"Safety's important to you."
"Yeah. It is." Something in his tone suggested there was more to that story, but before I could ask, he was standing up. "We need to keep it going now. We’ll just gradually add more kindling."
This part required both of us. Together, we added pieces of kindling from the dry pile and the surrounding area. Our teamwork became more natural with each piece we added.
"Careful," he said as I stood next to a particularly large log that appeared to be more precariously perched than the ones around it. "If that slips?—"
At that exact moment, the log shifted, and suddenly he was right behind me, his arms coming around to move me away from the fire. For a moment, we were pressed together, his heart beating against my cheek as he held me in his arms.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The log was secure, but he didn't immediately step away. Neither did I.
"Keely," he said, and I realized I'd never told him my name.
"How did you know my name?“
"Your press badge." He stepped back and nodded toward the nametag on a lanyard around my neck that I'd completely forgotten about.
"Keely Morrison, freelance journalist,” I said. “And you are?"
“Silas.” He stepped even farther back. “Silas Cross."
We turned to face the fire as it crackled between us, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear car doors slamming and voices calling out. The rest of the volunteers were arriving.
But for this moment, it was just us. Just the fire we'd built together and the feeling that something important was beginning.
“Silas!” A voice called from across the field. "Fire looks great, man!"
I turned to watch a group of people approaching, their voices and laughter growing louder as they got closer. Soon this quiet space would be filled with crowds and chaos and all the energy of a community celebration.
But I'd always remember this—the quiet intimacy of building something beautiful together, piece by piece, flame by flame.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For teaching me."
"Thank you for destroying my kindling pile." His mouth quirked up in that almost-smile. "Best mistake anyone's made in a while."
As the first wave of volunteers reached us, chattering about setup and schedules and safety protocols, I found myself hoping this wouldn't be the last time Silas Cross taught me something new.
2
SILAS
Ishould have been socializing.
The guys were all clustered together near the beer cooler, shooting the shit about work and weekend plans and which of the visiting vendors they thought were single. Normal bonfire conversation. The kind I usually joined without thinking twice about it.
Instead, I found myself making another circuit around the fire, adjusting logs that didn't need adjusting and checking burn patterns that were already perfect. All so I could keep an eye on her.
Keely was working the crowd like a pro, notebook in one hand, camera in the other, but I could see she was struggling. People were polite enough, but there was a wariness to their responses. Wildwood Valley folks didn't love outsiders asking questions, even friendly ones with press badges and pretty smiles.
She'd been at it for over an hour, getting surface-level answers and forced grins. Nothing that would make for the kind of authentic article she was clearly hoping to write.
Time to fix that.
I caught Tommy Anderson’s eye and jerked my head toward Keely. Tommy was a third-generation local who worked at the lumber mill and had about a million stories about this town and zero filter when it came to sharing them. If anyone could give her the real scoop, it was him.
"Tommy," I called out as he wandered past with a beer. "You meet the journalist yet? She's writing about our fall traditions."
