The morning light falls through the glass wall in long, golden sheets—soft, almost sacred, the way light falls in churches. Now, without hesitation, the heavy curtains draw aside completely. Dust motes drift through the beams like tiny prayers ascending.

Silas sits on the couch.

His hands rest in his lap—fingers twisting, fumbling, weaving in and out of each other like they’re searching for something to hold onto. The blood has dried on his nightshirt now. Rust-colored. Evidence. The collar is stained where it seeped into the fabric, spreading—quiet proof of what happened only moments ago.

I take the first-aid box from the drawer. My movements are slow. Heavy. Each step toward him costs something I can’t name.

The more I try to push him away, the more I find myself stuck with him.

I sit beside him. Not close. A distance wide enough to pretend we’re strangers who accidentally shared a room.

I open the box. The latch clicks—loud in the silence. Bandages. Antiseptic. Cotton buds. Ointment. Everything I need to fix what I broke.

I didn’t mean to hurt him like this.

My voice comes out quiet. Too quiet. I don’t recognize it.

"Look at me."

Slowly—like he’s moving through water—he turns his face toward me.

Obedient.

Waiting.

Like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to tell him what to do. Where to look. How to be.

The sunlight pours over him.

His cheeks are still damp with tears—thin trails catching the light. They make him look fragile. Breakable. Like something that shouldn’t be touched.

"Does it hurt that much?"

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Soft. Quiet. Almost a whisper.

He nods.

Slowly.

Just once.

My fingers clench around the cotton bud—too tight, the thin stick bending under the pressure.

Ellis. What did you do? Why did you react like that?

Because he was close? Because he was warm?

Why am I even thinking about that?

It’s not just my fault. He crossed the line too. I told him not to.

Slowly—hesitantly, like I’m reaching for something that might burn me—my hand moves to his temple. I brush his hair back. Gently. Carefully. The strands slip through my fingers—soft, dark.

The wound is small. A cut at the edge of his temple. Nothing deep. Just a thin line where the skin split. The blood has already started to dry. Dark red against pale skin.

Maybe his head hit the bedside table. When I pushed him.

I dip the cotton bud in antiseptic. The liquid seeps into the white tip, staining it amber. Then I press it to his wound.

Carefully.

Gently.

Like touching something that might break.

Silas flinches—just a small tremor through his shoulders. His hands twist in his trousers. White knuckles.

"It’s not bad." My voice is flat. A mask. "Just a small cut. Don’t overreact."

He looks down.

I wipe the blood away. Slow strokes. Steady pressure. The cotton stains pink, then red, then brown.

"The antiseptic burns a little." My voice softer now. "So bear it."

He nods. Slow. Trusting.

I take a small amount of ointment on my finger—cool and white, smelling of medicine and something clean—and apply it to his wound. My fingertip moves over it. Gentle. Controlled.

Silas’s eyes close.

A soft sound slips from his lips—"ss"—like air escaping something held too tight. His mouth tightens. Trying to bear it. Trying not to show it.

I watch his face.

The slight pull of his brow. The tension in his jaw. His breathing—shallow, uneven.

Does it really hurt that much?

Before I think—

I lean forward. And blow gently over the wound.

Soft. Cool. Gentle. My breath carries away the sting, easing the burn.

Silas’s expression shifts. The tension in his jaw loosens. His features smooth, like the pain has eased—just a little.

His eyes open slowly—like waking from a dream, like surfacing from deep water. He looks at me.

Our faces are close. Too close. Our eyes lock.

I catch the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. The way his pupils widen. The hitch in his breath.

Then I realize what I’m doing.

I pull back quickly. Grab the bandage from the table.

What the hell am I doing? 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

What the hell is wrong with me?

I peel it open—the paper tearing sharp in the quiet—and press it over his wound. Smooth the edges. Make sure it holds.

"It’s done."

My voice comes out rough. Tight.

Silas looks down again. At his hands. At the floor. Anywhere but me.

I take the notebook and pencil from the table and offer them to him—like a truce I don’t want to give.

My voice is flat when I speak. Forced. Controlled.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you." A pause. "And I’m not going to apologize. I told you to stay away from me."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Now explain yourself. What were you doing on my bed?"

Silas looks up at me. His eyes—still damp at the edges—hold mine for a moment. Then he takes the notebook and writes.

His pencil moves across the page. Slow. Careful.

He hands me the note.

I take it.

I don’t know.

My expression tightens. Something flickers behind my eyes.

Is he serious?

"How can you not know?"

He writes again. Hands me the note. I take it. Harder than necessary.

Seriously. I don’t remember how I ended up on the bed.

My jaw tightens. He’s testing my patience. The paper crumples in my fist—folding, creasing.

Anger rises. Hot. Controlled. My voice drops, low. Dangerous.

"Don’t lie to me."

Silas shakes his head. No. His eyes are earnest—quietly pleading.

He writes again. Hands me the note. I take it. My fingers tighten.

I’m not lying.

I crumple this one too. Toss it aside. The paper ball skids across the floor and disappears under the bed.

I snap.

"You’re making excuses. Saying you don’t remember—"

"What happened?"

I stop.

The voice comes from the doorway—familiar. Light. Curious. I don’t need to look to know who it is. My head turns anyway.

Everic stands there.

Hands in his pockets. Perfect posture. My parents’ perfect son. The one they’re proud of. The one who never causes trouble.

I stare at him. Unimpressed.

Why does he always show up at the worst moments?