Chapter 21 #2
The leather chairs didn’t have that worn-in softness you’d expect from something well loved.
The walls were painted in rich, muted tones—deep grays and soft taupes—that exuded sophistication but lacked warmth.
Abstract art hung in perfectly spaced intervals, each piece subtle enough not to overwhelm but striking enough to catch your eye.
It was a home that didn’t feel like one at all. It felt more like a museum, a gallery of perfection, that left no room for flaws or personality. Like the backdrop to some fancy dinner party.
It hit me then, a pang of realization that settled somewhere deep in my chest.
Maybe Silas wasn’t as out of reach as I’d once believed. Maybe all of this—the perfection, the control, the carefully chosen marks of wealth—wasn’t for him at all. Maybe it was some kind of armor. A shield against whatever vulnerability lay underneath.
There was something profoundly lonely about it. The silence here wasn’t the kind that invited warmth and a bid for connection. It echoed isolation and solitude.
Marlow’s utter surprise at seeing me had been intriguing on its own. A gentle nudge toward something I hadn’t yet made the link to.
Now, though, I was starting to see why me staying here was such a big deal.
When was the last time Silas had someone spend the night?
Or longer than a few hours before he got too overwhelmed and kicked them out and plunged himself into further loneliness?
“My parents decorated the place,” he finally said after a moment. His arm slipped out from under me—the spot growing instantly cold—and he rolled onto his back. Both arms raised over his head, a long exhale leaving him while he stretched. “I didn’t have the heart to replace anything.”
“Oh.” Guilt ripped through me. Of course... of course he would keep the house the way that it was in their memory—honoring them in his own quiet way. “I’m so sorry.”
His brow lifted, his head turning on the pillow to face me. “For?”
“Y... you know.”
Here I was, criticizing him for shutting everyone out, when it was his way of coping with a profound loss. Trying to deal with his grief in the only way he knew how to, by burying himself in work and never allowing for something else, or someone, to fill in the emptiness left behind in their wake.
“I don’t, actually.”
Was he actually going to force me to say it?
“B-because they’ve... passed on and all.”
To my surprise, he tilted his head back on the pillow and laughed.
The sound was deep and unrestrained, vibrating through the quiet room and catching me so off guard that I blinked in confusion. It wasn’t the reaction I expected—far from it, actually, and had me sitting up slightly while I leaned on my elbow to stare at him.
What did I say?
My embarrassment was quickly being replaced by bewilderment. “What’s so funny? I’m being serious.”
Silas shook his head, his hand coming up to rub at his face as his laughter subsided into a faint chuckle. “I can see that.”
“You just told me you didn’t have the heart to change anything! How else was I supposed to take that?”
This fucking man.
Who worded things like that?
“Already writing my tragic backstory.” He slipped his hand around my arm, pulling me over until I was half lying across him.
He tugged one of my legs up to fold over his waist, my soft cock pinned against his hip.
“I haven’t changed anything because it would be a pain in the ass to send all of their shit to Germany. Where they currently live.”
Oh my fucking God. And here I was feeling bad for him.
“You have the money to hire movers.”
“I hate strangers in my house.”
“I’m a stranger in your house,” I countered.
“You’ve already been here.”
I blinked again, caught off guard by his reply. So casual, like this wasn’t the second time I’d been here but one of many. Like I’d become some staple fixture here.
I tried to not let that go to my head.
Silas exhaled, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. “My parents aren’t dead. We have a fine relationship, for the most part.”
A pang of something sharp and heavy twisted in my gut at that, at the weight that his words suddenly carried. “Silas...”
“They moved to Europe years ago,” he continued, his voice detached, like he was recounting a fact rather than something personal. “Some ‘new chapter in life’ bullshit. They left everything behind—including me.”
I didn’t know what to say, my earlier guilt morphing into something else entirely. This wasn’t the story I’d expected to hear—maybe some valiant tragedy he’d persevered through because of his friends lending helping hands, or one like mine where I’d walked away and never looked back.
Never anything like this.
“It was fine for a while. I was a grown adult at the time and inherited this place with no mortgage attached to it. Why start over somewhere new while this place sat vacant.” His voice was tinged with bitterness—something I’d never heard up until now.
“I didn’t have the heart to change anything.
Not because I have a particular attachment to any of it, but because.
.. I guess part of me hoped they’d come back one day. Stupid, really.”
“It’s not stupid,” I said quietly. “It’s human.”
“Human, huh?” An ironic smile crossed his features. “That... is the first time anyone’s ever said that, you know.”
“You are.” I shifted just enough to slide my leg further over until I could straddle him. His gaze darted to me when I leaned forward to cup his face. “You cared about them. You still do. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
His eyes searched mine for a long moment. “Maybe... but caring doesn’t change anything.”
Not being able to help myself, I leaned down and kissed him. It wasn’t heated or rushed—it was gentle, tentative, like a bridge that connected us as two human beings still stumbling their way through life, trying to find solid ground and finding each other instead.
His lips softened against mine, and for a moment, the tension in him that I hadn’t realized he’d been holding, melted away. He moved his hands up to grab at my hips, not to pull me closer or push me away, but to simply hold me there, as if anchoring himself in the moment.
I wanted to drown and let it envelop us both like a cocoon, keeping us suspended in this bubble of safety before the world inevitably ripped us back into reality. Even now, together in this bed with him, the thought sent a pang of dread coursing through me.
Because this wasn’t just some kiss anymore. It was a confession.
Mine.
One I hadn’t been ready to make but couldn’t hold back from any longer.
My feelings were no longer an entity I could ignore and shove back into the recesses of my mind until I was at home alone in my own bed, able to dissect them away into fragments of nothing. They were here, raw and undeniable, and demanding to be let out no matter how terrifying that prospect was.
Playing this pretend game was no longer an option anymore. I couldn’t when it felt like I was dying every time we were apart for more than a few days.
He pulled back, slowly blinking his eyes open. His gaze was soft, searching. His brows knitted together while he studied me, trying to decipher what I wasn’t saying, what I was clearly holding back from him.
Always too damn perceptive.
I wanted to tell him, to carve out my heart like my mind was desperately begging me to do. Present it to him on a blood stained platter and hope like hell he wasn’t too disgusted or afraid to take it and treat it gently like I needed him to.
But the words caught in my throat the second I opened my mouth, too big and too vulnerable to get my tongue to work.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “For... whatever that was.”
I swallowed and smiled faintly, tracing one of my thumbs along his cheekbone. “You can thank me by making me breakfast, how’s that sound?”
He took a moment to watch me, something in his gaze shifting before finally saying, “Okay.”
In that moment, I wished I wasn’t such a damn coward.