I’m still warm from the night. Warm from the laughter, the drinks, the music, the feeling of finally being a person again instead of a walking anxiety coil. But underneath it, something unsettled has been slowly curling, dragging its claws along my ribs.
I turn the knob slowly, easing the front door open so it doesn’t squeak.
The house is dark.
Mostly.
There’s a faint golden beam coming from the living room, warm and flickering, and the moment I step inside, I see why.
Silas is still awake.
He’s sprawled across the couch like he was poured there, legs long and loose, one arm thrown along the back, boots propped on the coffee table. A soft amber lamp is lit beside him, castingwarm shadows over his tattooed forearm and the long, easy line of his throat.
He looks up as soon as the door clicks shut behind me.
And he smiles.
Not the lazy grin he trots out for half the town, or the smirk he used to hide nerves that first week I lived here, but a slow, warm, private smile, just for me.
“Well, damn,” he says, low and honey rough, “look who’s tryin’ to kill me at nearly one in the morning.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I wasn’t… I didn’t think anyone would be awake.”
“Oh, I’m very awake.” His eyes trace me. Down my legs, up the line of my dress, lingering where the neckline dips. Mischief gleams in them. “You had fun tonight?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was… nice. Really nice, actually.”
“Good.” He sits forward, elbows on his knees. “You deserve that.”
The way he says it hits me low in the stomach. I glance toward the kitchen, pretending like I’m looking for water.
“You want a drink?” he asks, already standing before I can answer.
“I… sure?”
“It’s either wine or the good whiskey,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. “And since you’re dressed like a sin-tinted goddess, I’m guessin’ whiskey.”
My face goes hot. “Can you behave for two minutes?”
“Nope.”
His voice is bright and wicked, but when he comes back, his expression is softer. Almost thoughtful. He hands me a glass, two fingers of an amber and warm-smelling liquid, and motions for me to sit.
Thunder rolls low in my chest when I ease down beside him, still feeling the buzz of the night on my skin. He sits close. Not touching, but near enough that I feel his heat.
“So,” he says, swirling his drink, “you gonna tell me why you look like you just walked out of trouble?”
“I don’t look like trouble.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning back to take me in fully, “you look exactly like trouble. The kind a man thanks God for.”
My breath stutters.
It shouldn’t.
I should be used to Silas. He’s always been like this. Gentle flirtation wrapped in sharp humor, playful and warm and bold. But tonight feels different. Like the space between us has been rewired.
Maybe it’s the whiskey.
