My steps echo through the silent hallway.
Too loud. Too sharp. Each one a confession I never meant to make.
I walk, still holding Silas's wrist—dragging him behind me like a prisoner, like evidence, like something I don't know what to do with.
Morning light spills through the tall windows—golden, indifferent—falling across his skin in ways I refuse to notice.
He doesn't pull back.
Doesn't resist.
Just follows.
Like he's been following me his whole life. Like he's been waiting for this— for me to grab his wrist and pull him somewhere he doesn't understand.
Dad's words circle inside my skull, nesting there, refusing to leave.
He cleaned you up.
Wiped your body.
You were covered in alcohol.
My chest burns just thinking about it—a slow, spreading heat that starts somewhere behind my ribs and crawls outward until my skin feels too tight.
How dare he. How dare he act like he has that right. Touching me like I belong to him. Like he has every right. I won't let this slide.
