Chapter 3 – Silas
Friday takes three lifetimes to arrive. I'm not a man who obsesses, twenty-one years in the military taught me discipline, focus, compartmentalization.
I can go days without sleep, weeks in hostile territory, months deployed without breaking stride.
But a few days waiting to see Iris Whitfield again? That nearly breaks me.
I catch myself checking my phone too often, rereading the brief text exchange from Saturday night. Sleep well, Iris. Christ, what kind of message was that? I should've said more. Should've called instead of texted. Should've—
"You're doing it again," Jonah says from across the garage.
I look up from the carburetor I've been staring at for the past ten minutes without actually seeing. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else. Or more specifically, with someone else." He grins. "How's Iris?"
"I haven't seen her since Saturday."
"But you've been thinking about her."
I don't dignify that with a response. Mostly because he's right.
I have been thinking about her. Constantly. The way she looked at me on that stage, like she could see past the armor to something worth saving. The softness in her voice when she said I deserved someone who cared. The fierce determination when she bid on me.
And those eyes. Blue enough to drown in.
"You're obsessed," Jonah observes cheerfully. "It's actually kind of fascinating. I've never seen you like this."
"Like what?"
"Interested. Invested. Dare I say... smitten?"
I throw a shop towel at him. He catches it, still grinning.
"I'm picking her up at six," I say, turning back to the carburetor.
"I know. You've mentioned it. Multiple times. Daily, in fact."
"The cabin's ready?"
"Asked me that yesterday. And the day before. Yes, it's ready. I went up Wednesday, made sure everything's stocked, got the heat running, chopped extra firewood. It's perfect for your romantic weekend."
"It's not romantic. It's a charity obligation."
"Right. That's why you've been wound tighter than a trip wire for three days. Because it's an obligation." He leans against the workbench. "Man, just admit you like her."
I like her. More than like her. And I've only spent five minutes in her presence.
That should concern me. Should send up red flags. I don't do instant connections. Don't believe in love at first sight or any of that bullshit.
But there's something about Iris. Something that reached inside my chest and grabbed hold, and now I can't stop thinking about her. Making her smile. Figuring out what put that shadow I glimpsed behind her warmth.
"I'm going to clean up," I say instead of admitting anything. "Need to be at her place by six."
"It's two in the afternoon."
"I want to shower. Change. Make sure the truck's clean."
Jonah's grin widens. "You're primping for her."
"I'm being respectful."
"You detailed your truck. I saw you this morning, vacuuming the interior like your life depended on it."
I ignore him and head for the small bathroom at the back of the garage. He's not wrong, I did detail the truck. And I've already showered once today. And I laid out three different shirts this morning before settling on a dark henley.
This woman has me acting like a teenager, and I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or terrified.
At five-thirty, I'm parked outside her house on Magnolia Street, engine idling, forcing myself to wait. Showing up early screams desperate, and I'm trying to maintain some semblance of control here.
Her house is small, well-kept, with a neat front porch and flower boxes that are dormant now but probably bloom beautifully in spring. There's a warm glow in the front windows, and I can see movement inside. She's home. Probably getting ready. Maybe nervous, like I am.
At exactly six o'clock, I kill the engine and walk to her front door. My leg aches from the cold, but I ignore it. I've dealt with worse. I knock. The door opens almost immediately, and there she is.
Iris, wearing jeans and a soft green sweater that makes her eyes even more vivid. Her hair is down, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she's got a nervous smile on her face that makes me want to pull her close and tell her she has nothing to be nervous about.
"Hi," she says, and that one word in her sweet voice makes the long wait worth it
"Hi." I have to clear my throat. "You ready?"
"Yeah. Just let me grab my bag—"
"I'll get it." I step inside before she can protest, and immediately the scent of vanilla and something floral wraps around me. This is her space. Her home. And she's letting me into it.
The interior is cozy, worn furniture that looks comfortable, books stacked on every surface, photos on the walls. I spot a younger Iris with an older man who must be her father. Both of them are smiling, but there's something fragile about it. Like they're holding onto happiness with both hands.
Her bag is by the door. I pick it up, heavier than it looks, and turn to find her watching me with an unreadable expression.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... you really don't have to carry my bag."
"I want to."
"Why?"
Because taking care of you feels right. Because I like being useful. Because the thought of you carrying anything heavy when I'm here makes something primal rise up in me.
"Because I'm capable and it's heavy," I say instead.
She bites her lip, fighting a smile. "Okay. Thank you."
"You need anything else before we go?"
"No, I'm good. I just need to lock up."
I wait while she checks windows, turns down the heat, grabs her coat. She's meticulous, careful, and I catalog these details like I used to catalog intel. Learning her. Understanding her patterns.
Outside, I load her bag in the truck bed while she locks the door. When I open the passenger door for her, she pauses.
"You don't have to do that either," she says softly.
"Do what?"
"Open doors for me. I'm perfectly capable—"
"I know you are." I hold her gaze. "Let me do it anyway."
Something flickers in her eyes, surprise, maybe, or pleasure. She nods and climbs in, and I close the door behind her, taking a moment to breathe before walking around to the driver's side.
