The door unlocks with a soft click—the kind of sound that knows it's entering a secret.
I step inside, water trailing behind me like a second skin. I'm soaked through, my clothes clinging to every line of my body, heavy and cold.
But I'm not as drenched as him.
Silas follows me in, and I hear the soft patter of water dripping from his clothes onto the marble floor—small, steady, like a clock counting the seconds of something I can't name.
His brown hair clings damply to his temples, water still dripping from the ends. A single droplet slides down the curve of his cheek, hesitates at his jaw, then falls.
He's shivering. Just barely. But he doesn't say anything. He never says anything.
He's so stubborn.
He stood in the rain without moving. Held that notebook over my head like a shield while the rain soaked through his own clothes.
He didn't stop. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Not until I finally agreed to sit in the car with him.
Why is he like this?
