Chapter 4 – Iris
The kitchen is smaller than mine at home, but somehow cozier. Silas moves through it with surprising efficiency, pulling out ingredients he must have stocked earlier, chicken, vegetables, pasta, fresh herbs.
"You cook?" I ask, watching him from where I'm perched on a barstool at the counter.
"Basic stuff. Military taught me not to starve." He glances at me, and there's something almost playful in his eyes. "You?"
"I live alone. It's either cook or survive on cereal and takeout."
"Lovesbury doesn't strike me as having much takeout."
"Exactly. So I learned to cook." I slide off the stool. "Put me to work. I'm not good at just watching."
He hands me a cutting board and vegetables. "You can start on these. I'll handle the chicken."
We work side by side, and I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way his hands move with precision, the flex of his forearms under his rolled-up sleeves, the focused expression on his face. He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... you're very precise. Very methodical."
"Habit. In my line of work, being careless had consequences." He pauses. "Here, let me show you an easier way to do that."
He steps closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. "You want the pieces more uniform. Like this." His hand hovers near mine, demonstrating the cutting motion without actually touching me. But God, I wish he would touch me.
"Better?" I ask, trying the technique.
"Perfect." His voice is lower now, rougher. "You're a quick learner."
The compliment makes me warm in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.
We finish prep in comfortable silence, moving around each other with surprising ease. He reaches for the olive oil at the same moment I do, and our fingers brush. The contact is brief, electric. We both freeze.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"Don't be." His eyes hold mine for a moment too long before he pulls back. "You get it."
Soon the cabin fills with the smell of garlic and herbs and roasting chicken. Silas opens a bottle of wine—red, from Jonah's collection—and pours us each a glass.
"To charity weekends," he says, raising his glass.
"To taking chances," I counter.
Our glasses clink, and his eyes hold mine over the rim. There's heat there, intensity, something that makes my stomach flutter and my breath catch.
Dinner is delicious. We eat at the small table near the windows, darkness pressing against the glass, snow falling in soft flakes outside. The wine loosens us both, and conversation flows easily.
He asks about my students, and I tell him about the chaos of teaching first grade, the lost teeth, the playground drama, the brutal honesty of six-year-olds.
"One of them asked me last week if I was married," I say, laughing. "When I said no, she asked if it was because I'm too bossy."
Silas's lips quirk. "Are you? Too bossy?"
"Maybe a little. I like things organized. Under control."
"Nothing wrong with that. Control keeps things from falling apart." Something dark flickers across his face. "When you lose control, everything goes to shit."
"Is that what happened? Overseas?"
He's quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "Sometimes. You plan everything perfectly, but one variable changes and suddenly people are dying and you're making impossible choices and—" He stops. "Sorry. That's heavy for dinner conversation."
"Don't apologize. I asked." I reach across the table, not quite touching his hand, but close. "I want to know. About you. Your life. All of it."
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. "Why?"
"Because I think you're someone worth knowing."
"You don't know enough about me to make that judgment."
"Then tell me more. Help me know you."
He stares at me for a long moment, something warring in his expression.
Finally, he says, "I was Captain Silas Northwood.
Led a tactical unit. Did things I can't talk about in places I can't name.
Lost people I cared about. Got pieced back together with titanium and months of physical therapy.
" He takes a drink. "That enough knowing for now? "
"For now," I say softly. "But I want more eventually. When you're ready."
"And you? What's your story, Iris Whitfield?"
So I tell him. About growing up in Lovesbury, losing my mom to cancer when I was eight, watching my dad struggle to raise me alone. About going to Seattle for college, dreaming of traveling, writing children's books, living a big life.
"Then Dad got sick," I continue. "And those dreams didn't matter anymore. He needed me. So I came home, took care of him for three years until he passed. By then, I was established here. Had my teaching job, my volunteer work, my little house. It seemed easier to just... stay."
"You gave up your dreams for him."
"I chose family over dreams. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He's watching me with those intense eyes. "Sounds like you set yourself aside to take care of everyone else. Who takes care of you, Iris?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... I take care of myself."
