49. Silas
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
“ O h my God, you’re proposing!”
My head snapped up so fast I probably could have filed a claim against myself for whiplash.
Lilith stood at the entrance of the rooftop, eyes wide, hand thrown dramatically against her chest.
I exhaled sharply. “Lilith.”
She ignored me, pressing a hand over her mouth like she was moments away from fainting. “I don’t even have my nails done. This is so unexpected!”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Lilith.”
“How mad would you be if I said no? Just hypothetically.”
For fuck’s sake.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing out a slow breath before I lost the little patience I had left. But the twitch of my lips betrayed me, and she caught it immediately. I should have known better than to expect anything less.
“Sit the hell down,” I muttered, reaching for her wrist and tugging her toward the setup before she could run with this any further.
I had gone overboard. Even I could admit that. The rooftop was straight out of one of those damn rom-coms she loved so much.
Blankets. Pillows. Lanterns flickering softly. The outdoor heater casting a warm glow over everything.
It looked like a proposal.
It wasn’t.
But the fact she’d immediately assumed? Maybe I didn’t hate that as much as I should have.
She let me pull her forward, probably because she spotted the wine. And the ridiculous amount of snacks .
She plopped down on the blanket, crossing her legs, her gaze still sweeping over the space. “Okay, but this is very marriage proposal coded, and I just think it’s important we acknowledge that.”
I sighed, pouring her a glass of wine before handing it over. “Noted.”
“Good.” She took a sip, eyes flicking over me as I settled beside her. “Now, tell me what this is.”
“Today was a lot. All of it. It was heavy.”
I let the words settle, watching her over the rim of my glass as I took a slow sip.
I didn’t know if I regretted not telling her.
I should. But I didn’t. Because I wanted to keep her safe. So damn protected from everything that had been my fault.
It didn’t matter how many times Finn told me it wasn’t my fault. It didn’t matter how many times he said I couldn’t have predicted it, that I wasn’t the one who hurt her.
It didn’t matter how many times I told myself the same things.
It was my fault.
And until I fixed the loose end that was out there in the form of a sociopathic, bleach-blond asshole. I couldn’t afford to give her full transparency.
I knew she hated it. Hated that I kept things from her. Hated that she felt like a spectator in her own life, watching from the outside while I’d made decisions she had no say in.
But I’d wanted to do this on my own. I didn’t want her any more stressed than she was. I didn’t want her losing more sleep, spiralling deeper into fear, carrying even more weight than she already did.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” I said instead, my voice soft.
She just sat there, watching me, her fingers curled around the stem of the wine glass, the soft, flickering glow of the lanterns against her skin.
I didn’t know what she was thinking.
But I knew how beautiful she looked.
Black hair spilling over her shoulders, loose waves catching in the wind, strands tangling at her collarbones, shifting with every slow breath she took.
Pretty pink lips, parted just slightly, like she had something to say but hadn’t quite figured out how to say it.
That straight, elegant nose she always scrunched when she was annoyed, the same one I’d memorised, the same one I wanted to run my thumb over just to feel it.
And those silver eyes, pulling me in like the goddamn tide.
I adored her. Not in a soft, delicate way—but in the way a wildfire adores oxygen. In the way the ocean adores the moon, tugged forward by something unseen, something inevitable.
And she didn’ t even realise it.
Or did she?
She just sat there, lashes fluttering as she looked at me like I was something more than I was.
The same pull. The same need. The same look she gave me every single time I walked into the room.
And I felt it down to my bones.
I reached out, fingers brushing over her wrist. “You do that a lot, you know.”
Her brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”
“You look at me like I hung the damn moon or something.”
Her breath hitched. Just slightly. But then she shook her head, like she was physically trying to force the moment away.
Why did she always do that?
“Fucking hell,” she muttered. “Should I start reciting Sonnet Eighteen just to make sure your ego reaches its full potential?”
I huffed out a laugh, swirling the wine in my glass. “Go ahead. I’d love to hear how I’m more lovely and more temperate.”
She snorted, taking a sip of her own. “More insufferable, maybe.”
I let that slide, stretching my legs out, eyes flicking toward the skyline. The city buzzed beneath us, bright and relentless, but up here, it was quiet.
