Chapter 21
Terran
I grazed my fingers lazily through bluntly cut strands of his dark hair, sparsely peppered with threads of silver that gleamed a little in the faint light coming in from the windows.
Thick and dense when I spliced them apart, the smooth texture soft between my fingers.
Such a contrast to the hand trapped under me, calloused and worn from the countless hours holding fine instruments that sometimes were the only bridge between life and death.
Funny how we’d managed to end up this way two times in a row: passed out after sex and curled up under the covers with barely any room separating us.
Only this time, when I’d rolled over to slide out from underneath the warmth of the sheets, an arm had snapped around my waist and hauled me back with a half-asleep muttering accompanying it.
Surprise was an understatement when I first felt the weight of Silas’s head on my chest after he’d rolled me onto my back with barely a thought. His ear pressed directly over my unsteady heartbeat, relaxing only when I felt his breathing even out once more.
The gentle pulls of his breath tickled against my skin, raising the hairs on my arms while I fought the urge to shift him just enough to see that peaceful expression I knew he wore.
To take in the relaxed lines of his face and lashes that fanned against his cheekbones, dark and long.
A stark contrast to the harsh features that made him so striking when he was awake.
The sharpness of him would be gone, softened by sleep, leaving him looking younger and almost vulnerable.
My heart squeezed at the intimacy of it all—a quiet ache that bloomed in my chest and got harder to breathe through as we lay there in the peaceful stillness of his room.
My rampant and uncontrollable desire to savor the moment before the morning light broke us apart terrified me into keeping still, not wanting anything to stir us into separating before I could soak it all in.
Whether he’d meant to pull me close like this or not in his half-asleep state, I wasn’t going to question it.
His heavy weight on top of me was comforting, as was the arm wrapped under me to keep me trapped while his other hooked up near my face, his fingers just barely brushing my cheek with every rise and fall of his shoulders.
A feather light graze that sent a shiver racing down my spine.
All of this was so... familiar. Like we’d been doing this for years instead of stumbling into it by accident.
I wanted to memorize him like this, commit every detail to memory for the moments when I’d inevitably feel the cold absence of his touch. Because no matter how much I wanted this to last, I knew it couldn’t.
Silas wasn’t mine—not really. And I wasn’t his. We were just... whatever this was.
Temporary.
Fleeting.
None of this was supposed to happen—not the tenderness, not the vulnerability or this closeness. Tangled here together felt too natural, too easy. As if our bodies already knew the rhythm, the unspoken dance, of being this intertwined... this comfortable with each other.
When was the casualness supposed to take over?
When was I supposed to feel the need to pull away and disentangle myself before I got caught up in the all too many emotions swirling inside me?
Retreat to the bathroom and lick the wounds that were starting to form around my heart.
I traced the edge of his hairline absently, brushing my fingers over the faint wrinkles etched into his temple. Lines born from stress, from long nights and harder days, from carrying burdens he never shared aloud or whatever horrible tragedies he witnessed coming in off of those gurneys.
Much like mine had been.
Silas never talked much about himself, never seemed like the type of person to let people in that easily. And yet here he was, wrapped around me like I was the anchor that tethered him.
A part of me was desperate to find out where the lines in the sand blurred between us. Where we both stood now that it seemed we were both neck deep in the deep end of things.
I wanted to know more. To dig down deep and pull out the pieces of him that hardly ever saw the light. Get to know what was behind those steel, reinforced walls. To know the person underneath that even his friends didn’t.
A dreary overcast morning awaited us outside of the warm confines of this bed. No doubt cold and windy like the weather app predicted earlier in the week. The perfect backdrop to spending the rest of the day indoors together, curled up doing...
What exactly?
Sex obviously.
But what came after that?
My heart, the traitorous thing it was, hoped for something else.
Something more.
Would he... want that, too?
His breathing shifted before his body did, the steady rhythm breaking as he drew in a deep inhale and shifted his weight slightly.
