Page 77 of Hometown Heart

"No, I mean, I write a lot of poetry. Notebooks full. I've been doing it since high school. It's how I process things—through words, images, metaphors." He looked almost embarrassed by the admission. "I've submitted work to journals under a pseudonym."

"Published?"

"A few pieces. Nothing major."

"Silas, that's incredible."

He waved off the compliment. "It's private. Something just for me. Or it was, until the poetry night."

"Thank you for sharing it with me."

"We should clean up," Silas said abruptly, gathering our empty plates. The moment receded like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving damp impressions in the sand.

We washed dishes side by side, his elbow occasionally bumping mine as we worked. The domesticity of the scene struck me—how natural it felt to share these mundane tasks with him, how easily we'd fallen into a rhythm that accommodated both our movements.

When the kitchen was clean, we migrated to the couch in front of the fire. The flames had died down to a steady glow, casting the cabin in warm amber light. Outside, the woods had gone completely dark, the only illumination coming from the stars visible through the A-frame's high windows.

Silas sat at one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath him. I settled at the other end, aware of the deliberate space between us. The wine had left me pleasantly relaxed but not impaired, my senses heightened rather than dulled.

"This was a good idea," Silas said, gazing into the embers. "Getting away."

"Worth abandoning Tidal Grounds for forty-eight hours?"

He smiled, eyes still on the fire. "Jury's still out. Ask me Sunday."

I stretched my arm along the back of the couch, not quite touching him but narrowing the gap between us. "What would tip the scales in favor of 'worth it'?"

It was a bold question, more direct than I typically allowed myself to be. But here, away from Whistleport and its watchful eyes, the usual caution felt unnecessary.

Silas turned to face me fully, his expression thoughtful. "I'm already here, aren't I? That's a pretty significant verdict."

"True. You did pack an overnight bag and willingly drive three hours from your café. That's practically a declaration."

"Of what?"

"Intent. Interest." I paused, feeling my way through unfamiliar terrain. "Willingness to see where this goes."

The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Silas watched them rise, his profile illuminated in gold and shadow. "I don't usually let myself want things," he said. "It's safer that way."

"And now?"

His hand found mine in the space between us, fingers slipping between my own with deliberate care. "Now I'm tired of safe."

"What are you thinking?" Silas asked.

I considered deflecting but chose honesty instead. "That I want to kiss you. But I won't unless you say it first."

His eyes widened slightly, surprise giving way to something darker, more certain. Instead of speaking, he shifted forward, rising onto his knees on the couch cushion. One hand came up to rest against my jaw, thumb brushing lightly over my cheekbone in a touch so gentle it almost undid me.

When our lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, hungry clash I'd imagined in my weaker moments. It was measured, deliberate—a question followed by an answer, an offering accepted.

I kept my own movements restrained, letting him set the pace. My fingers found the fabric of his sweater, gripping lightly at his waist. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth opening under mine with a soft sound that reverberated through my entire body.

When we finally separated, Silas remained close, his forehead resting against my cheek. His breathing was uneven, matching my chest's rapid rise and fall.

"You okay?" I murmured, not pulling away.

"Yeah, a long way from just okay."

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