I sit on the edge of the bed.
My nightshirt hangs open, the buttons still undone, the fabric loose against my chest. I don't bother fixing it. The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat.
My eyes stay fixed on Silas.
He's still sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up, the pillow clutched against his chest like a shield. His face is turned away—toward the glass wall, where moonlight spills across the room in cold silver. His eyes are wet. Even from here, I can see the shine of unshed tears.
It's been almost half an hour.
Half an hour of him sitting like this. Half an hour of me staring at him, trying to figure out what changed. Trying to find the crack where all that obedience leaked out.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye—just for a second. Then quickly looks away.
I didn't expect this from him.
