Chapter 8
In his left hand, he carried two heavy ceramic tumblers and a dark green glass bottle of hard cider from the local orchard up the ridge.
"Draft’s perfect," Nora said, her voice dropping into the quiet cavern of the room. "Not a trace of backdraft in the flue. The municipal inspector signed off on the secondary damper without asking a single question."
"Told you he would," Silas said, stepping up to the counter beside her.
He set the mugs down on the polished wood with a soft clink. With a flick of his pocketknife, he popped the metal cap off the cider, the rich, fermented scent of crisp autumn apples and yeast blooming into the warm air. He poured a generous measure into each cup, the amber liquid foaming against the ceramic rims.
He slid one mug toward her, his calloused fingertips grazing hers for a fraction of a second.
Nora didn't pull away. Neither did he.
"To the hearth," Silas murmured, lifting his glass. His hazel-gray eyes held hers in the firelight, burning with an amber intensity that made the floor feel suddenly uneven beneath her boots. "And the architect who didn't drop the glass."
Nora’s lips curved, her heart performing that now-familiar, dangerous flutter. "To the grizzly bear who knew where to put the jack."
They clinked their tumblers together. The ceramic rang true.
The cider was cold, sharp, and sweet on Nora’s tongue, cutting through the dry plaster dust lingering in her throat. She swallowed, watching Silas drink. His throat moved, his gaze never once leaving her face. The scar above his brow looked softer in the flickering orange light of the oven, like a silver thread woven into dark wool.
"Opening day is in ten days," Nora said softly, turning her cup between her palms. "Mrs. Gable already put up the flyer in the stationer's window. Harvey said half the town council is showing up for morning scones."
"They will," Silas agreed. "Word travels fast when the chimney smoke smells like sugar again."
Silence settled over them, but it was no longer the cautious, territorial quiet of their first week in the alley. It was thick, warm, and dangerous with unspoken things.
The green ledger sat a few feet away, resting closed on the corner of the marble slab. Nora glanced at it, the memory of the sepia stain on page fifty-eight tugging at the edge of her thoughts. Over the past fortnight, whenever doubt had whispered in her ear, Silas had simply appeared at her elbow—fixing a hinge, steadying a ladder, bringing her hot coffee just as her hands grew numb from sanding. His presence had been so steady, so profoundly sheltering, that she had pushed the oddities away like bad dreams.
"Clara would have been proud," Nora whispered, looking at the glowing hearth. "She’d probably find three flaws in the mortar joints and complain that the cider wasn't chilled enough, but... she’d be proud."
Silas didn't answer right away. He set his tumbler down on the counter with a quiet, hollow rap.
He turned his body fully toward her, leaning his hip against the woodwork, closing the distance between them until Nora could feel the radiant heat radiating from his chest.
"Clara isn't the one standing here, Nora," he said, his voice dropping into a register so low and gravelly it resonated in the hollow of her collarbones.
Nora looked up, her breath hitching. "Silas..."
"I didn't rebuild this hearth for a ghost," he said. The words came out hard, stripped bare of his usual ironclad sarcasm. "I didn't stay up until three in the morning mortising those curved frames because of an old ledger, either."
Nora’s pulse leaped into her throat, hammering wild and fast. "Why did you, then?"
Silas reached out. His large, rough hand didn't hesitate this time. His fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, his thumb resting gently against the soft curve of her jawline. His skin was warm, smelling of cedar oil and clean rain, his touch so reverent that Nora’s eyes fluttered shut for a trembling second.
"Because you were killing yourself in that city," he breathed, stepping closer, his boots brushing against hers. "Because you were drawing glass cages for strangers while your own heart was freezing to death."
Nora’s eyes flew open. Her breath came in short, ragged sips. "Silas—"
"And because the first morning you banged on my shop door with that stupid blue thermos," he continued, his thumb sweeping slowly across her cheekbone, "I looked at you, and I knew I was done."
A soft, broken sound escaped Nora’s lips.
She reached up, her hands flattening against the front of his denim shirt. The muscle beneath the fabric was coiled like a spring, his heart thudding against her palms with a violent, reckless rhythm that matched her own.
"You were so angry that day," she whispered, her vision blurring with sudden, sweet heat. "You looked like you wanted to throw an axe at me."
"I was terrified," Silas confessed, his forehead coming down to rest against hers, their breaths tangling in the space between their lips. "I’ve spent five years hiding behind saws and sawdust so I wouldn't have to feel anything. And then Clara’s granddaughter walks across the cobblestones, looking at me like she could see right through the wall."
"I couldn't," Nora murmured, her fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him an inch closer. "I only saw you."
Silas groaned—a low, helpless sound dragged from the bottom of his chest.
His mouth came down on hers.
It was not tentative. It was a hungry, desperate collision that had been building through weeks of shared coffee, late-night timber framing, and rain lashing against the glass.
His lips were warm, firm, and tasted of sweet apple cider and salt. Silas pulled her against him with an arm wrapped tight around her waist, lifting her until her boots barely skimmed the floorboards, anchoring her against his chest as if he were terrified she might evaporate into the chimney smoke.
Nora gasped against his mouth, her hands sliding up to the nape of his neck, tangling in his thick, damp hair. The sheer physical presence of him overwhelmed her senses—the broad ridge of his shoulders, the roughness of his stubble scraping against her chin, the iron strength in his arms that made her feel entirely, completely safe.
He deepened the kiss with a possessive, shuddering groan, his tongue parting her lips, tasting her with an intensity that made her knees turn to water.
When he finally pulled back to let them breathe, he didn't let go of her waist. His chest heaved against hers, his forehead pressed to her temple, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sending shivers rippling down her spine.
"Nora," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick and broken with emotion. "Stay with me tonight."
Nora’s heart swelled until it felt as though her ribs couldn't hold it. She tilted her head back, looking into the stormy gray of his eyes, seeing the raw, defenseless devotion laid bare without a single shield left standing.
"I’m already here," she whispered, her fingers tracing the pale line of his scar. "I’m not going anywhere."
