Chapter 6 – Iris
Lunch is grilled cheese and tomato soup, simple and perfect. We eat at the counter, shoulders almost touching, and I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way he brings the spoon to his mouth. The way his throat works when he swallows. The way his eyes keep finding mine.
"You're staring," he says without looking up from his soup.
"So are you."
His lips twitch. "Fair point."
After lunch, he suggests a hike through the woods. "There's a viewpoint about two miles up. Best view in the area."
"Lead the way."
We bundle up again and head out into the brilliant afternoon. The trail is narrow, forcing us to walk single file with Silas in front, breaking the path through the snow. I watch the way he moves, confident despite his limp, completely at ease in the wilderness.
"You do this a lot?" I ask. "Hiking, I mean."
"When I can. Helps clear my head."
"What do you think about when you're out here?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Depends on the day. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes everything." He glances back at me. "What about you?"
"Lesson plans. Student evaluations. Whether I remembered to lock my back door." I smile. "Exciting stuff."
"Responsibility. That's what you think about."
"Somebody has to."
He stops walking and turns to face me. "Who takes care of you, Iris?"
The question again. Like he can see straight through to the lonely truth I've been avoiding for two years.
"I take care of myself."
"That's not the same thing."
Before I can respond, he continues up the trail, leaving me to follow.
The viewpoint is worth the hike. We emerge from the trees onto a rocky outcrop that overlooks the valley. Mountains stretch in every direction, snow-covered and majestic. The sky is impossibly blue.
"Wow," I breathe.
I move closer to the edge, taking in the vista. The world feels enormous from up here, and for the first time in years, I feel small in a way that's freeing instead of diminishing. Like maybe my problems aren't as insurmountable as they seem from down in the valley.
I feel him move behind me, close enough that his warmth seeps through my coat. Not touching, but almost.
"Cold?" he asks, voice low.
"A little."
His arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. I freeze for a second, then melt into him, letting his solid warmth surround me. His chin rests on top of my head.
"Better?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. We stand like that for a long time, wrapped together, and I try to memorize everything about this moment. The mountains. The silence. The feeling of being held by someone who makes me feel both protected and dangerously reckless.
Eventually the cold becomes too much, and we separate. The walk back feels different, closer somehow. Our hands keep brushing as we walk side by side on the wider sections of trail.
On a downhill stretch, the path becomes icy. My feet slide, and without a word, Silas reaches out and takes my hand. His grip is firm, steadying. We don't let go even when we reach level ground.
His hand is warm and strong, completely engulfing mine. Our fingers thread together naturally, and I find myself studying the contrast, his rough calluses against my softer skin, his size against mine. Something about it feels inevitable, like our hands were always meant to fit together this way.
We're almost back to the cabin when my foot catches on a hidden root beneath the snow. I stumble forward with a yelp, arms windmilling, and before I can hit the ground, strong arms catch me.
Silas pulls me against his chest, one arm banding around my waist, the other supporting my back. For a moment we're frozen like that, me half-suspended, him holding me effortlessly.
"You okay?" His voice is sharp with concern.
"Yeah. Just clumsy."
I expect him to set me down. Instead, he shifts his grip and lifts me completely, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing.
"Silas! I can walk—"
"I know."
There's something in his tone that makes me stop protesting. I wrap my arms around his neck and let him carry me the rest of the way to the cabin. He's not even breathing hard when we reach the porch.
He sets me down gently, but his hands linger on my waist. We're standing so close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
The intensity there steals my breath.
"Inside," he says finally. "Before we freeze."
The cabin is warm, fire crackling. I shrug off my coat with shaking hands, acutely aware of him doing the same behind me. When I turn around, he's closer than expected.
The air feels different. Charged.
"I should start dinner," he says, but he doesn't move.
Neither do I.
We stand there, the space between us shrinking with each breath, until finally he steps back and runs a hand through his hair.
"Yeah. Dinner."
We move to the kitchen, and every accidental touch sends electricity through me. When he reaches past me for the olive oil, his arm brushes mine. When I hand him a knife, our fingers connect. When we both reach for the same cutting board, we freeze, hands touching.
He doesn't pull away immediately. Neither do I.
"Iris." My name is rough in his voice.
"Yeah?"
He's staring at my mouth. I watch him wage some internal war, see the moment discipline wins. He steps back.
"Garlic. We need garlic."
Dinner preparation becomes an exercise in torture. The kitchen is small, forcing us into constant proximity. Every movement, every breath, every glance feels weighted with intention.
By the time we sit down to eat, the tension is thick enough to choke on.
We make it through pasta and salad with stilted conversation. I ask about his family. He asks about my students. We talk around everything that matters.
After dinner, we clean up in loaded silence. I wash, he dries, and when I hand him the last plate, our hands linger together longer than necessary.
"Movie?" he suggests. "There's a collection here."
"Sure."
We settle on the couch, not touching, but close. He picks something action-heavy that neither of us really watches. I'm too aware of him beside me, the heat of his body, the way his arm is stretched across the back of the couch just behind my shoulders.
Halfway through, I shiver. The fire has burned low.
"Cold?" he asks.
"A bit."
He gets up to add wood to the fire, then returns to the couch. This time, when he sits, he's closer. Close enough that our thighs touch.
"Better?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His arm comes around my shoulders, and I let myself lean into him. His fingers trace absent patterns on my upper arm, and I wonder if he realizes he's doing it.
On screen, something explodes. I barely notice.
"Iris."
"Hmm?"
"You're not watching the movie."
"Neither are you."
He turns his head to look at me, and we're suddenly face to face, inches apart. His eyes drop to my mouth.
The air feels too thick to breathe.
"We should—" he starts.
"Yeah," I whisper, though I have no idea what I'm agreeing to.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, and it makes my eyes flutter closed.
"Look at me," he murmurs.
I do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and the hunger there makes heat pool low in my belly.
His voice drops, low and rough. "I want you."
I stay there, letting the heat between us build without pulling away.
His lips meet mine, and the world tilts. The kiss is soft at first, questioning, but when I make a small sound and press closer, something in him unleashes.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head for better access, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I moan and grip his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.
He shifts, pulling me onto his lap so I'm straddling him, and the new position makes us both groan. I can feel him hard beneath me, and I rock my hips instinctively.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Iris—"
I kiss him again, harder, and his hands grip my hips, guiding my movements. The friction is delicious, maddening, not nearly enough.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, and I arch into him. My hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath, exploring the hard muscle and scarred skin.
He pulls back suddenly, breathing hard. "Upstairs."
It's not a question.
I nod.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapped around his waist. He carries me up the stairs, his mouth never leaving mine.
At the top, he pauses. "Your room or mine?"
"Yours."
He pushes open the door and sets me on the bed, following me down. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I've never felt anything better.