I rub my temple. The headache from before I fell asleep is still there—throbbing lightly behind my eyes, dull but persistent.
I need some fresh air.
I turn my face—
And freeze.
What the hell...?
For a moment—just a moment—everything inside me goes still. The breath stalls in my lungs. Even the pulse throbbing at my temple seems to pause.
Silas.
What the hell is he doing here?
He's sitting on the floor beside my bed, his head resting against the mattress, cheek pressed against the edge like a child who fell asleep waiting.
A white pillow is clutched against his chest. His notebook and pencil lie abandoned beside him on the cold floor, pages slightly crumpled as if they'd slipped from his hands mid-thought.
I stare at him.
Again.
When did he come in?
I told him not to sleep on the floor. More than once. And yet here he is again. Like my words mean nothing. Like the cold means nothing.
