3. Silas
three
Silas
I've always been an early-riser. I move quietly, preparing coffee and a simple breakfast before Elsie wakes. My hands work automatically—cracking eggs, slicing bread—while my mind circles around the woman sleeping in the spare room down the hall.
She's been here three days now. Three days of careful politeness, of getting accustomed to another presence in spaces that have known only my solitude for years. Three days of watching her delicate profile when she's lost in thought, studying how she explores the cabin with curious, hesitant steps.
Three days of holding back the instincts that surge whenever she looks uncertain or vulnerable.
Not today, I decide. Today, I'll step into the role we both want.
The floorboard in the hallway creaks—the one I've been meaning to fix. I look up to find Elsie standing in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized sweater that makes her appear even smaller than she is.
"Good morning, little one," I say, my voice gentle but firm. "Come sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."
Her eyes widen slightly at the endearment, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as she approaches. I pull out her chair, guiding her with a light touch to her lower back.
"Thank you," she murmurs, settling into the seat.
I place the blue ceramic mug—the one she seemed drawn to yesterday—in front of her, filled with coffee already prepared the way I noticed she likes it: more cream than coffee, two sugars.
"Drink your coffee," I instruct gently. "You need to wake up properly. You were tossing and turning late last night."
Her gaze flicks up to mine, surprise evident. "How did you know?"
"I checked on you," I say simply, setting a plate of eggs and toast before her. "Eat now, while it's warm."
Instead of sitting opposite her, I take the chair adjacent, close enough that our elbows nearly touch. The proximity is deliberate—it establishes connection and presence. She seems momentarily uncertain but then begins to eat, stealing glances at me.
"After breakfast," I say, "I'll show you the garden. You'll need proper clothes—it's colder than it looks, and there's work to be done. The blue sweater in your closet should be warm enough."
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "How do you know what's in my closet?"
"I unpacked your things yesterday while you were reading. Your organization system was lacking.”
For a moment, I wonder if I've overstepped. Then Elsie's expression shifts. Relief, perhaps. The tension visibly leaves her shoulders.
"Thank you," she says softly.
When we finish eating, I stand and collect both our plates. "Go change now. Meet me by the back door in fifteen minutes. Don't forget to brush your hair."
The directive is gentle but unmistakable. Elsie hesitates just briefly before nodding and moving down the hallway with more purpose than I've seen in her step since she arrived.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, she appears at the back door wearing the blue sweater, hair neatly brushed, a tentative smile on her face. Something in my chest expands at her responsiveness, her willingness to follow my lead.
"Good girl," I say quietly, and her smile widens, eyes brightening at the praise.
In the garden, I hand her a pair of gloves. "These are too big, but they'll protect your hands. I've ordered proper ones for you that should arrive next week."
She looks at me with questioning eyes. "You ordered me gloves?"
"I order what you need," I say simply. "Now, watch carefully. I'll show you how to prepare the soil."
Throughout the morning, I guide her more directly than before—positioning her hands when she struggles with weeding, standing close behind her to demonstrate the proper way to use the small spade, my larger frame enveloping her smaller one.
"Like this," I murmur near her ear, my hands covering hers. "Use your body's strength, not just your arms."
I feel her lean back slightly, allowing herself to rest against my chest for just a moment. The trust in that small gesture is humbling.
When she begins to get tired midday, I notice immediately—the slight droop in her shoulders and the way she pushes hair from her forehead more frequently.
"That's enough," I declare, taking the tools from her hands. "You've worked hard. Time for lunch and a nap."
"I can keep going," she protests weakly.
I shake my head. "Not today. You're still adjusting to the altitude and physical work. Twenty more minutes, and you'd be exhausted. It’s nap time."
The look she gives me is complicated—gratitude mixed with the stubborn desire to prove herself. I understand both impulses, but her well-being comes first.
"Elsie," I say, my tone brooking no argument, "Inside now. Wash your hands thoroughly—dirt under your nails invites infection."
In the kitchen, I prepare sandwiches while she cleans up. When she returns, there's a new softness in her expression, as if she's sinking into the comfort of being directed.
After lunch, I point to the couch. "Rest for half an hour. You're not used to this kind of work."
