Chapter 7 Kindling #2
Lane’s posture relaxes as the fire takes.
He leans back, propping himself against the brick of the hearth, legs stretched out in front of him.
The light casts his features in strange relief—nose broken at some distant point, jaw dark with stubble, a scar slicing down from his temple to the edge of his beard.
He is magnetic, and I find myself watching him from the corner of my eye.
He catches me at it, and for a moment neither of us looks away.
“You don’t ask a lot of questions,” he says, voice softer now. “Most city people never stop.”
I think of Larkin, of his endless interrogations, of my own compulsive need to fill every silence. “Maybe I’m tired of answers.”
Lane’s mouth quirks. “Or maybe you’re just listening.”
We sit like that for a long while, the storm receding into a distant thud. The house groans and settles around us, the timbers expanding with the new heat, the plaster creaking as if the walls themselves are exhaling.
After a while, Lane says, “My old man used to say this place was alive. Said the house remembered everyone who ever passed through.” He scratches at his jaw, the movement nervous. “Sometimes I think it’s just waiting for the last of us to give up, so it can finally rest.”
I hear the loneliness in his words, and it echoes in me.
“You never left,” I say, not a question.
He shrugs. “Somebody had to look after it.” He glances at me, expression unreadable in the flicker. “You plan to?”
“Leave?” I ask.
He nods.
“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s true.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, and the firelight paints his eyes in shades of steel and flint. “Don’t let it keep you if you don’t want to stay. There’s nothing here worth freezing for.”
I smile, a real one this time and nudge him with my shoulder. “Oh I don’t know about that.”
He huffs, almost a laugh.
We lapse into silence again but it’s comfortable. I want to ask him about his family, about his scars, about the reason he always looks as if he expects the ceiling to fall at any second. Instead, I just watch the flames climb higher, eating away at the cold.
At some point, Lane stands. He walks to the window, peers out into the storm. His silhouette is huge against the frost-rimed glass, the faintest edge of light tracing his shoulders and the thick cords of his neck.
He says, “Storm’s dying down. If the chimney holds, we’ll keep this place warm tonight.”
I nod, unable to look away from the imprint he’s left on the room.
The fire is alive now, greedily swallowing the offerings of bark and resin, leaping upward to lick at the ancient brick.
The glass doors of the Blue Room’s fireplace are open, and the heat rolls out in uneven pulses.
It lights the space with a glow that isn’t quite gold, more the red of late-afternoon sun.
I sit as close as I can without burning, knees drawn up.
“Do you want me to go?” he asks, voice nearly drowned by the crackle and pop.
“No,” I say. “Stay.” The honesty is a surprise, even to me.
He crosses the room in three steps, each one slow, deliberate, as if pacing himself against some invisible current.
He settles down on the rug beside me again, leaving an arm’s width of distance—nothing, really, in a room this size.
I can smell the pine resin from his shirt, the leftover ozone of snow.
We sit in silence. The logs snap and shift, throwing sparks up the flue. I hear the pop and creak of the house settling, the strange, underwater groans of old beams reacting to the sudden warmth. Lane watches the flames, jaw set, hands clasped between his knees.
I speak first. “Your father kept the fires going all night here?”
He nods. “Didn’t trust the boiler. Said he’d rather freeze to death on his own terms.”
“Was he always here?” I ask. “At Hemlock?”
Lane’s mouth tightens, not quite a frown. “Every day of his life. Except for two years, Army.” He flexes his hands, looks at the scar tissue along his knuckles. “He came back different. Quieter.”
I know the type. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.
“And you?” I say. “Ever want to leave?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have the imagination for it. Place like this, it gives you every story you could ever need.” He glances at me, a flash of wryness. “You?”
I think of my childhood, spent moving from city to city, new school every three years, every apartment a different shade of ugly. “I never knew where I wanted to be. Just that I didn’t want to be stuck.”
He nods, as if this is all the explanation necessary.
