Page 94 of Silent Shadows

That sound does things to me.

The cabin suddenly feels very small. Very warm. Very full of him.

“You know,” I say once our laughter trails off, “you keep acting shocked that I’m listening to you.”

He stills. Just a little. But enough that I notice.

The fire crackles softly between us.

Miles looks down for a moment before answering. “Most people don’t.”

Something vulnerable opens quietly between us then. I lean back against the wall, studying him in the lantern glow.

“You really think everyone’s eventually gonna laugh at you, don’t you?”

His eyes lift slowly to mine. And there it is. The thing underneath all the humor. All the rambling. All the overexplaining. Not insecurity, exactly. Expectation. Like he already knows how the story usually goes. Weird guy believes weird things. People humor him until they don’t find the quirks funny anymore.

“For what it’s worth, I love that you care openly.” I shrug slightly. “Most people don’t.”

Something shifts across his face too fast for me to fully catch.

Then he looks away again.

The stove crackles louder as the wind picks up outside.

Rain starts later as we eat our soup.

Heavy and cold, it slams against the roof hard enough to shake the cabin while thunder rolls somewhere deep through the mountains.

The storm traps us inside the tiny space. One cot. One lantern. One shockingly attractive nerd trying very hard not to look at me too long. I end up curled beneath two blankets while Miles sits on the floor beside the cot with a map spread across his knee, pretending to study routes. He does a terrible job pretending.

No, Miles keeps doing that deeply inconvenient thing where he catches himself looking and immediately drops his gaze. Like he doesn't trust himself. Like wanting me is somehow impolite.

Which, for reasons I don't fully understand, is making my pulse do crazy things.

The lantern throws warm light over his face. His curls. Reading glasses. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms. His calloused hand running distractedly through his hair every few minutes while he studies nothing at all. And every now and then, he smiles to himself. Like he's remembering something. Which I know, with terrifying certainty, is me.

“You know you can share the cot,” I say eventually, hoping I sound far more casual than I feel.

His entire body goes still. Like a deer spotting headlights. His eyes remain fixed on the map.

“I’m fine here.”

“Miles.”

“I don’t mind the floor.”

“You’re like six-foot-two.”

“Six-one.”

“That is not the point.”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “I just feel like close quarters are already… complicated.”

I know exactly what he means.

The stolen glances.