I rub my temple. The headache from before I fell asleep is still there—throbbing lightly behind my eyes, dull but persistent.
I need so fresh air.
I turn my face—
And freeze.
What the hell...?
For a mont—just a mont—everything inside goes still. The breath stalls in my lungs. Even the pulse throbbing at my temple seems to pause.
Silas.
What the hell is he doing here?
He’s sitting on the floor beside my bed, his head resting against the mattress, cheek pressed against the edge like a child who fell asleep waiting.
A white pillow is clutched against his chest. His notebook and pencil lie abandoned beside him on the cold floor, pages slightly crumpled as if they’d slipped from his hands mid-thought.
I stare at him.
Again.
When did he co in?
I told him not to sleep on the floor. More than once. And yet here he is again. Like my words an nothing. Like the cold ans nothing.
My eyes drift over him—the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his fingers curl around the pillow even in sleep, holding it close without realizing.
Why don’t I feel angry right now?
The thought cos quietly. Uninvited.
I don’t have an answer. Just... sothing. Sothing I don’t know how to na.
What am I supposed to do with this boy?
He’s so stubborn. Sneaking into my room. Sleeping on the floor beside my bed like so abandoned puppy that keeps finding its way back.
Like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here.
His hair is a ss. Brown strands spill across his forehead, falling over his eyes—almost uncomfortable. I can already imagine how they must press against his lids, how they must itch against his skin.
His lips are slightly parted. Just enough for soft breaths to slip through. His cheek is pressed against the mattress, slightly squished, softening the sharper lines of his face.
Before I think—
Before I can stop myself—
My hand reaches for him.
My fingers move gently, carefully, brushing the strands away from his face. His hair is soft beneath my touch. Softer than I expected.
I push it back slowly, tucking it behind his ear. His eyes are fully visible now. Closed. Thick brown lashes resting against his cheeks.
Still. Quiet.
An uninvited smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Now they aren’t uncomfortable anymore. You stubborn abandoned puppy...
He stirs at my touch. A small movent—barely anything. His brows twitch slightly. His lips press together softly.
Then his eyes open.
Slowly. Sleepily. And et mine.
The faint smile tugging at my lips disappears instantly. I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
My face feels strange. Warm. My eyes widen slightly—like soone caught stealing sothing precious. My chest tightens as the realization crashes into .
Ellis.
Why the hell are you touching him again?
I quickly look away, fixing my gaze on the wall. The glass wall. Anywhere but him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
My voice cos out sharper than I intended.
Silas blinks slowly. He straightens up, still clutching the white pillow against his chest. His hair is even ssier now, tangled strands falling across his forehead.
And those eyes—
Calm. Quiet. Completely unreadable.
He just looks at . Waiting. Patient. Like he has all the ti in the world.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
"Stand up."
My voice is flat. Cold. "How many tis have I told you? Crystal Country winters aren’t normal. Do you want to die young?"
He lowers his head slightly, like a child being scolded for sothing he doesn’t fully understand. His fingers loosen around the pillow for a mont before tightening again. Then he sets it carefully on the bed.
He picks up his notebook and pencil from the floor before standing quietly beside . His eyes drift over .
What is he looking at?
Then I realize.
The sweat still clinging to my temple. The damp strands of hair sticking faintly to my skin. The way my nightshirt hangs open, half-unbuttoned, revealing more than it should.
I don’t bother covering myself.
Let him look.
But Silas doesn’t stare. He only glances once before looking away again.
He writes sothing in his notebook, tears out the page, then silently holds it out to .
I stare at him for a long mont—long enough for him to shift his weight slightly beneath my gaze.
His fingers tremble faintly around the page. Like he’s nervous. Like he’s waiting for my reaction.
Then I snatch the note from his hand. Angrily.
Are you okay?
The words are simple. Quiet. Unassuming.
I crumple the paper in my fist and toss it aside. The small paper ball lands sowhere on the floor between us.
"Yes." I pause. "Now tell —why the hell are you here? In my room? On the floor? Again?"
Silas bites his lower lip softly, like he’s holding sothing back. Sadness flickers across his face for only a second before disappearing again
Then he writes another note and hands it to .
I couldn’t sleep, so I ca here to talk to you. But you were sleeping peacefully, and I didn’t want to wake you. So I waited for you to wake up.
I stare at the words. Then at him. Then back at the note again.
Seriously... This man.
"Until morning?" My voice rises. "Have you lost your mind? What if I hadn’t woken up? What if I’d slept until morning? Were you planning to sit there all night and get sick again?"
I glare at him.
"Or was your plan to make take care of you like a child again?"
He lowers his gaze. Then slowly shakes his head.
No.
His fingers fumble nervously with the notebook and pencil—clutching, releasing, clutching again in an uneven rhythm. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
I rub my temple. That damned headache. Throbbing behind my eyes. Pulsing with every heartbeat.
My voice quiets despite myself. "My head is already throbbing. Go back to your room."
Silas writes another note and hands it to . I glance at it and sigh. Now what does he want?
Can I pat your head? It might help you relax.
Pat my head?
I’m not a child anymore.
My answer cos imdiately. Cold. Direct.
"No."
He lowers his eyes again and writes another note. His pencil moves carefully across the paper before he tears the page out and hands it to .
Can I sleep here tonight? I can’t sleep in that room.
A pause.
It feels too lonely.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I lie back against the bed. Calm. Deliberate. I rest my head on the pillow and close my eyes.
"No."
A pause settles between us. Then—
His hand reaches out. Fingers brushing against the sleeve of my shirt before tugging gently. Just once. Careful. Hesitant. Like a child asking for attention without wanting to beco a burden.
I don’t open my eyes. "Get out of my room. Now."
Silence. No movent. No touch.
Then—
Thud.
The notebook and pencil hit the floor. The sound is soft but strangely final, like the end of an argunt neither of us actually won.
My eyes open imdiately. And I look over.
Silas is sitting on the floor again.
The pillow is clutched tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around it stubbornly. Quietly defiant.
The notebook lies open beside him, pages spread ssily across the floor while the pencil rolls away slowly into the dark.
His face is the face of a child who’s been told no one too many tis. Lower lip pushed out slightly. Eyes bright and wet, holding back sothing heavy.
"What are you doing?"
He looks at . Then abruptly turns his face away.
Away from . Toward the glass wall. Toward the darkness outside. Away from the tears gathering silently in the corners of his eyes.
I stare at him.
What is this?
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