Chapter 11
Silas
The morning crept in slowly, snow still thick outside, making the cabin feel like its own little world.
I watched her curl on the couch, knees tucked under a thick blanket, a book open in her lap.
Not mine, thank God, because I wasn’t ready for her to start critiquing my work before she’d even had coffee.
She hummed softly to herself, flipping a page with exaggerated care, and I had to bite back a grin. She looked completely harmless… until she caught me staring.
“You’re just sitting there,” she said, one brow lifted. “Judging me?”
“Observing,” I corrected, trying to sound dignified. “It’s different. I’m… professional about it.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Professional, huh? What is it now? Brooding over the fire again? Or counting how many heartbeats I’ve stolen already?”
I cleared my throat, fighting the sudden heat that crept up my neck. “I’m… cataloging details. For writing purposes.”
She laughed, the sound curling through the cabin like smoke. “Details, sure. That’s what we’ll call it.”
I rose, stretching my back, and went to the corner where my bag rested. The typewriter had come with me, ancient and clunky and perfect. I pulled it out, set it carefully on the small table.
Her eyes went wide. “Is that… a typewriter?”
“Yes.” I almost said my precious, almost didn’t, but her expression made it impossible to hide. She leaned forward, peering at it like a child discovering treasure.
“You actually… type?” she asked, incredulous. “I thought you wrote on some sleek laptop like a normal human being.”
“Normal humans are boring,” I muttered, running a finger along the keys.
She gasped dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “You’re insane. And wonderful. And slightly terrifying. I can’t even deal with this.”
I couldn’t stop the small smirk tugging at my lips. “Slightly terrifying is a good thing. You should know that.”
She shook her head, laughing again, and patted the couch beside her. “Sit. Show me. Let me see what a 51-year-old chaos author looks like at work.”
I hesitated. The thought of letting her watch me type made my chest tighten, made my hands itch like they wanted to do more than just hit the keys. But I couldn’t resist the way she leaned forward, eyes bright and sharp and impossibly alive.
“You’ll have to come over here. I’m afraid laps and typewriters aren’t the best of friends.
” I sat at the desk, fingers poised over the keys, and let her scrutinize every motion.
She made little noises of delight — tut-tuts and exaggerated sighs — and every time she grinned, I felt a flicker of warmth crawl up my spine.
“You take this so seriously,” she said, voice teasing as she leaned over my shoulder, “and yet… look at you. You look like a man who just discovered a new toy.”
“I take all toys seriously,” I replied, letting my fingers find the rhythm.
She shifted closer, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m going to tell everyone you look ridiculous right now.”
“And you’re going to enjoy it.” I glanced up at her. She was grinning, eyes bright with mischief, the snow-light catching her hair. I thought, impossibly, that she looked like trouble even when reading a book.
“You’re going to let me play with it?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Play?”
“Yes. Play. Hit a key. Hear the clack. Pretend I’m a writer from the 1920s who’s too cool for the internet.”
I laughed, low and soft. “You’re insane, this isn’t a plaything, Colette. It’s an antique.”
“Exactly,” she said, shifting her weight so she was practically sitting on the arm of the desk chair. “That’s why this works.”
And somehow, amidst the hum of the fire, the clack of the typewriter, and the snow pressing against the windows, the cabin felt impossibly alive. Just the two of us, simple and domestic, and yet charged like the air before a storm.
She reached over the table, fingers twitching like a kid in a candy store. “Come on, let me try!”
“Try?” I said slowly, hand hovering over the keys like a parent watching a toddler with a box of matches. “Colette, this isn’t like a regular keyboard. The mechanics are completely different.”
Her grin widened. “Exactly why I must play with it. Danger, remember? It’s what I live for.”
I could already feel my pulse start to speed. Every small motion she made was deliberate. She leaned closer, brushing against my shoulder. Her fingers hovered over my hands as they hovered over the keys, and I swear I could feel the tiny sparks of mischief crawling up my arm.
“You don’t type like normal humans anyway,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re all… precise, too perfect. Let me ruin that perfection for you.”
“I wouldn’t call it ruin,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, though my stomach had dropped into some entirely new orbit. “It’s… technique.”
“Technique, schmechnique,” she said, slapping her hand on the table for emphasis. “Let me hear the clack! I need it.”
