The storm didn't let up. By ten o'clock, the wind was screaming against the cedar siding of Silas's house, making the heavy timbers groan. Inside, the only light came from the dying embers of the hearth and a single lamp in the corner of the den.
Silas sat in his leather chair, a bottle of small-batch bourbon resting on the low table between us. I was still buried in blankets, clutching a heavy crystal glass like it was a lifeline. The whiskey was doing its job; the cold was gone, replaced by a slow, humming heat that made my tongue feel heavy and my brain feel dangerously soft.
"You're staring again," I muttered, peering at him over the rim of my glass. I wasn't snapping this time. I was just... curious.
Silas leaned back, the amber liquid in his glass catching the firelight. "I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Whatever. You're looking at me like I'm a puzzle you can't solve. I'm not that complicated, Silas. I'm just a girl who lost her life and ended up in a diner." I took a large gulp of the bourbon, wincing as it burned its way down. "What about you? You're the great Silas Mercer. Did you just wake up one day and decide to own everything?"
Silas was quiet for a long time. I thought he was going to give me another one of his 'gentleman' platitudes, but he surprised me. He looked at his hands—large, scarred, and steady.
"I spent my twenties watching my father die," he said, his voice so low it almost disappeared into the sound of the wind. "I watched him work himself into the dirt for land that the bank was trying to take every single month. I didn't have a youth, Alina. I didn't have 'flings' or road trips. I had debt, and I had the smell of a sickroom."
I lowered my glass. The snarky comment I had prepared died in my throat.
"By the time I made the money," he continued, finally looking at me, "I realized I'd traded my life for a ledger. I saved the farm, but I forgot to save a place for anyone else in it. I hit forty and realized I was the most successful lonely man in Georgia."
"At least you have the money," I whispered, the whiskey making my voice wobble. "I did the same thing. I stayed. I watched her fade out, Silas. I watched her get so thin she looked like paper. And then she died, and I found out she'd spent every cent she had trying to stay alive for me. Now I have... nothing. I'm twenty-one and I'm already finished."
The honesty of it felt like a physical blow. I hadn't said those words out loud to anyone. Not even Martha.
"You aren't finished," Silas said. He leaned forward, reaching across the space between us. For a second, I thought he was going to touch me, and I didn't want to pull away. "You're just at the beginning of a different story."
I looked at him, my vision blurring. The whiskey was making the room spin, but his face was the only thing in focus. He looked so steady. So solid. For a heartbeat, I wanted to crawl out of these blankets and see if he was as warm as he looked. I wanted to see if that stoic mouth knew how to do anything other than give orders.
Then, the realization of what I was thinking hit me like a bucket of ice water.
I saw the way he was looking at me—the intensity in his eyes, the way his breathing had hitched. He wasn't just a gentleman anymore. He was a man. And I was a girl who had just spilled her guts to a stranger.
The shame hit me instantly, hot and suffocating.
"I... I should go," I said, abruptly standing up. The blankets tangled around my legs, and I nearly tripped over the coffee table.
"Alina, wait—"
"No," I snapped, the armor slamming back into place. "Don't. This was... you got me drunk. That's your move, right? Get the sad girl to talk so you can feel like a savior?"
Silas stood up, his height suddenly intimidating again. "That's not what this is, and you know it."
"I don't know anything!" I yelled, my heart hammering. I felt exposed. Naked. "I'm going to bed. Don't follow me. I mean it, Silas. Don't be a perv."
I didn't wait for his response. I turned and bolted for the stairs, my boots clattering against the wood. I reached the guest room and slammed the door, leaning my back against it, my chest heaving.
I stayed there in the dark, my face burning with embarrassment. I could still taste the whiskey on my lips. I could still feel the weight of his gaze.
I hated him. I hated him for making me feel something other than anger. But as I crawled into the massive, cold bed, all I could think about was the way his hand had looked, reaching for mine in the firelight.
And for the first time in months, the silence of the room didn't feel lonely. It felt