the warmth escaping the blanket she had draped over herself, of the faint scent of pine and cinnamon smoke. I wanted to look, but I didn’t. I wanted to touch, but I didn’t.
Instead, I slid the plate closer and muttered, “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
Her grin was wicked. “You’re such a man.”
“Yes,” I said, exhaling through my nose, allowing myself a little smile. “A man who’s definitely not enjoying this too much.”
She tilted her head. “Mhmm. Sure. Totally not.”
I ignored her, flipped the last egg, and for one long moment, let myself imagine what it would feel like if she leaned just a little closer — just enough to blur the line between breakfast and something more dangerous.
She reached for the salt that sat on a small tray between us.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
Her arm brushed mine — bare skin against flannel — and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.
Static. Heat. The faintest hitch of her breath.
I should have moved. I didn’t.
For the first time since arriving at this overbooked retreat, I found myself wishing I hadn’t opted for the long sleeves.
My pulse stumbled. Every muscle went alert, waiting for a sign that it had been accidental. A muttered sorry, a quick retreat.
None came.
She stayed right there, shoulder against mine, close enough that I could have counted the freckles on her collarbone.
“Salt,” she said finally, voice a little too even, smile a little too wide. “You’re hoarding it.”
I looked down. The shaker sat by my knee, forgotten.
I passed it to her without a word.
She smiled — small, polite, devastating — and went back to sprinkling the eggs like nothing had happened.
I tried to chew. Tried to breathe. Tried to think about anything other than the way she’d leaned into me instead of away.
When she laughed a minute later at something that wasn’t funny, I knew it hadn’t been an accident.
I cleared my throat, searching for a safe topic and coming up empty. “So,” I started, hoping the words would just come to me. “What do you do when you’re not… decorating strangers’ cabins and freezing to death?”
She tilted her head, fork halfway to her mouth. “You mean when I’m not traumatizing reclusive authors?”
“That, yes.”
She smiled like she knew exactly how rattled I was. “I’m an art teacher. Young kids. Paint, clay, glitter, chaos. It’s loud.”
I nodded. “That explains the mess of garland in my kitchen.”
“You’re welcome,” she said lightly. Then, softer: “And you? What brings you to a cabin in the woods besides self-loathing?”
“I told you. Work.”
“Mm.” Her eyes slid over me, deliberate. “You could’ve worked anywhere, though. Why here?”
Because I wanted quiet. Because quiet used to help me think. Because I was tired of being the man who once wrote something people cared about.
Instead I said, “Cheaper than therapy.”
She laughed brightly and sudden. “Maybe I should try that. I’m already halfway there — unwashed hair, emotional baggage, questionable life choices.”
“Charming resume.”
“Don’t mock,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “You picked the same hiding place I did.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
She leaned in a little, chin propped on her hand. “Are you always this grumpy in the morning, Silas?”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re practically brooding into your eggs.”
“I prefer the term thoughtful.”
Her lips curved. “Right. Thoughtful. That’s what we’re calling it.”
I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat steady me. “You’re relentless, Colette.”
“I know,” she said, and for a heartbeat, the teasing dropped away. Something flickered in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe, or just relief. Then she grinned again. “And I think you like it.”