I push the thought down and force myself out of bed. The floor is cool under my bare feet. I pull on the oversized sweatshirt Silas left folded on the dresser and pad to the doorway.
He stands at the stove in a faded gray T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, broad back to me while he flips pancakes. The sight of him doing something so ordinary makes my throat tighten. This man talked me out of the sky, carried my suitcase, locked his cabin door behind me, and now he’s making breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His shoulders shift as he reaches for the spatula. Muscles move under the cotton. I watch the way his forearm flexes, the faint scar that runs across one knuckle. He’s strong in a way that feels earned, not showy. Steady. The kind of strength that makes you believe the world might actually hold together for a little while.
“Morning,” he says without turning. “Coffee’s ready. Pancakes almost done.”
I step closer. “You didn’t have to do this.”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes softening when they land on me. “Wanted to. Sit.”
I slide into a chair at the small table. He sets a mug in front of me, steam curling up, then plates the pancakes and bacon. Real maple syrup in a glass bottle. Fresh butter. Simple things that suddenly feel like luxury.
He sits across from me, but he doesn’t start eating right away. Instead he watches me for a beat, then speaks. “We moved your dad last night.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. “What?”
“Quiet transfer. Private facility outside Seattle. Security detail on him around the clock. Plainclothes, vetted guys. No one gets near his room without clearance. He’s stable, comfortable, and the staff there knows the situation. Treatments continue without interruption.”
Tears prick my eyes so fast I have to blink them back. “How… when did you…”
“Made some calls early this morning. Rafe has contacts. Eli knows people in the medical world. We did not want to wait.” His voice stays low and even. “He’s safe, Hannah. Really safe.”
I set the fork down because my hands are shaking. Relief crashes through me so hard it hurts. Dad is protected. The payments, the threats, the endless worry about the next bill. For the first time I can imagine him resting without that shadow hanging over him. I look at Silas and try to find words. Nothing feels big enough.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I manage finally.
He shakes his head once. “Don’t need thanks. Just need you to eat something.”
I pick up the fork again and take a bite. The pancake is warm, fluffy, perfect. I watch him while I chew. He eats methodically, but his eyes keep drifting to me, checking. Protective in the quietest ways. The way he refills my coffee without asking. The way he keeps his chair angled so he can see both the door and me at the same time. I have spent months looking over my shoulder. Now someone else is doing it for me.
After breakfast I stand to clear the plates. He meets me at the sink, taking them from my hands, and sets them aside. Then heturns to face me. We’re close. Close enough that I can smell the soap on his skin and the faint trace of coffee on his breath.
I do not think. I just step forward and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. For a second he goes still. Then his arms come around me, one hand settling at the small of my back, the other cradling the back of my head. He holds me like I might disappear if he lets go.
“Thank you,” I whisper again.
He rests his chin on top of my head. “You’re welcome.”
I tilt my face up. Our eyes lock. The air shifts. His thumb brushes my cheek, slow and deliberate. Heat pools low in my belly. I rise on my toes and he meets me halfway. The kiss is soft at first, careful, like he’s giving me room to pull away. I don’t. I slide my hands up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and kiss him back.
He makes a low sound in his throat. His grip tightens. The kiss deepens, hungry now, all the worry and relief and want we have both been carrying spilling over. His mouth is warm and sure. I open for him and he takes the invitation, tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak. One of his hands moves to my hip, pulling me flush against him. I feel every hard line of his body, the heat radiating through his clothes. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly. He groans softly and backs me against the counter, caging me with his arms.
We break apart only when air becomes necessary. His forehead rests against mine. Breathing hard. Eyes dark.
“We should slow down,” he murmurs, even though his hands stay on me.
I nod, but I do not move away. “Probably.”
He kisses me again, quick and firm, then steps back with visible effort. “Go rest. Read. Whatever you need. I have work to do.”
I smile, shaky and real. “Okay.”
The afternoon slips by slowly and peacefully. I curl on the couch with one of his paperbacks, a worn thriller I found on the shelf. The fire pops. Sunlight slants through the windows, warming the leather. Silas sits beside me after lunch, laptop open on his thighs, typing notes and making quiet calls. His presence is solid, comforting. Every so often his knee brushes mine or his shoulder bumps me when he shifts. I like it. I like the way the cabin feels full with both of us in it.
I can picture it too clearly. Mornings like this. Evenings by the fire. Him coming home after a long shift, me waiting with coffee ready. The thought makes my chest ache in the best way. A life here. With him. Safe. Wanted. Normal.
He closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. “We have a few names,” he says quietly. “Guys who have been seen around the airstrip too often. One owns a trucking company that crosses the border regularly. Another has a history with firearms licenses that got revoked. We’re digging deeper. Should know more in a day or two.”
I nod. The fear is still there, but it feels smaller now. Contained.