The fire burns higher, fueled by Lane’s earlier engineering. The warmth creeps into my feet, my thighs, my chest. The blanket is almost too much, but I keep it around my shoulders for the feeling of protection, the barrier between skin and air.
Lane says nothing, but I can feel the orbit of his attention. The silence is not uncomfortable, but it’s charged, as if each minute that passes raises the stakes of the next word or movement. I wonder if he feels it, too.
I take a risk. I shift closer to the hearth, stretching my hands out to the flame. The blanket slips from my shoulders, exposing my neck and the thin fabric of my sleeve. I pretend not to notice. Lane’s eyes follow the motion, subtle but undeniable.
“You built a good fire,” he says, tone even but with a hidden warmth.
“You showed me how,” I reply. “Or maybe you just fixed it after I ruined it.”
He almost smiles. “Told you—messy’s better.”
I think about that, then about other things I might want to be messy.
I say, “I could use more practice. If you’re up for it.”
His expression shifts, a micro-expression of surprise, then something else—approval, maybe, or the simple relief of finding out you’re not the only one keeping score.
“Anytime,” he says.
We are silent again. The house sighs, and I realize for the first time since arriving that I am not afraid. I am aware—vividly, painfully so—but not afraid. The fire crackles, and with every pop I feel the space between us contract, millimeter by millimeter.
I ask, “Why did you really come back?”
Lane looks at me, then at the fire, then back at me. “Didn’t think you’d get it lit. Figured you’d freeze and I’d have to carry you down to the kitchen. Only place in the house with a working generator.”
“That’s not why,” I say, more certain than I should be.
He meets my gaze, holds it. “No,” he says, “it’s not.”
I reach for a log, intending to feed the fire, but my hand shakes a little. Lane notices, takes the log from me, and places it gently on the blaze. His hand lingers, inches from mine, the heat between our bodies now indistinguishable from the heat of the flames.
There is a beat—long, stretched, held—and then we both reach for the iron poker at the same time. Our fingers collide, his enveloping mine, rough and careful all at once.
I should pull away, but I don’t.
Instead, I turn my hand, and now our palms are pressed together, fingers twitching, the way people do in those old movies when they touch each other for the first time. I look at the fire, then at our hands, then at him.
His eyes are storm-colored, shards of light flickering in the gray. He is breathing faster, but only just.
I move closer, and I don’t know how I got to be this brave. I’ve never made the first move in anything I’ve done. But Lane, for all his big, brooding frame, feels safe in a way I’ve never experienced before. Not gentle. But safe.
I look at his lips, and he notices. And when I turn my body toward him, his hand reaches for me and rests on my waist. It’s somehow the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Nora . . .” he whispers, like this is all a dream.
“Kiss me, Lane.”
That’s all I need to say, because half a second later, his lips find mine. Safe yes, but gentle? Hell no. His lips move over mine, his hand squeezes my waist and his other wraps itself in my hair. I open for him and he growls, slipping his tongue past my lips. Needing. Claiming.
All too soon, things stop. Our breaths tangle as we pant, staring, so much said between us without a single word.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually he breaks the spell, sitting back.
He says, “Fire needs boundaries.” The words are almost a warning, but his grip on my hand is firm.
I squeeze, just once, then let go.
He releases me, stands up in a single, fluid movement. The sudden absence is jarring, as if I have lost a layer of skin.
He stands over me, looking down. “If you need anything, I’ll be here.” he says again, but this time the meaning is transparent.
He leaves without another word. The door closes with a soft, final sound.
I sit there, hand still suspended in air, tracing the phantom print of his touch across my palm. The room is warmer than before, but I am acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin.
I lay back on the rug, blanket bunched beneath my head, and watch the fire devour its own heart. I think of Lane, and his hands, and the way he never quite smiles but sometimes wants to.
The night is very long, but I sleep anyway. I dream of storms and fires and hands guiding mine, strong and unyielding and alive.