My fingers slide from his shoulder to his neck, tracing the scars lightly, barely grazing his skin, as though I'm afraid of hurting him.
"Silas..."
His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn't move.
My voice is soft, almost swallowed by the rhythm of the rain.
"What are these scars on your neck?"
For a long moment, he doesn't move.
He simply lies there in the circle of my arms—still and silent beneath the blanket, his breath warm and uneven against my chest. The only sounds are the whisper of rain against the glass wall, the distant hum of the house settling into the night, and the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat.
I don't rush him. I don't pull away.
I just wait.
My fingers remain against his neck, tracing the edges of those deep purple scars with a gentleness that feels unfamiliar.
"You don't have to answer right away." My voice is low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding us.
"I'm just... worried."