I froze, unsure if I wanted to pretend to be asleep before he noticed I was already awake and ten minutes deep into my existential crisis, or actually face the music that I was right on the edge of starting that dreaded ‘what are we?’ conversation.
My face suddenly filled with heat and I knew I flushed in embarrassment.
His reaction to me poking fun at his aversion to feelings last night was stark proof that any kind of conversation that revolved around trying to figure out a label for this was a no-go. I was a masochist to a fault, but I wasn’t that much of a glutton for punishment.
He kept you this long, though, that fickle, lovesick part of me whispered. He came back for more.
Plus... the way he’d fucked me last night.
What was that?
He’d stripped me bare. Barely given my panties a glance before tossing them like the rest of my clothing.
I’d worn nothing to entice him—nothing to drive him mad into a frenzy of lust and desire like the last time.
None of that stopped him from pulling me close.
Pressing himself against me and holding me until I wasn’t sure where either of us ended.
I swallowed thickly.
It almost felt like body worship. Like he’d... like we’d—
“Awake already,” he murmured, his voice gravely and rough with sleep still clinging to it.
Instead of moving away from me, he tightened his arm around my waist, almost as if reluctant to let go. I felt his head tilt, the soft bristle of his stubble grazing along my collarbone before a soft sigh ghosted against my skin.
I hesitated in answering, my fingers still buried in his hair.
Presuming anything was a deadly game. For my heart, anyway. Reading too much into last night and the way he’d treated me, how he’d fucked me or rather... what it really felt like—making love—was... a goddamn recipe for disaster.
Too much of me wanted to believe in this being more than a casual fling. Silas’s hell bent steps in trying to keep me safe, and going out of his way to do so, wasn’t something mere hookups did.
Why spend the extra effort when he knew he’d get me back in bed, eventually?
He didn’t need to woo me when I was all too willing to dress up pretty for him and be thrown over his shoulder as he carried me into his house.
There was no reason for it outside of him actually caring about my well being. This went beyond a doctor’s oath.
But bringing that up into a conversation was a terrifying beast to face.
I’d been met with rejection plenty of times in my life, though this time felt completely different.
My thick skin was now paper thin. My heart was beating in the palm of my hands and I was scared to extend it out to the one I wanted to take it from me.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I finally said.
Not entirely a lie.
As long as I sounded normal, I could keep pretending everything was fine and not at all hanging on a razor’s edge. Imploding this very delicate thing between us was the worst decision I could be contemplating making, anyway.
And yet, that’s all that I wanted to do. Poke the bear and see how fast it swung at me.
Would Silas reject me gently or would it be like everything else with him?
Harsh and sudden?
“Hmm,” was the answering rumble.
If he heard the loud thumping in my chest, he said nothing. Just simply let out another soft sigh before rubbing his cheek over the spot to settle again.
Oh my god, I couldn’t take this. I was ten seconds away from actually exploding.
“The decor in your house was keeping me up,” I blurted.
He paused, and then said in a baffled reply, “What?”
“The white leather furniture. The art deco paintings in the hallway. The gold hardware in your bathroom? What is with all of that? It’s so not your style.”
He shifted again, just enough to tilt his head back to catch my gaze with his own. His eyes were so pretty half-lidded with sleep. Softer, unguarded. “And what exactly is my style?”
A question for the ages, really. Like I had any clue what I was talking about. The man was an enigma wrapped in expensive fabric and surrounded by even more expensive things. Every move was deliberate, every choice so precise that it felt impossible to pin him down.
Living in a space like this should’ve made sense.
Yet, nothing in this house felt like him at all.
It dripped with refinement, each detail so meticulously chosen that it almost felt sterile. The furniture, the art, even the placement of the lighting—it all seemed carefully curated to project a certain image.
It wasn’t just opulence, it was a declaration of status that most people around here could only dream of. Ellington Heights was a rich town but there was always going to be a stark difference between new money and generational wealth.
This house was a picture perfect example. Except, it didn’t feel lived in. Not really.