"Do you?" He leans forward slightly. "Or do you just keep yourself so busy helping everyone else that you don't have to think about what you want?"
It's uncomfortably perceptive. "That's not—"
"I see you," he interrupts, voice low. "The way you talk about the center, the way your eyes light up when you mention volunteering, the way you jumped in when you thought I needed rescuing, the way you probably say yes to every request for help that comes your way.
You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you? "
My throat tightens. "I don't need taking care of."
"Everyone needs taking care of sometimes." His hand moves across the table, stopping just short of mine. Not touching, but the intention is there. "Even people who spend their whole lives being everyone else's light."
The words hit me square in the chest. My eyes start to sting, and I blink rapidly.
"Iris." His hand finally covers mine, warm and solid. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't. You just... nobody's ever said that to me before. Nobody's ever noticed."
"I notice everything about you."
The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility. Then Silas pulls back, breaking the connection.
"We should clean up. Long day tomorrow if you want to explore."
"Explore?"
"The lake. The woods. There's good hiking around here. If you're up for it."
"I'd love that."
We clean up together, and the domesticity of it makes my chest ache. Washing dishes side by side, handing off plates and glasses, moving in sync like we've done this a hundred times before.
When everything's put away, we migrate to the couch. The fire is burning low, and Silas adds another log before settling on the opposite end from me.
The distance feels intentional. Safe.
"Tell me something nobody knows about you," I say, curling my legs under me.
"That's a dangerous question."
"I like danger. Apparently." I gesture between us. "Evidence: this weekend."
His lips twitch. "Fair point." He thinks for a moment. "I wanted to be a teacher. Before the military."
"Really?"
"Yeah. History, specifically. Loved it in school.
But my dad was career military, expected me to follow.
And I was eighteen and stupid and thought I knew what I wanted.
" He shakes his head. "Turns out I was decent at it.
The military. Found my place, made rank, did good work.
But sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd chosen differently. "
"It's not too late," I say. "You could still teach. Go back to school, get certified…"
"I'm thirty-nine years old with a bad leg and PTSD. Not exactly teacher material."
"That’s not true, and you know it. You'd be an amazing teacher. You're patient, knowledgeable, and you actually listen when people talk. That's more than most teachers have."
He looks at me like I've said something profound. "You really believe that."
"I do."
"Your turn. Tell me something nobody knows."
I bite my lip, debating. After a pause, I say, "Sometimes I resent my dad. For getting sick. For needing me. For..." I stop, horrified at what I almost said.
"For dying and leaving you alone," Silas finishes quietly.
Tears prick my eyes. "That makes me a terrible person."
"No. It makes you human." He shifts slightly closer. "Grief isn't clean or simple. You can love someone and resent them at the same time. That's normal."
"You sound like you know from experience."
"I resented every single person in my unit who died. Resented them for leaving me, for making me the one who survived, for—" His voice catches. "For not being strong enough to make it when I did."
"Silas—"
"I know it's irrational. I know they didn't choose to die. But part of me is still angry at them for it."
Without thinking, I close the distance between us, moving to sit beside him. "Thank you for telling me that."
"Thank you for understanding."
We sit in silence, shoulders touching, staring at the fire. His hand rests on the couch between us, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching for it.
"We should probably sleep," Silas says eventually. "Big day tomorrow."
"What are we doing tomorrow?"
"Whatever you want. Ice skating on the lake, maybe. Hiking. There's a viewpoint about two miles up that's worth the trek."
I smile. "All of it. I want to do all of it."
"Then that's what we'll do." He stands and offers me his hand. "Come on. Bedtime."
I let him pull me to my feet, and for a moment we're standing too close, his hand still holding mine. His eyes drop to my lips, and my breath catches. But then he steps back, releases my hand, and the moment passes.
"Goodnight, Iris."
"Goodnight, Silas."
I head upstairs on shaky legs, and when I reach my door, I look back. He's still standing by the couch, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
Hungry. Cautious. Conflicted.
I know the feeling.