Shutters, Stoves, and a Lunch Meant for Two
686 Words
Chapter Eleven — Shutters, Stoves, and a Lunch Meant for Two
The forest guided Silas again.
Branches lifted. Roots eased aside. The path unfolded like it had been waiting for him.
By the time he reached Anwen’s clearing, he was breathless — not from running, but from anticipation he didn’t know how to name.
Anwen was already outside, kneeling beside the porch with a small basket of herbs. Ink perched on the railing above her, preening smugly.
When she looked up and saw Silas, her whole face brightened.
“You came back.”
Silas tried not to smile too hard. “Told you I would.”
Ink cawed like obviously.
Silas rolled his eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
They started with the shutters.
Up close, Silas could see the problem — rusted hinges, warped wood, a screw missing entirely. He set his tools down and got to work, prying the hinge loose.
Anwen knelt beside him. “Can I help?”
He blinked. “Uh—yeah. Sure. Hold this?”
She steadied the shutter while he sanded the swollen edge. Their hands brushed once — just once — but it sent a warm jolt up Silas’s arm he pretended not to notice.
Anwen noticed.
Her breath hitched, barely audible.
Ink noticed too.
He hopped onto Silas’s shoulder and tapped his head twice, like focus, human.
“Stop doing that,” Silas muttered.
Anwen laughed — soft, warm, unguarded — and Silas felt something inside him loosen.
They worked in easy rhythm: Silas sanding, Anwen oiling the hinges. When they finished the first shutter, Anwen stepped back, eyes shining. “It hasn’t closed properly in years.”
Silas shrugged, suddenly shy. “Well… now it does.”
They moved to the second shutter, then the third. By the time they finished, the sun had climbed higher, warming the clearing.
Anwen wiped her hands on her skirt. “The stove needs to cool before you look at it. It gets temperamental.”
“Like Ink?” Silas teased.
Ink cawed in outrage.
Anwen laughed again — brighter this time — and Silas felt that same warm bloom under his ribs.
They sat on the porch steps, waiting for the stove to settle.
Silas stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. “Oh—right. My dad gave me something.”
He reached for the lunch box he’d nearly forgotten, flipping the latch open.
He froze.
Inside were two portions of everything:
two sandwiches, two apples, two small jars of soup, two cookies wrapped in wax paper
And tucked at the bottom, folded neatly, was a small blanket.
On top of it lay a note in his dad’s handwriting:
Picnics are nice.
Silas’s ears burned.
Anwen leaned over, curious. “What’s that?”
Silas slammed the lid shut so fast Ink squawked.
“Nothing!”
Anwen blinked. “It looked like food.”
“It is. I mean—yeah. It’s lunch. For… us.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Your dad packed lunch for us?”
Silas groaned. “He thinks—never mind.”
Anwen’s smile softened. “It’s sweet.”
Silas rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… trying.”
She nodded, understanding more than he said.
“Should we eat outside?” she asked gently. “Since he packed a blanket?”
Silas opened the box again, slower this time. The blanket was soft, worn at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I think we should.”
Anwen’s smile bloomed — soft, warm, grateful.
Ink fluttered to Silas’s shoulder, tapping his head once like good choice.
Silas didn’t even complain this time.
They carried the lunch box into the clearing behind her house, where sunlight filtered through the trees in golden strands. Silas spread the blanket out, and they sat together, sharing the food his dad had packed.
They talked. They laughed. They teased each other gently. Ink stole half a cookie and pretended he didn’t. The forest seemed to come alive with the sound of their laughter.
- Writer