“You know,” I murmured. “When I was a kid, I used to take my sisters up on the roof.”
She tilted her head, her gaze settling on me.
And just like that, I was back there. Back on that rooftop of our rundown, shitty little house, legs crossed, arms draped over my knees, listening to my sisters fill the night with sound.
“Vita would make up these ridiculous stories about the stars,” I continued. “How each one was a person who got stuck up there for doing something stupid—like stealing the last cookie or lying about finishing their homework.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Harsh sentencing.”
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “Gigi would try to count them all. She’d get frustrated after a couple dozen and swear she’d get it right next time. I’d just sit there and listen. Let them do their thing.”
I could still see them—Vita, dramatic as hell, gesturing wildly as she spun some story about a baker who stole his own bread, and got sentenced to an eternity in the galaxy.
Gigi, squinting at the sky, furiously whispering numbers under her breath before throwing her tiny hands up and declaring it impossible.
And I’d stay there, playing dutiful big brother. Making sure they didn’t climb too high, making sure they didn’t get too close to the edge. Making sure they had that moment—that memory.
The silence stretched between us for a few minutes before Lilith turned her head toward the sky, eyes reflecting the stars scattered like spilled sugar across the black.
“My dad used to tell me they were wishes.”
I stayed silent. Not because I didn’t want to respond—but because I didn’t want to break the fragility.
“I don’t remember a lot, not really. Just bits and pieces,” she said. “I remember sitting outside with him at night. He’d point up at the skyline and tell me very star was a wish that someone had made, and if you looked hard enough, you could find your own.”
She furrowed her brows slightly, curling her fingers around her locket.
“I remember thinking I had to pick the biggest, brightest one—because that had to be the best wish, right?” Her laugh was bittersweet.
“And then he’d just shake his head, all pretend-stern, and tell me that no, the best wishes weren’t always the biggest ones.
They were the ones that shined just for you. ”
I slid my hand over hers, squeezing slightly.
My eyes flickered to her collarbones, the ink etched delicately into her skin, a trail of tiny constellations spanning the soft curve of bone and skin.
I tilted my head slightly. “Is that why you have the—?” I gestured toward them, my fingers grazing just close enough without touching.
She strayed a finger over one of the stars, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “These? Yeah,” her voice softened. “Wishes from my dad.”
I squeezed her fingers gently. “What did you wish for?”
“Oh, you know. The usual,” she said, shrugging. “A pony. More cookies. That Evelyn would let me stay up past my bedtime.”
She glanced down at where my hand covered hers before turning her gaze back to the sky. “I remember the last time we sat outside together. He told me to pick a star, so I did. And then… I don’t know. After he was gone, I just—” she exhaled sharply. “I just stopped.”
Her fingers brushed over the locket around her neck. A nervous habit. Something she did when she didn’t feel quite right.
“This was his locket too. Well, it was Evelyn’s. But she threw it away when she married Wayne.”
She swallowed, fingers curling around the delicate chain. “I dug it out of the trash, and it’s been mine ever since.”
I stayed quiet. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask. This was the most she’d ever given me, and I wasn’t going to fuck it up by speaking too soon.
“Back when Ev elyn was… nice,” she murmured.
“She would tell me about him all the time. He was a good guy, from what I heard. Called Jude,” she said it like the name was something foreign on her tongue, like something she never got to use.
“He was a veterinarian. Everyone loved him. Apparently, he was just as much of an ass as I am.”
A huff of laughter broke from her lips. I knew what she was doing. Trying to soften the blow with humour.
“He got really sick when I was six and died. He was only twenty-nine. It felt weird after I turned that age. Like I was surpassing him.” She swallowed, thumb rubbing over the worn locket. “Like he’d never know what it was like to be the age I was. That I was living in years he never got to have.”
Gesù Cristo.
I felt that. Felt it in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Because I understood it.
Not in the same way, not exactly. But enough. Enough to know how unfair it was. Enough to know what it was like to keep moving forward, keep existing, while someone else never got the chance. Enough to know how it felt to live in years that should’ve belonged to someone else.
Her eyes glossed over. She looked like she was trying to hold it together, pressing the weight down, locking it away somewhere deep.
And I knew that look.
I fucking hated that I knew that look.