Page 52 of Hometown Heart

I watched Silas fold inward, physically distancing himself from the conversation and, by extension, from me. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—he'd stepped back into the role of Whistleport's reliable coffee guy, the man who observed but kept himself separate.

Brooks's gaze moved between us, assessing. If he noticed the change in Silas's demeanor—and I was certain he did—he chose not to comment on it directly.

"Rory wanted me to remind you about the team fundraiser next weekend. He said something about donating coffee service?" His eyes remained on Silas, who nodded without turning around.

"Already on my calendar. Sarah's handling the morning shift, so I can be there."

"Good, good." Brooks lingered a moment longer than necessary. "Well, I'll let you get back to your... morning." The pause was deliberate, friendly, and pointed.

I caught his eye and offered a slight nod of acknowledgment—for what, exactly, I wasn't entirely sure. Support, maybe.Understanding. Brooks returned it with a barely perceptible smile before stepping back into the hallway.

"See you both around," he said, then closed the door behind him.

I finished the last of my coffee, setting the mug down with a soft clink. The clock above Silas's stove showed 7:36. Shannon had been clear about dropping Cody off by nine, which gave me just enough time to head home, shower, and change before greeting my son.

"I should go," I said, breaking the silence. "Shannon will drop Cody off soon."

Silas nodded without looking up, arranging the scones in a precise line on a plate. "Right."

I watched him a moment longer, taking in the controlled movements of his hands. Last night, those same hands had moved across my skin with hunger and purpose. Now they built invisible walls, brick by measured brick.

"Silas. Let's not make this complicated."

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, exhaling slowly.

I waited, giving him space to find words if he needed them.

Instead, he nodded again, a gesture that acknowledged my statement without agreeing or disagreeing with it.

I gathered my jacket from where it had landed on the floor near his bedroom doorway last night. The motion brought memories flooding back—Silas's hands fumbling with buttons, my mouth on his neck, the shared breathless urgency as we'd stumbled toward his bed.

At the door, I paused, struck by the urge to cross the room and kiss him, to break through whatever had closed around him since Brooks's arrival. But something in his stance—the careful way he maintained distance—told me he wouldn't welcome it. Not right now.

"I'll see you," I said instead.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine directly for the first time since Brooks had left. "Yeah," he replied, his voice low. "See you."

As I stepped into the hallway, I heard him moving behind me—clothing rustling and bare feet padding on hardwood. The door closed behind me without another word.

Walking down the narrow staircase, I passed through the closed Tidal Grounds. The chairs remained upturned on the tables, and the espresso machine was silent. I saw Whistleport coming to life through the front windows—shopkeepers unlocking doors, early risers walking dogs along the harbor front. Normal Saturday morning routines, unchanged by what had transpired upstairs.

I pushed through the door into the crisp morning air, letting it clear my head as I walked to my car.

The drive home gave me space to think. My SUV's heater fought against the February chill, slowly filling the cab with warmth. Main Street stretched before me, bordered by salt-weathered buildings and framed by glimpses of the harbor between alleyways.

I didn't regret a single moment with Silas.

Every touch and every whispered word felt right in a way I hadn't experienced in years—maybe ever. There had been no hesitation between us when we'd tumbled onto his couch or when we'd made our way to his bedroom.

I turned onto Harbor View Drive, where most of the houses still slumbered behind drawn curtains. The MacPhersons' two-story Cape stood halfway down the block, warm yellow light spilling from the kitchen windows. Shannon would be making breakfast, probably for a tableful of hockey players running on too little sleep and too much excitement after yesterday's win.

Silas was scared. I don't think I scaredhimspecifically. It was more what I represented—change and the possibility of having to live through another relationship falling apart. Those ghosts Rory had mentioned haunted the space between us this morning.

The question wasn't whether we had something worth pursuing. The question was whether Silas would let himself take the leap.

I pulled into my driveway, killing the engine. The house looked exactly as I'd left it yesterday—porch light still burning despite the morning sun, Cody's hockey stick leaned against the railing where he'd forgotten it. Nothing had changed, and yet everything somehow looked different.

Inside, I moved through the quiet rooms, shedding my clothes from yesterday as I headed for the shower. Hot water pounded against my shoulders, washing away the lingering traces of Silas's touch but not the memory of it. I closed my eyes, letting myself replay moments from the night before—his fingers threading through my hair, the soft gasp when I'd found a sensitive spot along his collarbone, and how he'd whispered my name in the dark.

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