Chapter 19 Colette
Colette
When I woke, the fire had fallen to embers — a red-orange glow breathing faintly in the dimness. The cabin was still. Snow pressed against the windows, muting the world to a soft, endless hush.
Silas was beside me.
His hand had fallen over my waist sometime in the night, his palm heavy and sure, the contact made my whole body remember every place he’d been. His breathing was slow, almost peaceful, and I stayed still just to listen — the steady rhythm of it, the warmth radiating off him.
He must’ve pulled the blanket higher after I fell asleep. I could feel the tucked edge near my chin, his care written in the smallest gesture. Something about that made my throat tighten.
I turned carefully, trying not to wake him, and caught the faintest glimpse of his face — the shadows of stubble, the furrow still etched between his brows even in sleep. He looked older in the firelight. Or maybe just human.
When he finally stirred, it was with a quiet exhale, his fingers flexing against my side before retreating. “You’re awake early,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.
“So are you,” I whispered back.
He didn’t answer, just pushed himself up, bones cracking faintly as he stretched. Watching him move — bare-chested, steady, like he’d done this a thousand mornings before — did something strange to my chest. It was too normal. Too easy to imagine a life that looked like this.
He crouched by the hearth, feeding the coals, coaxing the flame to life again. When the fire caught, his shoulders glowed gold, and the world seemed to tilt around that simple, ordinary beauty.
He lingered by the hearth longer than necessary, crouched low, feeding the flame until it caught and stretched and filled the cabin with a gentle gold. The sound of it — the soft crackle, the sigh of new heat — made something inside me unclench.
When he finally stood, the light brushed across him in streaks. Bare skin, rumpled hair, a man who didn’t belong in this place but somehow fit it perfectly.
He turned, caught me watching, and huffed out a quiet breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’re going to freeze again,” he said, voice low and still sleep-thick.
“I’m fine.”
He gave a slow shake of his head — like fine wasn’t good enough — and crossed the small room, each step deliberate, unhurried. Then he lifted the corner of the blanket and slipped back beneath it without asking.
The mattress dipped. Heat gathered immediately, rolling off him in soft waves. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d gotten until his warmth found me again.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Much.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he’d touch me again. Then his arm slid across the space between us, hesitating just long enough for me to lean into it. My back met his chest, his chin resting lightly in my hair.
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, the snow whispered against the glass, steady and unending. Inside, the world was small — breath, heartbeat, the faint rustle of linen as I shifted closer, until there wasn’t room for even a thought between us.
I should’ve said something. About what this wasn’t. About what it couldn’t become once the storm passed.
But his breath was warm against my neck, and the fire cracked softly, and for one fleeting, impossible moment, I let myself imagine this was a life we could keep.
The storm had gone quiet overnight. I could hear the wind moving through the trees, not angry now, just tired. The light creeping through the window was thin and gray, the kind that made everything look softer, kinder, like the world hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet.
Silas had fallen back asleep beside me. On his back now, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting near where my shoulder had been before I’d rolled away.
The blanket had slipped to his waist. I caught myself staring — at the shape of him, the lines and angles that looked like they’d been carved for permanence.
And God, I felt stupid.
Stupid for lying here, for feeling anything, for how easy it had been to fold into him last night like I’d done it a hundred times before.
He was older. Experienced. Measured in all the ways I wasn’t. I was twenty-eight and barely knew how to keep my life upright, much less my heart. He’d probably seen a hundred women like me — too young, too messy, too eager to believe that warmth meant safety.
I tugged the blanket higher, trying to gather the pieces of myself that had scattered in the night. But his smell — pine and smoke and something quieter underneath — clung to my skin.
Strangers, I reminded myself. That’s what we were. Strangers who’d shared a storm, a bed, a breath.
And yet…
When he stirred, his hand brushed blindly against the mattress until it found mine;, something in me cracked all over again. I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
His thumb moved lazily over my knuckles — barely there, like muscle memory. Still half-asleep, he murmured, “You’re still awake?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out small, not like me at all.
“Go back to sleep, Colette.” He shifted closer, the blanket rustling, heat closing the space between us again. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said softly. “Come here.”
And when his hand tightened just slightly around mine, I hated how much I wanted to believe that maybe — just maybe — I didn’t have to be.