The light beyond the glass wall is brighter now, softer in a different way—the slow warmth of morning beginning to drift toward afternoon.

I step out of the bathroom, and the steam follows me, curling around my shoulders and clinging to my damp skin like it doesn’t want to let go. The warm water has loosened something in my muscles, something tight and knotted that I didn’t even realize was there.

I feel lighter.

Strange.

Unsettled.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the towel draped over my head, and dry my hair in slow, absent strokes. The fabric brushes softly against my fingers. The warmth of the bath still lingers on my skin—a phantom heat that refuses to fade, like the memory of fever after the sickness has already broken.

I stretch lazily, arms reaching toward the ceiling as my spine cracks in quiet protest. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt this kind of freshness after a rut.

Strange. One night. Without an Omega.

How did it disappear?

I stare down at the polished marble floor, smooth and cold beneath the afternoon light. My hand stops moving through my hair. The towel rests heavily against my head.

Did it end because of him?

Because he stayed beside me all night, cooling my burning skin with cold water while I lost myself to the heat?

I shake my head slowly.

Impossible.

It was a rut. Not a fever.

Ruts are beasts—hungry, violent, uncontrollable. They don’t calm down beneath gentle hands and cold patches. They don’t just... vanish.

So what did he do to me last night?

I lift my head. The towel slips from my hair and falls into my lap. I barely notice.

Then I catch it. The scent.

Faint. Elusive. Like a whisper at the edge of hearing.

I inhale deeply, chasing it—but it fades as quickly as it came, retreating into the corners of my senses like something shy. Something hiding.

When I was in the bath, the scent was stronger. Thick enough to notice. Impossible to ignore.

It’s strange.

Not my pheromones. Not my body wash. Not my cologne.

But it feels like it’s coming from me.

I lift my wrist to my nose and inhale. Then check my shirt. Nothing. My shoulder. Nothing.

My wrist again. My expression shifts slightly.

It’s really coming from me.

Sweet—but not overly sweet. Not cloying. Not sharp. Just... present. Lingering softly against my skin like something left behind.

Did an Omega come here last night?

I almost laugh at the thought.

An Omega can’t leave a scent like this on an Alpha’s body. That’s not how pheromones work. That’s not how any of this works. Their scent lingers on the air, on the sheets, on the walls— but never on skin. Never like this.

So what is it?

I lift my wrist again, breathing the scent in slowly. It doesn’t feel like an Omega’s pheromones. It feels like...

I don’t have words for what it feels like.

I stand from the bed. The towel slips from my lap and falls onto the floor. I leave it there without looking back.

I need to know what the hell this is.

My steps stay calm as I walk out of the room. Measured. Controlled. But beneath that calm, something restless shifts quietly inside me.

Where is he? I told him to rest.

Then I hear it. Soft sounds drifting from the kitchen. The quiet clatter of dishes. The gentle scrape of movement.

I walk toward it.

The kitchen is washed in soft sunlight spilling through the glass walls, turning the marble counters gold.

And there he is.

Silas stands at the counter, his attention fixed on what he’s doing, his movements slow and deliberate. He’s making breakfast. His shoulders are relaxed, his head tilted slightly as he works. The red of his nightshirt catches the light warmly against his pale skin.

I told him to rest. He was burning. His hands were trembling. And he’s here, making breakfast like nothing happened.

I step forward. My footsteps are almost silent, but he looks up the moment I move.

Our eyes meet.

He smiles softly. Like the morning itself softened him.

My brows twist. Anger rises sharp and sudden, though I’m not sure who it’s aimed at. Him, for being stubborn. Or myself, for caring.

"I told you to sleep."

He blinks slowly. His cheeks are still flushed—warm with lingering fever.

I don’t wait for a response.

I walk to him and grab his wrist. His skin is warm beneath my fingers—too warm, still burning. I pull him away from the stove, away from the half-made breakfast.

His expression shifts slightly—surprised, confused—but he doesn’t resist.

I stop in front of the couch.

"Sit here."

My voice is cold. Flat. The same voice I use when I want to keep distance between myself and the world.

Silas sits immediately. His eyes stay on me, quietly searching for something I refuse to give him.

I turn and walk back to the kitchen.

He always does whatever he wants. Never listens. Never follows instructions. It’s like my words pass through him without leaving a mark.

My movements are sharper than necessary as I open the fridge. Cold air spills against my skin while I search the shelves until I finally find it.

A cooling patch.

I take it and close the fridge. Then walk back to the couch.

Silas is still sitting exactly where I left him. Obedient. Waiting.

I sit beside him. My attention settles on the cooling patch as I peel the backing away carefully, the adhesive cold against my fingertips.

Before I can think about it, my hand reaches for his temple.

My fingers brush through his brown hair, pushing the damp strands away from his face. His skin burns beneath my touch. Too hot. The fever is still there.

I press the cooling patch gently against his temple.

Silas’s eyes stay on me. He blinks slowly, surprise flickering softly across his face—like he didn’t expect this from me.

My thumb smooths across the edges of the patch, pressing it carefully into place to make sure it won’t fall. Then our eyes meet.

"Now go rest in your room."

A soft smile spreads across his lips. Slowly. Warm enough to make something in my chest tighten strangely. He nods. Just a little.

I stare at him.

He’s smiling.

Again.

Then I realize.

My hand is still resting against his temple. My fingers are still tangled lightly in his hair. And I’m sitting too close—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to count his lashes if I wanted to.

I blink.

What the hell am I doing?

I push back quickly—too quickly—creating distance between us as I shift to the far side of the couch. My arms cross tightly over my chest. My gaze drifts anywhere except his face.

My voice turns cold.

"Why are you smiling? Don’t get the wrong idea." A pause. "I’m only doing this because you took care of me last night. Think of it as payback."

His smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it softens—becoming something quieter. More private. He reaches for the notebook resting on the table. Writes something down. Tears out the page and hands it to me.

Thank you. For taking care of me.

I stare at the words for a moment before looking back at him.

"Fine. Now go."

He nods. But his eyes stay on me.

I look away. "Don’t stare at me. Just go. Sleep."

Silas stands. The cushion shifts beneath him, releasing the warmth he’d left behind. He walks toward the hallway slowly, his footsteps soft against the marble floor.

I watch him for a moment. Then—

"If I see you—"

He stops and turns. Our eyes meet.

"—outside your room, you’re dead."

He blinks. Then smiles. Softly. Nods once. Turns. And walks away.

His footsteps fade into the quiet house. I stay there on the couch, alone with the soft daylight and the lingering scent of half-made breakfast. My expression slips. Just a little.

What the hell?

Again with that smile.