I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine. The cab fills with warmth, and Iris is close enough that I can smell that vanilla scent again. It's intoxicating.
"How was your week?" I ask as I pull onto the street.
"Busy. First-graders are wild after a weekend, especially when they know their teacher is distracted." She glances at me. "How was yours?"
"Long."
"Long because of work?"
I keep my eyes on the road as we leave town behind, the lights fading into darkness and snow. "Long because I kept thinking about today."
I feel her turn to look at me. "Oh."
"That okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "That's... that's okay."
We drive in silence for a while, the only sound the hum of the engine and the crunch of snow under the tires. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's the kind of quiet that feels full rather than empty.
"Can I ask you something?" Iris says eventually.
"Anything."
"Why did you come to Lovesbury? Jonah mentioned you're not from here."
I consider how much to tell her. How much truth to lay bare this early. But she deserves honesty.
"I needed to disappear for a while," I say. "After my discharge, after everything... I didn't know who I was anymore. The military was my whole life. Without it, I was just..." I trail off.
"Lost," she finishes quietly.
"Yeah. Lost." The word feels too small for what I actually felt, but it's close enough. "Jonah's been my best friend since we were kids. When I called him, told him I needed a place to get my head straight, he didn't ask questions. Just said come to Lovesbury, stay as long as I need."
"That's a good friend."
"The best." I navigate a turn, the headlights cutting through the darkness. "What about you? Lived here your whole life?"
"Except for college. I went to Seattle for four years, studied education. But I came back after." She's quiet for a moment. "My dad got sick. He needed someone."
"The man in the photo? In your living room?"
She turns to me, surprised. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything." Especially things about you, I don't add.
"Yeah. That's my dad. He passed away two years ago." Her voice is steady, but I hear the grief underneath.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. He was... he was a good man. Did his best after my mom died. It was just the two of us for a long time."
I want to reach out, take her hand, offer comfort. But it feels too soon. Too presumptuous. So I just nod and keep driving.
"Is that why you volunteer at the center?" I ask. "Because you understand what it's like to lose people?"
"Maybe partly. But also because I like helping. It sounds cheesy, but I genuinely enjoy being there for others. Making things a little easier, a little brighter." She shifts in her seat. "What about you? Why do you volunteer there?"
"Same reason, I guess. The guys there—John, Red, Eddie—they get it. What it's like to serve, to come back different than you left. They don't need explanations or apologies. They just... understand."
"That must be nice. Being understood."
"It is." I glance at her. "You understand things too, though. I can tell."
"What do you mean?"
"The way you looked at me at the auction. Like you could see past the surface to something underneath. Not many people can do that."
She's quiet, and when I glance over, she's staring out the windshield with a small smile on her face.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. I'm glad to come… to be here," she says softly.
I let a low smile tug at my lips, voice rough. "Me too… glad I’m here, with you."
We turn onto the private road leading to the cabin, trees thick on either side, snow gleaming in the moonlight. The world feels smaller out here, like it's just us and the forest and the stars overhead.
"Wow," Iris breathes when the cabin comes into view.
It sits in a clearing, timber and stone, windows glowing warm from the lights Jonah left on. Snow blankets the roof and the surrounding pines, and smoke curls from the chimney.
"It's beautiful," she says.
"Jonah's family built it years ago. They use it for weekends, holidays. He said we could have it for as long as we need."
I park and kill the engine. For a moment, we just sit there, both of us staring at the cabin like it holds answers to questions we haven't asked yet.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"A little," she admits. "You?"
"Yeah."
She turns to look at me, surprised. "Really? You don't seem nervous."
"I'm good at hiding it. Military training."
She smiles. "What are you nervous about?"
You. This. The fact that I want this to be more than just a weekend. The possibility that you might not feel the same way.
"Making sure you're comfortable," I say instead. "Making sure this weekend is... good. For both of us."
"I think it will be," she says softly. "I have a good feeling about this."
Something in my chest loosens. "Yeah. Me too."
I climb out and grab her bag from the back, then open her door. She takes my offered hand to step down, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm. She feels it too, I can tell by the way her breath catches. But she doesn't pull away. And neither do I.
We stand there for a moment, her hand in mine, the cold air making our breath visible between us.
"Come on," I say finally, reluctantly releasing her. "Let's get you inside where it's warm."
I lead her up the steps to the cabin, acutely aware of her behind me, and push open the door.
The interior is warm, fire crackling in the hearth, exactly as Jonah promised. The space is open, living area with comfortable furniture, kitchen in the corner, stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
"This is amazing," Iris says, stepping inside and looking around with wide eyes.
I set her bag down by the stairs. "Your room's upstairs. First door on the right. I'll take the other one."
She turns to me. "Separate rooms?"
"Yeah. Figured you'd want privacy."
"Oh. Right. Of course." She sounds almost... disappointed?
But before I can analyze that, she's smiling again. "Thank you. For thinking of that."
"You hungry? I brought food. We can make dinner together if you want."
Her whole face lights up. "I'd love that."
And just like that, the nerves fade. Whatever this weekend brings, we'll figure it out together.