Chapter 8
Silas
I've read the same paragraph six times.
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
Seven times.
My phone buzzes. Pride group chat.
Robin: Did everyone know today is Dev's 21st birthday?
Jason: Dev?
Robin: My barista. The one Silas is NOT crushing on
Vaughn: The kid who gave him the dragon book rec?
Robin: That's the one. Just turned 21. TODAY.
Knox: 21 is young
Robin: 21 is legal
Jason: When Ash was 21 he was in Afghanistan
Vaughn: When I was 21 I was an idiot
Knox: Was?
I turn off my phone and throw it on the couch. But the damage is done. Twenty-one. Eleven years younger than me. When I was twenty-one, I was... actually, I was reading fantasy novels and avoiding people, so not that different.
Except I had my own apartment. And a car.
The bar is quiet tonight. Knox is in his office.
Toby went upstairs hours ago. Ezra and Nico are in the kitchen, doing something with the books that involves Nico's laptop and Ezra's tea and a shared concentration so focused it's almost intimate.
Vaughn's in the garage, working late, the way Vaughn works when he doesn't want to think. Jason and Ash are at Ash's house.
I'm on the couch in the common room with a book I can't read and a phone I keep turning back on.
The week replays behind my eyes. Monday: the book on his chair, his face when he saw it, the vending machine coffee for two.
Tuesday: notes about the senior book club, his laughter across the reading room, the text at midnight about The Lions of Al-Rassan that felt like being handed something private.
Wednesday: twenty-two minutes of sleep in a library chair and the way his eyes found me when he woke up, like I was the first thing he needed to confirm was real.
Today: his hands steady on the espresso machine, the blue mug he always gives me, the note exchange that's become a language only we speak.
And then Tyler, loud and loving and oblivious, blowing the number into the room like a grenade. Twenty-one. TWENTY-ONE.
I left. I said happy birthday and I left, and the look on his face as I walked out, confused, then hurt, then carefully blank in the way he goes blank when he's protecting himself, is going to live in my chest for a long time.
I pick up my phone again. Different chat.
Me: Jason, what were you doing at 21?
Jason: Working. Trying to figure out who I was. Why?
Me: Just wondering
Jason: This about Devin?
Me: No
Jason: Liar. What happened?
Me: He turned 21 today
Jason: And?
Me: And I'm 32
Jason: So? Ash is older than me and I don't see the problem
Me: Ash wasn't living in a youth shelter at 21
A long pause. Then:
Jason: He's in a shelter?
Me: Forget I said that. That's his business.
Jason: Silas. Does Robin know?
Me: I don't know. Probably suspects. Don't say anything.
Jason: I won't. But — you like this kid?
I stare at the message. Like. Such a small word for what's been happening this week. For the smiley faces and the vending machine coffee and the way he talks about books like they saved his life, which they probably did.
Me: Yeah.
Jason: Then the age doesn't matter. The situation matters. Be careful with him. But don't walk away because of a number.
Me: He's out at some bar with friends for his birthday. Being a normal 21-year-old.
Jason: And you're sitting at home overthinking. Go talk to him.
Me: That would be weird
Jason: Weirder than sitting here being miserable?
I put the phone down. Pick up the book.
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. Eight times.
The phone buzzes. Not Jason this time.
Devin: I hate bars.
I sit up. The message sits on my screen, stark and simple. I can see him, hunched at a bar, surrounded by noise and people and drinks he doesn't want, wearing that thin jacket, that careful blankness on his face.
I start typing. Delete it. Start again. Delete. Start.
Where are you?
Murphy's. Tyler's birthday plan. I'm miserable.
Stay there.
I'm on my bike before I finish putting on my jacket.
* * *
Murphy's is exactly what I expected. Dive bar trying to be Irish, failing at both. It's packed with college kids and young professionals, all loud and drunk. I almost turn around.
Then I see him.
Devin's at the bar, hunched in on himself like he's trying to disappear. There's a line of drinks in front of him, shots, beers, something pink with an umbrella. He's holding one beer, barely touched, staring at it like it contains the mysteries of the universe.
He's wearing a blue shirt I've never seen.
It does make his eyes look different, brighter, less guarded.
But everything else about him screams discomfort.
The set of his jaw, the way he's angled toward the exit, the way his fingers tap the bar in an anxious rhythm I recognize from the café when he's overwhelmed.
Tyler and a girl are on the tiny dance floor, completely absorbed in each other. Devin's alone.
