Silence followed.
Not the suffocating kind that pressed against her ears and made her chest tighten—but a quieter one, heavy and still, like the air after a storm had passed but the ground was still soaked.
Ayla sat on the sofa exactly where she had been left, her back stiff, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her breathing had steadied, but it felt foreign, like something she had borrowed and didn't fully trust yet. Each inhale came cautiously, as if she were afraid it might suddenly be taken away again.
Silas was still there.
She didn't have to look to know it. His presence lingered the way it always did—solid, unmoving, anchoring without demanding anything from her. The warmth of his body hadn't left her skin yet. Her shoulders still remembered the weight of his hands, firm and grounding, as if he had pressed her back into reality and refused to let her slip away.
Her fingers trembled faintly.
She hated that. Hated how fragile she felt afterward. Like glass that had already cracked once and could shatter at the smallest touch.
She swallowed hard and finally lifted her eyes.
Silas stood a short distance away, facing the window now, his posture composed, his expression unreadable. He wasn't watching her anymore. He wasn't hovering. It was as if the moment had already been filed away, closed and locked behind him.
No questions.
No reproach.
No comfort either.
And strangely… that made it easier to breathe.
Ayla shifted, the movement slow and careful. The blanket slid slightly from her shoulders, and before she could even think to pull it back, Silas turned.
He crossed the room quietly and draped it over her again, the motion efficient and restrained. His fingers barely brushed her arm—just enough to tuck the fabric securely around her.
"Drink," he said.
There was a glass on the table. Water. Still warm, like it had been sitting there for a while.
She nodded quickly and picked it up with both hands, afraid they might shake if she didn't steady them. She took a small sip. Then another. The water slid down her throat, grounding her.
Silas didn't watch her drink. He stepped back once she had the glass and returned to where he'd been standing before, as if his job was done.
The normalcy of it unsettled her more than panic ever had.
Her chest ached—not sharply, but with a dull, persistent pressure. Embarrassment crept in slowly, sinking its claws deep. The memory of her clinging to him, of her voice breaking, of the words she had spilled so recklessly—
I love you.
I can't lose you.
I can't survive if you leave me.
Her face burned.
She stared down at the glass in her hands, her grip tightening until her knuckles turned pale. She wanted to apologize again. Wanted to explain herself better. Wanted to take everything back and rewind to a version of herself that hadn't unraveled so completely in front of him.
But the words lodged in her throat, heavy and immovable.
If she spoke, she might break again.
So she stayed silent.
Silas didn't push her.
Minutes passed like that—slow, suspended. The apartment felt unusually quiet, the hum of the city outside muffled by the thick walls. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. Someone laughed. Life went on, untouched by the small collapse that had just happened inside this room.
Ayla shifted slightly, curling her fingers into the blanket. Her body felt exhausted, like she had run a marathon without moving an inch. Her limbs were heavy, her head throbbing faintly.
"I'm… tired," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Her voice sounded small. Fragile.
Silas turned his head just enough to acknowledge her.
"Go back to your room," he said.
Not a suggestion. Not a command either. Just a statement. Like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
She nodded again, too quickly.
He walked her to her room, not touching her this time, just close enough that she could feel him there. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands still clenched, unsure of what to do with herself.
Silas pulled the curtains halfway closed, dimming the room to a soft, muted glow. He adjusted the blanket over her legs, careful, distant.
Then he stepped back.
"I'll be outside," he said.
Outside.
Not leaving. Not going away.
Just outside.
Her chest loosened slightly at the word, even though she told herself it shouldn't matter.
She lay down slowly, curling onto her side, the blanket tucked up to her chin like a shield. Her eyes burned, exhaustion finally claiming its due.
As sleep crept in, her thoughts tangled loosely, unfocused.
He didn't ask why I panicked.
He didn't tell me to leave.
He didn't say anything at all.
And maybe that was his way.
The last thing she registered before slipping into restless sleep was the faint sound of movement beyond her door—quiet, steady, familiar.
He was still there.
And for now… that was enough to keep her from falling apart.