Page 50 of Hometown Heart

At some point, we found ourselves tangled in the blankets, bodies still pressed close. Jack's fingers skimmed my forearm, a light touch like he was memorizing me in the dark.

Neither of us spoke for a long time. The only sounds were our breathing and the faint crackling of the old radiator, fighting against the cold seeping through the windowpanes.

I exhaled, pressing my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath me. "You're warm," I murmured, half-asleep.

Jack laughed softly, shifting to pull the covers higher around us. "That's the point."

A beat of silence stretched between us before he spoke again, quieter this time. "You good?"

I nodded against his skin, my fingers curling lightly, rubbing the curly hairs in the center of his chest. "Yeah. Really good."

Jack's lips brushed my hair, the barest ghost of a kiss. "Good," he murmured.

Outside, the wind howled against the glass, but here, in the dim light, the world had shrunk to the two of us.

I closed my eyes and let myself stay—let myselfbe held, for once, without overthinking what came next.

Chapter fourteen

Jack

The harbor fog hadn't yet burned away when I opened my eyes. I lay in Silas's bed. His sheets—soft, faded blue flannel that smelled of cedar and salt—tangled around my legs.

Silas was on his back, awake, one arm tucked behind his head. He stared intently at the ceiling.

I studied his profile—the strong line of his nose, the curve of his beard-roughened jaw, and the soft fullness of his lower lip. Last night, those lips had traced paths across my skin that still burned in my memories.

He finally spoke. "I don't regret it."

"Neither do I."

Something loosened in his expression—it wasn't full relief, but neither was it as intense as before. Outside, a lobster boat's engine grumbled to life, the sound rattling through a partially open window. I reached over to cuddle up close, and he flinched, not pulling away but startled by the contact, like someone unaccustomed to casual intimacy.

"Hey," I murmured, withdrawing slightly to give him space.

"Hey."

After a few more moments of silence, Silas swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, reaching for a navy hoodie draped across a nearby chair. He pulled it on before padding barefoot toward the kitchen.

I sat up, watching him go, allowing myself a moment to absorb the reality of where I was. I looked more closely at Silas's apartment in the morning light. Bookshelves lined one wall, volumes arranged not by any visible system but by what appeared to be personal preference: coffee table books on architectural history nestled beside dog-eared paperbacks of poetry.

A collection of hand-thrown pottery mugs lined three wooden shelves, each one different in shape and color. Near the window, a small table held what looked like a journal and several well-worn field guides to coastal Maine.

It wasn't only where Silas slept. It was where he'd built his life—every object a deliberate choice.

I pulled on my pants and followed the scent of freshly ground coffee. In the kitchen, Silas moved with practiced precision, his back to me as he measured beans into a grinder, added water to a copper kettle, and set it on the stove. His shoulders remained tense, the line of his spine rigid beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching as he began the ritual of making pour-over coffee. He didn't ask how I took it—he already knew.

Steam rose from the kettle. He poured two mugs, sliding one across the counter toward me without making eye contact.

"Are you okay?" I asked finally, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic.

"I'm tired," he replied. There was likely truth in the comment, but it was evasive, too.

I took a sip, letting the rich complexity bloom across my tongue. Even distracted, Silas brewed coffee with extraordinary care.

"This is perfect."

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