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“Homemade,” he said with a smile. “I made a big batch yesterday. Seemed like soup weather.”
Layla took a spoonful and sighed at the taste. It was savory and warming, with layers of flavor. “This is incredible.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the howl of the wind outside. Layla was just beginning to feel actually warm again when the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.
She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the low light of the fire. Then Christopher’s voice cut through the dimly lit quiet, tinged with amusement. “Well. That was inevitable.”
Layla found herself laughing, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “Of course. Why not?”
She watching his silhouette move as he opened a drawer, and then she heard the scratch of a match. He held it up and Layla set her bowl aside, getting up without thinking to help Christopher find candles. She handed them to him from another drawer and he lit them one by one, placing them around the room until the space glowed with soft, flickering light.
“Better?” he asked, returning to his chair.
“Better,” Layla agreed, picking up her soup bowl again. The candlelight made everything feel more intimate somehow, like they’d been thrown back a couple centuries into the past.
She found, as they went back to their soup, that she couldn’t stop looking at him in the candlelight. She thought before that he was handsome, but the gentle light was particularly flattering, and her thoughts drifted. She couldn’t quite believe that she was so drawn to the owner of a bed and breakfast in a small town. It definitely wasn’t her usual type.
“Did this whole ordeal ruin your stay?” Christopher asked suddenly, setting down his empty bowl. “The storm, getting lost… is this going to be what you remember about Fir Tree Grove?”
Layla laughed, realizing that, surprisingly, it hadn’t. “Not in the slightest,” she said. “Actually, I think this whole scenario would make a great poem.”
Christopher’s eyebrows rose with surprise. “Are you a poet?”
Layla pressed her lips together, setting down her empty bowl. She didn’t really talk about this, but the candlelight and the storm and the intimacy of the moment made her feel oddly like opening up. It felt very strange. But she also, for some reason, didn’t want to resist it.
“I always wanted to be,” she said finally. “When I was younger, I wrote constantly. Filled notebooks with terrible teenage poetry.” She paused, surprised by the emotion rising in her throat. “But my parents, they pushed me to be an achiever. A success, by their definition. They said poetry was a foolish profession, that I’d never make a living from it, that I was wasting my potential.”
“So you chose journalism,” Christopher said quietly.
“I chose journalism to please them,” Layla confirmed. “It was close enough to writing that I could tell myself I was still following my passion, but practical enough that they approved. And I’ve been successful, by all the metrics that matter to them. Good job, good salary, bylines in respected publications.” She laughed ruefully. “But I haven’t written a poem in years. Not a real one anyway.”
The fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks. Layla was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “Being here has been an unexpected reminder that people can be happy without projecting a certain image or having a lot of money. Without always worrying about impressing people or meeting expectations.” She looked up at Christopher, then around the room. “Henry and his light displays. He spends hours creating something beautiful just because it brings joy. Nicole and her knitwear that she makes because it reminds her of her grandmother. Mabel’s joy in running the toy shop because it makes so many kids happy. They’re all doing things that make them happy, not just their bank accounts.”
She met Christopher’s eyes again, and the intensity of his gaze made her heart skip. “Even your attentiveness to this B&B,” she said. “Every detail, every comfort… it’s not just about running a business. It’s about creating something that makes people feel welcome and cared for. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
Christopher was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. Then he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them.
“That’s what I love about Fir Tree Grove too,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “It took me a while to see it, though. When my wife died, I kept the B&B going because it was what she would have wanted. It was a way to honor her, to keep her dream alive even though she wasn’t here to see it.” He paused, looking down for a moment. “But it became more than that, with the support of my friends and neighbors. They showed me that this place, this community, is about creating a place where people can be themselves, where they can slow down and remember what matters.”
Layla felt tears prick at her eyes, moved by the raw honesty in his voice. “I really am grateful,” she said softly. “It really is a beautiful experience. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate it enough before. This place is something special. I can see that now. This place especially… it’s really something that you can’t find just anywhere.”
The air between them seemed to thicken, charged suddenly, and Layla was aware of how close they were sitting together, along with everything else—the candlelight flickering over Christopher’s face, the sound of her own breathing, the warmth of the fire on her skin, the way her heart was beating too fast in her chest.
She’d stopped believing moments like this existed in real life, but this was real. She was here, and she realized that she would miss out on something special if she withdrew into herself again.
She wasn’t entirely sure who moved first, leaning toward each other across the small space between their chairs. Christopher’s hand cupped her cheek, and her eyes fluttered closed. His mouth touched hers, in a soft, searching kiss that left her heart fluttering too.
For a moment, it felt like time stopped and everything else fell away. She could feel the warmth of the kiss spreading through her, tender and special, unlike any kiss she could remember before.
When they pulled apart, just slightly, she could feel his breath on her lips still, and she wanted to kiss him again, to lean back in and lose herself in the feeling. But just as she started to move, a loud crack split the air outside, followed by a tremendous crash that shook the windows.
Christopher jumped up, his hand falling away from her face, the spell broken. He went to the window, peering out into the darkness. “I think a tree fell,” he said, frowning. “Sounds like a big one. Probably came down in the backyard.”
Layla stood too, her heart still racing but now for different reasons. “Is it—is everything okay? The house?”
“Should be fine,” Christopher said, glancing out of the window again. “The big trees are far enough from the house itself. I’ll check outside in the morning to make sure nothing damaged the shed or fence.”
He paused, turning to look at her. Their gazes met in the candlelit room, and Layla felt the pull of the moment that had been interrupted again, and the question of what happened next.
