Chapter 5 - Silas
I don't sleep. Can't stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me across the dinner table. The way she moved closer on the couch, offering comfort without words. The way her hand felt in mine. The way I almost kissed her.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. Wanted to thread my fingers through that soft hair and taste those lips that have been tormenting me for days.
But it's too soon. Too fast. I need to slow down, give her space, not overwhelm her with the intensity of what I'm feeling. Because what I'm feeling is terrifying.
I'm falling for her. Hard and fast and completely out of control. And I've known her for less than twenty-four hours.
This is insane.
At five a.m., I give up on sleep and head downstairs. Make coffee. Stoke the fire. Stare out the window at the snow-covered forest and try to get my head straight.
I came here to help the veteran's center.
To fulfill an obligation. But somewhere between Saturday night and now, this stopped being about charity and started being about her.
About the way she makes me feel like maybe I'm not as broken as I thought.
Like maybe there's a future worth having on the other side of all this.
I hear her moving around upstairs around seven-thirty. The shower runs. Floorboards creak. I pour a second cup of coffee and wait.
When she comes down, she's wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that makes her skin glow. Her hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and she's got a shy smile on her face.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning." My voice is rougher than usual. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I pour her a cup, remembering cream and sugar from yesterday, and slide it across the counter. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and electricity shoots up my arm.
"Sleep okay?" I ask.
"Great. You?"
I lie. "Fine."
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying but doesn't call me on it. "So. Ice skating today?"
"If you want. Lake should be perfect for it."
"I haven't skated in years. I'll probably fall on my ass."
"I'll catch you."
The words come out more intense than I intended. She stares at me over her coffee cup, eyes wide.
"I mean, I'll be there. To help. If you fall." I'm fumbling now, and I never fumble.
"I know what you meant." Her smile is soft. "And thank you."
After breakfast, we bundle up and head down to the lake. The morning is crisp and clear, sunlight making the snow sparkle like diamonds. Iris walks beside me, close enough that our arms occasionally brush, and each touch sends awareness shooting through me.
At the lake, I test the ice. Solid. Thick. Safe.
"Okay," I say, turning to her. "Rule one: keep your weight centered. Rule two: small steps, don't try to go fast. Rule three: when you feel yourself falling, don't fight it. Just go with it."
"Those are terrible rules."
"They've kept me alive in worse situations than ice skating."
She laughs, and the sound wraps around me like warmth. I want to hear it again and again.
I step onto the ice first, then offer her my hand. She takes it, and I carefully pull her onto the frozen surface.
"Okay," she breathes. "This is scarier than I remembered."
"I've got you. Just stay close."
We start moving, slow and cautious. She's wobbly, gripping my hand like a lifeline, but game. We make it about ten feet before her feet start sliding in different directions.
"Silas—"
I wrap my arm around her waist, steadying her. "I've got you."
She's pressed against my side now, her hand fisted in my jacket, and I can smell that vanilla scent even through the cold air.
"This is humiliating," she mutters.
"This is you trying something new. Nothing humiliating about that."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one flailing around like a baby deer."
I can't help it—I laugh. "You're not flailing. You're learning."
We continue across the ice, her clinging to me, me keeping her upright. Slowly, she gains confidence. Her grip loosens slightly. She takes a few steps on her own.
"I'm doing it!" she says, delighted.
"You are."
Then her foot hits a rough patch and she goes down. I try to catch her, but momentum takes us both. We land in a tangle of limbs, me partially on top of her to cushion her fall.
"You okay?" I demand, immediately checking her over. "Did you hit your head? Does anything hurt?"
"I'm fine." She's laughing, actually laughing. "Just bruised pride."
I'm still hovering over her, hands on either side of her head, our faces inches apart. Her laughter fades as she realizes the position we're in.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Mine drop to hers.
"Silas," she whispers.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance. To kiss her right here on the frozen lake. To show her exactly how much I want her.
But I don't.
Instead, I carefully push myself up and offer her my hand. "Come on. Let's get you vertical."
She lets me pull her to her feet, and I don't miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes.
Good. Let her want me. Let her feel this pull the way I do. Let her understand that when I finally give in, it's going to be worth the wait.
We make our way back to shore, and she immediately bends down and scoops up snow.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Building a snowman. Obviously."
"Obviously."
She starts rolling a ball of snow, and I watch her for a moment before joining in. We work together, building a base, then a middle section, then a head. She's precise about it, making sure everything is properly proportioned.
"You're very serious about this snowman," I observe.
"All snowmen deserve to be built with integrity."
"Is that a direct quote from the Snowman Building Handbook?"
She throws snow at me. It hits my chest, and I raise an eyebrow.
"Did you just throw snow at me?"
"Maybe." She's grinning now, eyes sparkling. "What are you going to do about it?"
Everything in me goes still and focused. "You really want to find out?"
Her grin falters. "I... maybe?"
I bend down, scoop up snow, and advance on her. She squeals and runs, but she's laughing too hard to get far. I catch her easily, wrapping one arm around her waist from behind and holding her against me.
"Got you," I murmur in her ear.
She shivers, and it's not from the cold. "So you do."
We're both breathing hard, pressed together, and I can feel every curve of her against me. It would be so easy to turn her around, tilt her face up, finally taste those lips that have been driving me crazy for days.
But I don't.
Instead, I gently release her and step back. "Truce?"
She turns to face me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. "Truce."
We finish the snowman in companionable silence, and when it's done, she stands back to admire our work.
"Perfect," she declares.
"It's crooked."
"It has character."
I look at her instead of the snowman. "Yeah. It does."
She catches me staring and tilts her head. "What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking that you look happy. Really happy. And I like being the reason for that."
The words slip out before I can stop them. Her breath catches, and color floods her cheeks, not from the cold this time.
"Silas—"
"Come on. Let's head back before we turn into snowmen ourselves."
But as I turn to leave, she catches my hand. I stop, looking back at her.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For this. For making me laugh. For... for seeing me."
My chest tightens. I step back toward her, close enough that I have to tilt my head down to meet her eyes.
"I see you, Iris. All of you. And I like what I see."
For a moment, we just stand there, the world reduced to the space between us, the warmth of our joined hands, the possibility hanging in the cold mountain air.
Then I make myself step back. "Inside. Now. Before I do something we're not ready for."
Her eyes widen, but she nods.
Back at the cabin, we're both cold and wet from the snow. Iris heads upstairs to change, and I build up the fire, trying to get myself under control.
This woman is going to be my undoing.
When she comes back down, she's in dry clothes and her hair is loose around her shoulders. She settles on the couch, curling up in the corner.
"That was fun," she says. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For making this weekend... easy. I was so nervous about coming here, but you've made it really comfortable."
Comfortable. That's not exactly what I'm feeling, but I appreciate the sentiment.
"You make it easy," I tell her. "You're... you're good company, Iris."
"So are you." She pauses. "Better than I expected, honestly."
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Grumpy, maybe. Silent and brooding. Instead, you're..." She trails off.
"What?"
"Kind. Thoughtful. Funny when you want to be. Protective."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's perfect," she says softly.
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
"Hungry?" I ask, needing to break the intensity before I do something stupid. "I can make lunch."
"Starving."
We move to the kitchen, and the moment breaks. But I can still feel it, that pull. That connection. And I know she feels it too.
It's only a matter of time before one of us stops fighting it.