Chapter 37 Silas
THIRTY-SEVEN
SILAS
Morning light filters soft through the curtains. I stretch without thinking, my limbs brushing something solid beside me.
Not something. Someone.
A sort of groggy confusion fills me as I blink against the morning haze, registering the extra weight on the mattress, a warmth that isn’t my own.
And then it all rushes back. Meeting Luke for coffee, bringing him back to the apartment…doing things I didn’t plan, spending the rest of the day curled on the couch together. It feels like a dream. A really good dream.
I roll onto my side, head propped up on my arm, and just—watch him for a minute.
He’s sprawled across most of the bed, one leg kicked out, blanket twisted around his waist, blond hair wild from sleep. His mouth is parted slightly, brows relaxed, lashes fanning across his cheeks.
God, he’s beautiful. And he’s really here. I don’t fight the smile tugging at my lips.
Instead, I lean in and press the softest kiss to his shoulder. Then another to his collarbone, following it with one on his neck. Then one just under his jaw, where I know he’s ticklish but pretends not to be.
He shifts with a grumpy groan, arm flopping up to cover his face. “No.”
“No, what?” I whisper, dropping another kiss to his forearm.
“No being cute before coffee.”
I chuckle. “I’m not being cute, hemroso. I’m being affectionate.”
“Same thing,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal before 8 a.m.”
“Is it?”
He hums a response, but drops his arm and cracks one eye open to look at me. “You know it is, or have you forgotten…mornings are my arch-nemesis."
I grin, shifting closer until my chest brushes his side. “I remember. You used to threaten to banish me to the couch for setting the alarm five minutes early.”
“Still might,” he mumbles, but there’s a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth now. He rolls toward me, tucking his face into the crook of my neck as if it’s the most natural place in the world. His breath is warm against my skin. “You smell like me. And sex. And…home.”
My heart does something painful and perfect at once. I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. “Good combination?”
“Best one,” he sighs, already relaxing again. “Five more minutes. Then coffee. Then maybe I’ll let you be cute.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Deal.”
We lie there like that—tangled, quiet, breathing in sync. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, mine card through his messy hair. Every few seconds, he presses a sleepy kiss to my collarbone, my throat, the underside of my jaw. Small, unhurried things. Like he’s making sure I’m still real.
Eventually, the coffee craving wins.
He groans dramatically and rolls away. “Okay. Caffeine first. Then adulting.”
I watch him pad naked across the bedroom, unselfconscious and unfairly gorgeous in the slanted morning light.
He disappears into the hallway, and I hear the familiar sounds: cabinet opening, coffee maker gurgling to life, mugs clinking.
The rich smell of brewing coffee drifts into the room, followed by the scent of toast cooking in the toaster.
A minute later, he comes back carrying two steaming mugs and a small plate balanced on top of one. He’s pulled on his boxers but nothing else—hair still a disaster, skin golden in the light.
“Breakfast in bed,” he announces, setting everything on the nightstand before climbing back in beside me. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time guilt offering for making you wait while I caffeinate.”
I sit up against the headboard, accepting the mug he hands me—black with one sugar, exactly right. The plate holds two slices of toast, buttered with a smear of jam on one and peanut butter on the other. Simple. Perfect.
“You remembered the peanut butter ratio,” I say, taking a bite.
He shrugs, sipping his own coffee—so much milk it looks almost white and probably enough sugar to fuel him for the day. “Some things are sacred.”
We eat in comfortable quiet for a minute, shoulders touching, legs tangled under the blanket. Every few bites, he reaches over to wipe a crumb from my lip with his thumb, or brushes his knuckles along my jaw, or just rests his hand on my thigh like he needs the contact.
After the toast is gone and the mugs are half-empty, he sets everything aside and turns to face me fully.
“Better?” I ask.
“Marginally human,” he says with a small grin. “Still don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
He catches my face gently, turns the kiss deeper for a moment—slow, lingering—then pulls back with visible effort.
“I have to. If I don’t text Ty and Will soon, they’re gonna file a missing person’s report. Or worse—show up here with bolt cutters.”
I groan, burying my face in his hair. “Let them. I’ll barricade the door.”
“Tempting,” he laughs softly, “but I should probably go before they stage a rescue mission. Ty’s dramatic when he’s worried. Will just brings snacks and passive-aggressive comments.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “Stay a little longer?”
His expression softens. “I want to. More than anything. But I also want to do this right. No rushing. No hiding. I’ll come back tonight if you want. Or tomorrow. Or every damn day until you’re sick of me.”
“Never,” I say immediately.
He smiles—small, real, the one that always undid me—and leans in to kiss me. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes my bottom lip.
“Tonight,” he promises. “I’ll bring takeout. Your favorite from that little Mexican place. And maybe I’ll even let you pick the movie.”
“Deal.” I kiss him again—deeper this time, reluctant to let go.
We stay like that for another minute, trading lazy kisses, hands wandering but gentle. Eventually, he sighs against my mouth.
“Okay. Adulting time.”
He rolls away—reluctantly—and swings his legs over the side of the bed. I watch him stand, stretching with a groan that makes every muscle in his back shift in a way that’s unfairly distracting.
“Stop staring,” he teases, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk.
“Can’t help it. You’re walking around my bedroom like you belong here.”
He pauses, expression softening. “I do belong here.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. You do.”
He grabs his clothes from the other room and wanders back in and starts pulling them on. I sit up against the headboard, arms crossed, watching every movement, memorizing it.
When he’s dressed, he turns back to me, steps close, and cups my face in both hands.
“One more,” he murmurs.
I tilt my head up. The kiss is slow, thorough, full of everything we’re not saying yet. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“I’ll text you when I’m home,” he says quietly. “And tonight… I’m bringing dessert too.”
“Fried Ice Cream?”
“Obviously.”
I grin. “You’re forgiven for leaving. Temporarily.”
He laughs—soft, warm—and kisses me one last time. “See you later, Silas.”
“See you tonight, hermoso.”
He slips out of the bedroom. I hear him in the living room—shoes on, keys jingling—then the front door opens and closes with a soft click.
The apartment goes quiet again.
But it’s different now. It doesn’t feel empty. It feels…as if it’s waiting. Like it knows he’s coming back.
I flop back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling with a stupid smile on my face, already counting the hours until tonight.