Chapter Seventeen Sparks and Soot
1161 Words
She looked at him the moment he entered.
And she smiled.
“Welcome back,” she murmured, voice soft and a little shy.
Silas blinked, caught off guard by how warm that felt. “Didn’t go far.”
He knelt by the fireplace, stacking the wood carefully. Anwen watched him, her eyes lingering a little too long on the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders tensed when he concentrated. When he glanced back, she snapped her gaze away so fast she nearly dropped the blanket.
Silas hid a smile.
The fire crackled to life, filling the room with a soft, golden glow. Anwen sighed, leaning back into the couch.
“Let’s get you sitting up properly,” Silas said gently. “You’ll breathe easier.”
He offered his hand.
She took it.
And when he helped her rise, her balance wavered — not dangerously, just enough that she instinctively leaned forward.
Her forehead brushed his collarbone. Her breath warmed his neck. And then, without thinking, she buried her face there — just for a heartbeat — drawn to his warmth, his steadiness, the faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to him.
Silas froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
Anwen realized what she’d done a second later. She jerked back, face flaming. “I—I didn’t mean— I just— you were warm and—”
“It’s okay,” Silas said quickly, ears burning. “I mean— it’s fine. Really.”
She covered her face with both hands, mortified. “I’m blaming the fever.”
Silas laughed under his breath — soft, breathless, stunned. “Yeah. Sure. Fever.”
Ink hopped onto the arm of the couch, staring at both of them like finally.
Silas brought her a small bowl of warm broth. She ate slowly, but halfway through she winced, hand pressing to her stomach.
“Too fast?” he asked gently.
She nodded, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I just… I feel better and I got excited.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, taking the bowl from her. “Your body’s still recovering.”
She leaned back, breathing shallowly until the discomfort eased. Silas watched her carefully, worry flickering in his eyes.
“You need warmth,” he said. “Real warmth.”
He stood, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m going to heat water for a bath. You’re still chilled from the storm.”
Anwen blinked, startled. “A bath?”
“You were soaked all night,” he reminded her gently. “You need to warm up properly.”
Her cheeks flushed again — a soft, rosy pink. “Silas… you don’t have to do all this.”
He paused at the doorway, looking back at her with a softness that made her heart flutter.
“I want to,” he said simply. “Just relax. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Ink hopped onto her lap, glaring at Silas like a tiny chaperone.
Silas smirked. “You can supervise.”
Anwen giggled — a soft, breathy sound she tried to hide.
Silas stepped outside to gather more wood for heating the bathwater, and Anwen watched him go, fingers brushing the spot on her neck where she’d leaned into him.
She hadn’t meant to do it.
But she didn’t regret it.
Not even a little.
Chapter Eighteen —
The bathwater warmed slowly over the fire Silas built outside, steam curling into the cool morning air. Inside, the house felt gentler now — the fever haze lifting, the storm damage patched, the quiet settling around them like a blanket.
Anwen disappeared into the washroom with a soft thank‑you and a shy glance that lingered a little too long. Silas tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about her leaning into him earlier. Tried not to think about the way her voice softened when she said his name.
He failed.
Ink perched on the table, watching him with judgmental bird intensity.
“What?” Silas muttered.
Ink cawed like you know what.
Silas groaned and turned back to the stove. “I’m fixing this. That’s all.”
Ink did not look convinced.
By the time Anwen emerged, wrapped in a soft robe with her starlight hair damp and falling in loose waves down her back, Silas was elbow‑deep in the stove’s guts.
He didn’t hear her at first.
He only felt the shift in the room — the warmth, the softness, the quiet presence behind him. When he turned, she was sitting at the table, hands folded neatly, watching him with a small, shy smile.
And her hair—
Her hair was still wet, strands clinging to her neck, catching the light like silver threads.
Silas’s breath hitched.
He jerked his hand back too fast.
The ash vent snapped open.
A full cloud of soot exploded straight into his face.
Anwen gasped — then burst into laughter, bright and unrestrained.
Silas sputtered, blinking through the black dust. “Oh, it’s funny?”
She nodded, laughing harder. “You look like you lost a fight with a chimney.”
He wiped his eyes, smearing soot across his cheek. “Glad I could entertain you.”
Ink cawed in outrage, flapping away from the blast zone like absolutely not.
Silas stood, brushing himself off — which only made more soot puff into the air. Anwen covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Oh, you think this is hilarious?” Silas said, stepping toward her.
Her eyes widened. “Silas—don’t you dare—”
Too late.
He shook his hair out like a dog.
A soft cloud of soot drifted over her.
Anwen squeaked, waving her hands in front of her face. “Silas!”
He grinned — a real grin, wide and boyish and unguarded. “Now we’re even.”
She looked down at her soot‑dusted robe, then up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“You’re impossible,” she said, but her voice was warm.
Silas shrugged. “You laughed first.”
She laughed again — softer this time, breathier, the kind that made something warm bloom under his ribs.
Ink hopped onto her shoulder, glaring at Silas like you will pay for this.
Silas held up his hands. “Hey, she started it.”
Anwen shook her head, smiling. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Their eyes met.
The room went quiet.
Not awkward — charged. Soft. New.
Anwen tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “Thank you… for the bath. And the stove. And… everything.”
Silas swallowed. “Anytime.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I know.”
And for a moment, neither of them moved.
The soot didn’t matter. The storm didn’t matter. The broken window didn’t matter.
Just the two of them, standing in the soft morning light, closer than they’d ever been.
- Writer