I watch three different guys approach him in the five minutes I stand by the door. Each one trying to buy him another drink, leaning too close, touching his shoulder. Devin shrinks away from all of them, polite but clearly miserable.
A fourth guy approaches, older, aggressive in that drunk way that sets off alarm bells. He puts his hand on Devin's back, leans in close. Devin freezes.
I'm moving before I think about it.
"Hey, Dev."
Devin's head snaps up, eyes wide. "Silas? You —"
"Sorry I'm late." I position myself between him and Drunk Guy, casual but clear. "Ready to go?"
"I —"
"He's fine where he is," Drunk Guy says, hand still on Devin's back.
I look at the hand. Then at him. Don't say anything. Just look. My lion doesn't surface, I don't let it, not here, not in public, but whatever's in my expression communicates clearly enough.
He removes his hand.
"We were just leaving," I say, still pleasant. "Right, Dev?"
"Right," Devin says immediately, sliding off the barstool. "Yes. Leaving."
"But all your drinks —" Drunk Guy protests.
"He doesn't drink," I say, which I guessed from our conversations and Devin's relieved expression confirms. "Come on."
I put my hand on Devin's lower back, gentle, guiding, nothing like Drunk Guy's possessive touch. Devin leans into it immediately. The warmth of him through the blue shirt. The slight tremor that could be cold or relief or both.
"Wait," he says. "I need to tell Tyler."
We push through the crowd to where Tyler's dancing. He grins when he sees us.
"Dev! You came! And you brought —" He looks at me, then does a double take. "Wait. Are you the book guy?"
"Tyler, this is Silas."
"The library Silas? The one who —" He catches something on Devin's face and course-corrects with surprising grace. "Cool. Hey, man. Thanks for coming."
"I'm going to go," Devin says. "Is that okay?"
"It's your birthday. Do whatever you want." Tyler pulls him into a quick, fierce hug. "Be safe. Text me."
"I will."
Outside, Devin takes a huge breath like he's been underwater.
"Thank you," he says. "That was — I don't really do bars."
"I noticed." I hand him the spare helmet from my bike. "Ever been on a motorcycle?"
His eyes go wide. "No."
"You trust me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. Not even a flicker.
"Put the helmet on. Hold onto me. Lean when I lean."
He climbs on behind me, tentative at first. When I start the engine, his arms tighten around my waist. He's warm against my back, solid and real.
"Okay?"
"Yeah," he says against my shoulder.
I take us out of downtown, away from the noise and lights.
The streets are quiet, Thursday night in a town that goes to bed early.
Devin's grip stays tight, but after a few minutes he relaxes enough to look around.
I feel him laugh when we hit a smooth stretch of road along the river and I open it up a little, not enough to scare him, just enough to feel like flying.
I end up at the lake overlook without really planning it. It's quiet, deserted tonight. The city lights spread out below us, the water dark and still. The October air is sharp and clean and carries the faint smell of pine from the ridge.
Devin climbs off the bike, pulls off the helmet. His hair's a mess, his cheeks flushed from the wind. The blue shirt is slightly rumpled and he's shivering already, no jacket, just the shirt, because Tyler apparently prioritized aesthetics over survival.
"That was incredible."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, terrifying, but incredible." He looks out at the view. "It's beautiful up here."
"Come here sometimes to think."
"What do you think about?"
"Books, mostly." I move to stand beside him. Our shoulders almost touch. "And recently, a barista who leaves me notes with smiley faces."
He ducks his head. "That was stupid."
"It was perfect. I still have it."
"I know. You use it as a bookmark. Along with every other note I've given you."
"You noticed that."
"I notice everything about you." He says it quietly, like a confession, then seems to hear himself and goes red. "That came out —"
"I notice everything about you too."
He looks at me. The city lights below turn his eyes into something extraordinary, dark and bright at the same time, reflecting light the way the lake does.
In this light, the careful blankness is gone.
He's just himself. Twenty-one and shivering and looking at me like I'm a book he's afraid to open because what if it ends badly.
"I don't drink," he says suddenly. "I mean, I can, I just... don't. Those drinks at the bar, people kept buying them and I didn't know how to say no and Tyler disappeared and I just sat there feeling stupid —"
"Dev."
He stops.
"You don't have to explain. You don't have to drink if you don't want to. You don't have to go to bars if you don't want to."
"Tyler says I need to be more normal."
"Normal's overrated."
"Easy for you to say. You're..." He gestures vaguely at me.
"I'm what?"
"Gorgeous. Confident. You have your life together."