His mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile—he’s too weak for that, too drugged, too broken—but it’s close enough.
“Missed you, too,” he rasps.
Behind me, I hear movement. Jace and Cal are awake, are moving, but I can’t look away from Silas. Can’t stop staring at his eyes, at the proof that he’s here, that he came back.
“The boys,” I say, because he needs to know. “They’re here. They’ve been here all day. They drew you pictures. Told you all about Martha’s Vineyard. They?—”
“They okay?” His voice is getting stronger, clearer, even though I can see the effort it costs him.
“They’re perfect. They’re right here. They’re—” I turn slightly, and Jace is already there, still holding a sleeping Liam, careful not to jostle him awake.
Cal’s right behind him with Noah, who’s starting to stir from all the commotion.
“Silas.” Jace’s voice is rough with emotion he’s not bothering to hide. “Welcome back, brother.”
“Couldn’t leave you assholes to handle everything,” Silas says, and his eyes track to the boys. Something in his expression softens. Breaks open. “They’re really okay?”
“They’re fine,” Cal says quietly. “Worried about you. We all were.”
Noah’s eyes open, bleary and confused. He blinks a few times, processing, then his gaze lands on Silas.
“Uncle Silas?” His voice is small, uncertain. “You’re awake?”
“Yeah, bud,” Silas manages. “I’m awake.”
That’s all it takes. Noah scrambles out of Cal’s arms, and before anyone can stop him, he’s climbing onto the bed, careful of the wires and tubes, settling himself against Silas’s uninjured side.
“You were sleeping for so long,” Noah says, his voice thick with tears he’s trying not to shed. “I thought—I thought maybe?—”
“I’m okay,” Silas says, and his arm comes up, wraps around Noah despite the obvious pain it causes. “I’m okay, Noah. I promise.”
Liam’s awake now, too, squirming out of Jace’s hold. He’s more reserved than his brother, standing at the edge of the bed, his serious eyes taking in all the medical equipment, the bandages, the way Silas is clearly hurt.
“Does it hurt bad?” Liam asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Silas says, because he’s never lied to them. “But I’ve had worse.”
“Are you going to get better?”
“Yeah, kid. I’m going to get better.”
Liam nods, satisfied with this answer in a way that only a five-year-old can be satisfied. Then he climbs up on the other side of the bed, mirrors his brother’s position against Silas’s other side.
And Silas—broken, bleeding, barely conscious—wraps his other arm around Liam and holds both boys like they’re the only things keeping him tethered to this world.
Maybe they are.
I’m crying again, can’t seem to stop, but these are different tears. Relief. Joy. Gratitude.
He’s alive.
He’s awake.
He’s here.
Silas’s eyes find mine over the boys’ heads, and the look in them is so intense it steals my breath.
“You came for me,” he says, and it’s not a question.
