Page 15 of Daddy of the Mountain

When he turned, there was a mug in his hand—ceramic, chipped along the rim. Steam curled lazily from its surface, carrying a faint, sweet scent that made my mouth water before I even knew what it was.

"Here," he said, gruff as ever, holding it out.

I blinked. "What’s this?"

"Hot cocoa." He hesitated, like the words felt strange in his mouth. "Had some stashed away."

"Seriously?" My voice came out higher-pitched than intended, more surprised than I wanted to admit.

"Just take it," he muttered, eyes darting toward the fire instead of me.

I reached for the mug, careful not to brush his fingers, though they lingered on the handle a second too long. The ceramic was warm against my hands, and the scent hit me full force now—rich and luxurious, with just a hint of something earthy beneath it.

"Thank you," I said softly, suddenly unsure what else to say. He nodded once, already stepping back, but instead of retreating to his usual spot at the table, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to crowd me, but closer than ever before. Close enough to feel the weight of him beside me.

I sipped the cocoa. It was imperfect—thin, slightly grainy—but it might as well have been nectar. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. "This is... really good," I said, glancing at him.

He didn’t smile back, but his shoulders dropped a fraction. "Don’t get used to it," he said, but his tone lacked bite. “That was the last of my stash.”

"Guess I should feel special," I teased lightly, testing the waters.

"Maybe you should," he shot back, deadpan. But there was a flicker of something in his tone—dry humor, almost teasing. Almost.

I laughed softly, more out of surprise than anything else. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

"Have you seen a lot of animals out here?" I asked after another sip, shifting the focus off us. "Besides the owls, I mean."

"Plenty," he said, his voice low and steady. "Elk pass through every fall. Bobcats sometimes. Bears if you’re unlucky."

I raised an eyebrow.

He seemed to read my thoughts. "They’re not trouble unless you make ‘em trouble."

"That sounds like something someone who’s wrestled a bear would say," I joked, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or ignore me.

"Never wrestled one," he said simply, gaze drifting to the fire. "But I’ve been close enough."

"Close enough" sounded ominous, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Instead, I leaned back against the folded blankets, watching the way the firelight flickered over his face.

"How do you know so much about them?" I asked, curious now. "The animals, I mean. Tracks, behavior—all of it."

He hesitated. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed briefly where they rested on his knees. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just enough to notice.

"As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve been here a long time," he said finally, voice quieter than before. "Long enough that these mountains feel like home. Like old friends."

I glanced at him. His profile was sharp, all hard lines and shadows, but there was a quietness about him now that wasn’t there before. Like he was letting himself breathe for once.

My fingertips brushed the edge of his sleeve, barely grazing him. “Thank you,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “For keeping me safe.”

He froze. Not a big movement, just a slight stiffening in his shoulders, enough that I almost pulled my hand back. But then he looked down at where my fingers rested against him, and when his eyes lifted to meet mine, they weren’t cold. He looked happy.

I let my hand fall back to my lap, wrapping both palms around the mug again. The fire crackled, small pops breaking the quiet, filling the space where words might’ve gone. I watched him, wondering how someone so closed-off could still feel so . . . present.

"Silas," I said after a while, my voice low. I hesitated, twisting the hem of my sweater between my fingers. "Why do you stay up here? Alone?"

His shoulders tensed instantly, like I’d hit a nerve. I regretted it immediately. “You don’t have to answer,” I added quickly, mywords tumbling over each other. “If it’s too personal, I mean. Forget I asked.”

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his head dipping forward slightly. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t respond at all, and I was ready to fill the silence with anything—an apology, a bad joke, whatever came to mind. But then he straightened, his face unreadable as he stared into the fire.

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