"I'm not tired," she says, but the slight droop of her eyelids betrays her.
I raise an eyebrow, not unkindly. "Thirty minutes. I'll wake you."
She relents, curling up on the sofa. I drape a blanket over her, tucking it around her slender form. Her eyes follow my movements, questioning but trusting.
"Rest, little one," I say softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
She's asleep within minutes, her features softening in slumber. I work quietly nearby, mending a chair that needs attention, keeping her in my sight. True to my word, I wake her after thirty minutes.
"Better?" I ask as she blinks drowsily up at me.
She nods, stretching like a cat. "Yes. Thank you."
The afternoon passes in easy companionship.
I show her the root cellar, the woodshed, and the small workshop where I craft furniture during long winter months.
Consistently, I guide her with a light touch—a hand at her lower back, fingers around her wrist to direct her attention, and gentle corrections to her posture when needed.
When she stumbles over an uneven floorboard in the workshop, I catch her firmly, one arm around her waist.
"Be careful," I admonish gently. “Pay attention to your surroundings. This floor is uneven."
She looks up at me, something vulnerable and seeking in her blue eyes. "I feel safe with you," she admits quietly. "Even when I stumble."
The simple confession strikes deep. "That's as it should be," I tell her.
As evening approaches, I check my watch. "Time for dinner preparations. You'll help me tonight."
In the kitchen, I assign her simple tasks—washing vegetables, and stirring sauce—while handling the more complex aspects myself. I position her where I want her, showing her exactly how each task should be completed.
"Not like that," I correct when she chops carrots unevenly. I move behind her, adjusting her grip on the knife. "Like this. Consistent sizes cook evenly."
After dinner, I build a fire while Elsie cleans the kitchen as instructed. When she finishes, I pat the space beside me on the sofa.
"Come sit with me."
She settles beside me, closer than she's ventured before. Emboldened, I place my arm around her shoulders, drawing her against my side. She tenses momentarily, then relaxes, her small body melting against mine.
"This is nice," she whispers.
"Yes," I agree simply.
We sit in companionable silence for a time, watching the flames dance. When her eyelids begin to droop, I check the time.
"Bedtime for you, little one. It's been a long day."
She starts to protest, then thinks better of it, nodding instead.
"Come," I say, standing and offering my hand. She takes it, allowing me to lead her down the hallway to her bedroom.
Inside, I turn down her covers while she watches with wide eyes.
"Get your nightclothes," I instruct gently. "I'll wait outside while you change."
After she gathers what she needs, I step into the hallway, giving her privacy while remaining close. I try not to think of her naked body. I wouldn’t dare peek.
When she calls softly that she's ready, I return to find her in simple cotton pajamas, looking younger and more vulnerable than ever.
"Into bed now," I say, gesturing to the turned-down covers.
She slips between the sheets, watching me with curious, trusting eyes as I pull the blankets up around her shoulders and tuck her in securely.
"Tomorrow, we'll continue in the garden, weather permitting," I tell her, smoothing a hand over her hair. "For now, rest. Your body needs to adjust to mountain life."
"Silas?" Her voice is small, uncertain.
"Yes?"
"Is this..." she hesitates, searching for words. "Is this what it means? To be your little one?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, considering her question with the seriousness it deserves. "Part of it," I say finally. "Being cared for. Guided. Protected." I meet her gaze directly. "Having someone who sees what you need, sometimes before you know yourself."
She nods, a small smile curving her lips. "I like it," she whispers.
"Good," I say softly. "Because I find I like caring for you very much."
I reach out, brushing her cheek with my thumb in a gesture that feels both innocent and intimate. "Lights out now. Sleep well, Elsie."
"Goodnight..." she hesitates, then adds in a whisper, "Daddy."
The word hangs between us, fragile and potent. I don't comment, simply nodding acknowledgment as I turn off her lamp and move toward the door.
"I'll be down the hall if you need anything," I tell her. "Anything at all."
In the doorway, I pause to look back at her—this young woman who has traveled so far to find what I've waited so long to give. Her eyes are already closing, her breathing slowing toward sleep.
I close her door quietly and head to my own room, feeling more settled, more purposeful than I have in years.