The car glides to a stop.
The engine settles into silence beneath my hands. The headlights fade, and darkness presses in—soft, controlled, complete. My hands stay on the steering wheel. My knuckles are white. My forearms ache from gripping too hard for too long.
I don’t let go.
Not yet.
Because the mont I do, I’ll have to turn. I’ll have to look at him.
And I don’t want to.
I don’t want to see what’s sitting in the passenger seat—this fragile, breakable thing that sohow beca my responsibility.
Silas.
Still unconscious.
His head rests against the seat, tilted slightly to the side—his neck exposed. The pearls I bought him catch the faint light filtering through the glass, glowing soft and white against his pale skin.
His cheeks are flushed. Deep red—out of place in the dark.
His body is loose. Limp. Every muscle slack in a way that makes him look smaller than he is. Younger. Softer. Breakable.
All from one glass.
I stare at him for a mont.
Just a mont.
His lips are slightly parted—soft, pink. A thin line of shadow where they et. His breathing is slow. Deep. Each inhale lifts his chest just a little. Each exhale slips out—quiet, almost soundless.
Pathetic.
My voice cuts through the silence. Cold. Sharp. "Hey. Get up."
Nothing. He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t even change the rhythm of his breathing.
"Get up."
Still nothing.
Is he really passed out? From one glass? Such weak stamina.
I reach over. My hand closes around his arm—pressing, shaking, trying to rouse him. The fabric is soft beneath my fingers. His skin is warm.
Too warm.
"Wake up." My voice is flatter now. "Don’t expect to carry you again."
Again.
The word lingers. Because I already did. Once tonight. I lifted him like he weighed nothing. His face against my chest. His breath warm through my shirt.
And now I might have to do it again.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.
My jaw tightens. I reach for his cheek—pinch the soft skin between my fingers. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to wake anyone.
His lips part a little wider. A soft breath slips out—barely a sound. He moves. Just a little. His head lolls toward , loose and heavy. For a mont, I think he’s waking up.
But no. His head just... drops.
I catch him before it falls—my palm against his cheek, holding him upright. His skin is warm beneath my hand. His jaw fits in my palm. Too perfectly.
Seriously.
He has no intention of waking up.
My voice rises—just a little. "I’m going to leave you here."
The words fall into the silence. Empty. Hollow. No reaction.
Of course.
My fists clench around nothing. I open the door. Step out into the night. Cold air hits my skin—sharp after the warmth of the car. It bites at my face, my hands, the exposed line of my throat.
Why do I feel like a babysitter?
He’s careless.
Dad said he’s responsible. A perfect heir. Soone who holds empires together with his bare hands.
So where is that man?
Because the one sitting in my passenger seat isn’t him. He can’t even handle a single glass of wine.
...What a joke.
I walk around the car. Open the passenger door. For a long mont, I just stand there.
Staring at him.
The faint light filtering through the glass falls across his face. His cheeks are flushed. His lips slightly parted. His hair has fallen across his forehead—brown strands, soft and tangled, catching the light like threads of amber. His lashes rest against his skin—dark against the flush of his cheeks.
Delicate.
I should leave him.
I do.
I really do.
Then—
Dad’s voice echoes in my head. Not loud. Not sharp. Just... there.
Ellis. He’s my best friend’s son. Take care of him well. Or I won’t warn you again.
A frustrated sigh leaves my lips.
I lean down, unbuckle his seatbelt—it retracts with a soft whir—and lift him. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other under his knees.
His weight settles in my arms. His head falls against my chest. His breath seeps through my shirt—warm. Steady. Infuriating. His hands move on their own, fingers curling into my collar, tugging loosely.
Sum. You’re dead. I’m going to kill you. Because of you, I’m carrying him again.
I shut the door with my hip. Turn. Walk toward the house. My footsteps echo—pavent, stairs, marble. Each step asured. Each breath controlled.
Silas’s face presses against my chest. His nose brushes the hollow of my throat. His breath fans across my skin—warm. Soft. Steady.
He shifts—just a little—and buries his face deeper, like he’s searching for sothing. Warmth. Comfort.
I climb the stairs.
One by one.
The house is dim, washed in low golden light that spills across polished floors. Quiet. The only sound is my breathing, his breathing, the soft rustle of fabric as he moves—and my footsteps echoing faintly through the space.
I reach the bedroom door. Push it open with my shoulder.
The room is dim. The curtains are open—the glass wall revealing nothing but darkness and distant city lights, scattered like fallen stars.
I walk to the bed.
Slowly. Carefully.
I lay him down.
The sheets shift beneath him—soft, rustling against the silence. His head sinks into the pillow. His hair spreads across the white fabric like spilled ink.
But his hands.
Still clutching my shirt.
I try to pull back—straighten—but his fingers tighten. Reflexive. Unconscious. Holding in place.
My hand reaches for his, trying to pry his grip loose. Instead—
He pulls.
With a strength that doesn’t match his sleeping body, he jerks forward. I catch myself—hand slamming against the mattress beside his head, fingers sinking into the sheets.
Our faces are inches apart.
Close enough to count his lashes. Close enough to see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. Close enough to feel his breath on my lips—warm.
Slow. Faintly sweet with wine.
Then his eyes open. Slowly. Like curtains parting on a stage I didn’t know existed.
He looks at .
And his eyes—
They’re not the eyes I’ve been seeing. Not soft. Not gentle. Not the quiet, obedient gaze that follows everywhere.
They’re burning. Like sothing inside him has woken up. Sothing I didn’t know existed.
Dark. Deep. Alive.
He doesn’t blink. Just stares at . And I stare back— frozen, unable to look away.
Who is this?
What is looking at ?
Then—
Silas moves. He leans closer. Slow. Deliberate. Like he has all the ti in the world.
Before I understand what’s happening—
His lips brush my skin—not my lips, but beside them. Lower. On my chin.
Soft. Warm. Intentional.
Just beside my mouth. Close enough to feel. Close enough to burn.
For a mont, we stay like this. Then—
My eyes widen.
A sharp, sudden jerk—
I push back. My feet hit the floor. My body straightens. I turn—too fast—and head for the door.
My heart is pounding. Too loud. Echoing in my ears. I don’t look back. I walk. Fast. Out of the room.
The door closes behind — too loud for this hour. I stop in the hallway. Still.
The mory of his lips lingers on my skin—too close to my mouth. My fingers rise to my chin. Touch. The place where his lips were. Still warm.
What the hell was that?
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