Chapter 32
Colette
I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
Or my breath.
Or my heart.
Everything was still too loud — the fire crackling, my pulse in my ears, the slick sound of skin as Silas shifted away from me. There was an instant feeling of loss as he slipped out of me. A hollow that had felt right seconds earlier.
I blinked up at the ceiling, at the shadows the firelight threw there, and tried not to feel… well, everything.
“Stay put,” he said quietly, voice hoarse but sure.
“Don’t,” I muttered, voice a little shaky. “Don’t go too far.”
He didn’t — he just moved around the room in this slow, purposeful way — like he was trying not to spook me. When he came back, towel in hand, I almost laughed. It was ridiculous and sweet and awkward all at once.
He knelt in front of me, hair sticking up in soft, damp curls, eyes dark and heavy and so unbearably kind.
“What — you’re gonna…?”
He hesitated, eyes flicking up to mine. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”
If I’ll let him.
God, when was the last time anyone had asked me something like that? Not in the bedroom. Not ever.
I tried to joke it off. “You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, huh?”
But then he smiled, soft and almost shy, and started anyway — slowly, carefully wiping the inside of my thigh. His big, steady hands shook a little, which made me feel both seen and undone.
“Jesus, you don’t have to—”
“Colette.” His voice was low, a warning wrapped in gentleness. “Let me.”
So I did.
The towel was warm where the fire had kissed it, and the sensation was… tender. Too tender. I wanted to squirm or crack a joke, but all that came out was a soft, trembling breath. He didn’t look at me like I was fragile. He looked at me like he was trying to make sure I didn’t vanish.
“You’re — uh — really thorough,” I whispered, which made him laugh under his breath.
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “Writer’s hands. Detail-oriented.”
That shouldn’t have made my chest ache the way it did.
When he finished, he handed me the towel wordlessly, sitting back on his heels like he wasn’t sure what to do next. So I swallowed, gathered what little nerve I had left, and leaned forward to wipe a smear of sweat and glitter from his jaw.
He froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because it surprised him — like no one had ever thought to return the favor.
“See?” I said softly. “Mutual clean-up clause.”
“Very official,” he murmured, lips curving. “I’ll remember that.”
We both laughed, too quietly, and then the silence returned — warm, a little clumsy, full of things we weren’t ready to name.
By the time we crawled under the blankets, the towel had fallen somewhere on the floor. I didn’t care. He smelled like pine and soap and something distinctly him, and when he pulled me against his chest, I felt his heartbeat against my back.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel used up or dirty.
I just felt held.
The fire was down to embers.
The kind that pulsed in the dark like a heartbeat.
I lay curled against him, our legs tangled, his arm heavy around my waist. My hair was still damp from the bath — or maybe from him. I couldn’t tell anymore where one warmth ended and the next began.
His breath brushed the back of my neck, slow and steady. Every exhale raised goosebumps on my skin.
“You’re still awake,” he murmured.
“Barely.” My voice came out husky, frayed around the edges.
He made a soft noise — something like a hum, something like a sigh — and pressed his mouth to my shoulder. Not a kiss, exactly. Just contact. A reminder that I was real.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” I whispered, more to the darkness than to him.
He huffed a quiet laugh against my skin. “Guess it is.”
I swallowed. “You think Santa’ll find us out here?”
“Doubt it,” he said. “No chimney. No cell service.” A pause. “Until today.”
“Right,” I breathed, the word small, fragile. “Until today.”
The reminder hurt in a way I wasn’t ready for. The bubble we’d built — our strange little world of snow and firelight — was starting to melt. The real world was close enough to taste.
Silas must’ve felt it too, because his hand slid up my arm, finding my fingers where they rested against the blanket. He laced them together, his thumb tracing the back of my knuckles.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.”
I laughed softly, but it cracked in the middle. “I don’t want this to end.”
He didn’t answer at first. His silence wasn’t cold — it was thoughtful, weighted. Then, after a long beat, “It doesn’t have to. Not all the way.”
My throat tightened. “Don’t — don’t say that unless you mean it.”
He shifted behind me, the mattress dipping as he moved closer. His breath brushed my ear when he whispered, “You think I say anything I don’t mean?”
I wanted to believe him. God, I did. But the part of me that always braced for goodbye whispered otherwise.
“You’ll go back to your life,” I said softly. “Your books. Your deadlines. And I’ll—”
“Colette.” My name, low and rough, cut me off. He tugged me back until I was flat against his chest. “You don’t have to finish that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what comes next either.” His words were a quiet confession. “But I know this—” He kissed the side of my head. “—we’ve got time to figure it out.”
It should’ve sounded like a promise, but it felt like a prayer.
For a long time, neither of us said anything. The fire sighed, the snow outside settled, and our breaths fell into rhythm. My eyes burned with sleep, but I kept them open, watching the last flickers of light on the ceiling.
“Silas?”
“Mm?”
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered.
He tightened his hold just a little, pressing one final kiss against my temple. “Merry Christmas, Colette.”
And even though I knew morning would come too soon, I let myself fall asleep believing him.