With a resigned sigh, I stood, offering the chair to her. “Please don’t destroy my means of writing, Colette.” I said as I ran my hand through my greying beard. “I literally don’t have another one.”
She sat down dramatically, hands twitching over the keys. “I don’t know where to start.”
I leaned just a fraction closer, letting my hand brush hers as I gently guided her fingers to the right keys. The contact was brief, deliberate, casual — or at least I tried to make it look casual.
“Here,” I murmured, low, letting her feel the pressure of my hand over hers. “Try this one first. Steady, slow.”
She froze for half a heartbeat, eyes wide, then tilted her head, grin spreading. “Steady and slow? That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“Maybe it should be,” I said, keeping my voice calm even though my pulse was betraying me. My lips were near her ear, I could smell the unique profile of her skin.
Her fingers vibrated under mine as she hit the keys.
I guided her just enough to keep the rhythm smooth, close enough that I could feel the heat of her hand.
The movement wasn’t intentional — at least, I told myself it wasn’t — but the thrill of it had my chest tightening in ways I hadn’t felt in years.
“You’re… very… particular,” she said, voice soft, teasing, each syllable stretching out as if she knew exactly the effect it was having on me.
“Particular is different from picky,” I countered, letting my thumb brush hers as I shifted slightly to adjust her grip. My eyes flicked up, catching hers. She held my gaze, smirk playful, daring.
“You like being close,” she said.
“I—” I caught myself, swallowed, and tried to look at the typewriter. “I’m… showing you the proper way.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, clearly unconvinced.
She pressed the keys again, this time letting her wrist brush mine as she leaned a fraction closer to see the letters more clearly.
My chest thumped. Every nerve in me screamed too close, but my brain was useless, distracted by the warmth of her hand, the spark in her eyes, the impossible pull she had on me.
“See?” she whispered, voice low. “I can be good at this too.”
“You’re… surprisingly… coordinated,” I said, voice tight. I could feel her laugh vibrating through her chest against mine. “For chaos incarnate.”
She leaned in just a little more, letting her hair brush my arm, and I realized that this moment — small, domestic, innocent-seeming — was nearly impossible to survive without losing every shred of composure.
And I didn’t want to survive. Not really.
She leaned even closer, elbows resting on either side of the typewriter, eyes locked on mine. “No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” she said, voice soft but teasing, as if every word was carefully designed to make me tense.
“I’m showing you the rhythm,” I replied, fingers brushing hers again as I adjusted her hand over the keys. The heat of her skin against mine sent a shiver up my arm. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud and insistent.
“I don’t need your rhythm,” she said, a crooked grin forming. “I have my own. But I do quite like you this close to stop me from… smashing everything.”
I caught my breath. Close enough for her to feel my chest, the subtle shift of my weight, and yet, I dared not move an inch. “Then follow my lead,” I murmured, low, letting my hand rest lightly over hers.
Her eyes flicked down to our hands, then back up, sparkling with mischief. “Mm… your hand is heavy. Do I… do I press too hard?”
“No,” I said, voice tight, conscious of the small friction where our skin met. “Just… steady. That’s all that matters.”
She leaned in a fraction more, and I could smell the faint pine and something uniquely her — warm, spicy, impossible to ignore. Her laughter bubbled, soft and dangerous, and she tapped a key with my fingers still over hers, sending a small clack through the quiet cabin.
“See?” she said, teasing, “I could get used to this. Being led like a… typewriter apprentice?”
I swallowed, pulse hammering. “You’re… remarkably persuasive.”
Her grin widened. “I think you like it.” Her head turned, eyes meeting mine with a fire that settled low in my stomach.
“Yes,” I admitted under my breath, almost lost in the feel of her hand, the small, careful guidance, the way she leaned just enough to keep the contact, her eyes daring me to admit more.
She pressed another key, brushing past me slightly as she reached for the next one, and I felt the tiniest spark — too small to name, too big to ignore. My fingers twitched involuntarily, holding hers steady even as every sensible part of me screamed to step back.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
“Ready for the next line?” I reached around her, caging her between the desk and my body, as my fingers found the lever. “Pull here.”
She shivered underneath me, tiny and involuntary, and my chest tightened. The warmth of her pressed against me, the faint scent of her hair brushing my cheek, and the spark of her energy made every rational thought vanish.