The bed is so warm and comfortable, too full of everything I never knew I could have without paying deeply for it later.
The bed? That’s it?
Yeah.
Fear of payment is a real thing. And what if I get them killed? Or worse… I’m ordered to kill them myself. I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. Would Roo do it?
I don’t want to unpack the rest of this.
I just want to focus on the warm body I’m laying against.
One of my legs is tangled with his, my ankle hooked lazily behind his calf. I guess I kicked the blanket off during the night because I can’t feel it touching any part of my body. His heartticks softly beneath my cheek, and his chest is solid, rising and falling in slow breaths that tell me he’s been awake for a while.
Silas.
He doesn’t move when I shift or when I test the space between us by letting my fingers wander. Maybe I should ask first; consent is so important.
But then I remember he’s been cyber stalking me.
So maybe consent isn’t all that important under this roof.
I trace a lazy line along his stomach, feeling muscle flex under skin, mapping him in a way that feels almost…Domestic. Intimate in a way that’s quieter than sex but somehow more dangerous.
And he just… Lets me.
That alone tells me more than anything he could say.
His actions scream even when his voice is silent.
I drag my finger up again, slower this time, tracing the dip between his abdominal muscles toward his sternum, and I follow the trail with my eyes until I can glance up at him. His jaw is tight, but his breathing hasn’t changed.
“You’re not even pretending not to stare,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close enough. “Would it matter if I did?”
“No.” I swirl my finger in loops, reversing my path, just to watch him feel it. “Pretending wouldn’t fool me.”
That earns me something softer in his eyes. Something unguarded, chipping away at the ice of his irises.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever touched me like this,” Silas says after a moment.
“Like what?” I ask as I watch the path I’m creating across his skin.
“Like you want to.” He sounds detached from emotion, but still he stays in the moment with me. “Not because you’re takingsomething. Or trying to prove a point. Or you have expectations that simple touch leads to more.”
My stomach twists, caught somewhere between recognition and the weight of his permission toseehim as he is. No screen. No backup. Nothing but honesty, even if it’s ugly or dirty or something he thinks I won’t like.
I don’t stop touching him. The glimpse behind his icy exterior only leads me to trace higher, explore farther, brush against a scar that looks old and earned, the kind of mark you get when survival leaves you with a receipt you didn’t ask for.
“I don’t think anyone has ever let me believe,” he begins, and I feel him shake his head. “No. I suppose I’ve never believed they didn’t want something from me.”
I look up because that statement deserves more of my attention.
He’s already watching me.Always watching.But this isn’t the sharp, measuring gaze I’ve learned to expect from him. This is something gentler. Cautious, almost. Like he’s braced for me to pull away, hoping I don’t. The war is clear on his face.
I won’t. He knows I won’t… Knowing and hoping are so vastly different, though.
“I want nothing from you right now,” I whisper. “Except this.”
