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I’m used to reading dense articles about esoteric subjects, but I’m struggling to comprehend the words in an article written in language a six-year-old could understand. It’s not the article—it’s Silas. After a few seconds of reading, my body aches for me to scroll back up and look at the image at the top. At his eyes. They’reintense—so much so that holding his arresting gaze for more than a few brief seconds sends a shuddering jolt through me.
Again and again.
But the effect of his picture pales in comparison to what his eyes made me feel in my dad’s office. Light brown. The color of clay soaking in water, a few shades lighter than his hair. As soon as they landed on me, it felt like I’d been plugged into an electrical outlet. Sparking. Sizzling. Burning. I felt their intensityeverywhere—from the crown of my head all the way down to my tingling toes.
I’ve always told myself that I was too focused on my schoolwork to pay attention to boys, but that’s not true. Not really. No boy has ever captured my attention long enough to make mewantto focus on something other than my schoolwork. No boy has ever made my knees weak, my pulse race, or my coreache.
Until I met Silas.
He has my attention. From the moment Silas entered my line of sight, I haven’t been able to think about anything else but him. But I shouldn’t let him have free rein over my mind. He’s a player on the hockey team. And after the conversation with my dad before he arrived, a complicated and troubled one. A tattooed bad boy that could be bad news for me.
I’d only meant to drop off my dad’s food earlier. He tends to forget to eat when he has long days meeting with his players. But it was clear something was bugging him, so I stayed and talked and listened. Silas was bugging him. He took a risk bringing him on but he likes him. They have a similar upbringing, but he’s worried it may not work out. It’s tough to leave the past in the past. And being nearly half an hour late to his meeting didn’t instill much confidence.
I try to swallow but my throat is far too dry as I think about Silas. I only caught glimpses of him earlier but the ones I got made my insides melt. It felt like he was trying to hide behind that big hoodie, but I saw all of his bulk. Ifeltit. There’s a commanding air about him that I can’t shrug away. He could direct me with grunts and eye flicks—curl a finger and I’d follow.
It’s unsettling, really. I’m not used to feeling this way. I had to get out of there as quickly as possible because I kept feeling this unrelenting tug to look at him.Really,look at him.
Something sharp stabs me below my sternum when I look at his picture again. Yikes. It’s a mugshot, not a player profile scraped from a team website. I should be concerned about having these sorts of feelings for a bad boy like Silas.
Amanlike Silas. There’s nothing boyish about him. He might be young, but there’s something about him that makes me think he’s aged faster than most. Something about the way he carries himself.
I skim the article once, glancing at his ‘rap sheet.’ It’s not that long—just another clickbait title. Drunk and disorderly conduct. Destruction of property. Petty theft involving some rival team’s mascot. Looks like he walked away with some community service but the team ditched him. Up until last year, he had no issues.
I can see why my dad picked him up. He went through a similar phase, one that I’m familiar with. A person doesn’t flip a switch and lash out. Nothing happens in a vacuum. And it makes me wonder about Silas.
What happened?
I close my laptop, pressing my palm against its warmth before stretching out my limbs and groaning. I should head home. I didn’t need to go to the library—all the reading I wanted to finish today for my senior thesis is done. I just needed to go somewhere to recover after… Silas. His presence filled that room to the brim, and I could hardly take more than a sip of air into my lungs. And the sips I did take were filled with him.
The library is my safe space. I can huddle up in a carrell deep in the chilly stacks with an oversized sweater and lose myself in work. Sometimes I come here to read, sipping coffee illicitly as I watch people from the small window next to me.
It settles me, but as I shove my laptop into my bag, there’s a shift in the air. There’s something off, and I can feel the disturbance vibrating around me as goosebumps flare across my arm and prickle my neck.
I hear footsteps. Big, thunderous footsteps. Confident steps that follow one after another. It’s rare that I see another person this deep in the library. Most students stick to the oversized tables in the cavernous reading rooms with tall windows and long chandeliers. Well-lit rooms filled with the constant hum of conversation and foot traffic. Maybe a carrell near the front of the library. A table filled with people commiserating over the next test or a failing grade.
Here? It’s dim and cavelike in the Humanities section—reserved only for people who want to work and require total silence to concentrate. But there’s something about these footsteps that makes me think this person isn’t looking for solitude. They’re after something else, and it’s not found in the pages of Herodotus’sHistories.
They’re aftersomeone.
The thought rises somewhere deep inside me, and it makes my insides twist. It’s private back here. No one’s ever around. No one to hear…
I clench my thighs together at my old fantasy unspooling in my mind.Pulse-pulse.I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this worked up. I’m hot and agitated and squirming. And over what—footsteps?
I’ve been reading too many smutty romance stories for my book club. It has me thinking…Gulp.My heart is thudding so loudly that I can barely disentangle it from the footfalls coming toward me.
I creep behind one of the stacks, clinging to my bag as the heavy thuds move closer until they stop at the other end of the row. My row. My heart is creeping into my throat, pounding as I wait. I curl my fingers around the edge of the shelf and then peer down the narrow row.
I exhale one big puff of air as I seehimstanding at the other end. Silas. His hood’s off, and he’s thrusting his fingers through his thick, brown hair as he looks at either side of him. His movements are frantic like he’s on edge, his gaze narrowly missing me before it turns again.
I should probably retreat behind the shelf, but I’m frozen, a dull ache growing in intensity deep inside me as I wonder how silky his hair would feel threaded around my fingers. His thick hands molded against my body. My legs are quivering as thoughts I’ve never had for another man rise and fall.
He lets out a savage groan before throwing his hand back down to his side and storming off again, tearing through the stacks like a hurricane—a perfect storm that could level anything in its path.
Me included.
I exhale the breath I’d been holding as warmth radiates throughout my body. Something tells me this won’t be the last time I see Silas Cole. There’s a connection neither of us wants to sever. My suspicion is confirmed when I read a text from my father.
Order something for tonight. Silas will be joining us for dinner.
