His gaze dips briefly before returning to my reflection.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” The words come out sharper than intended.
He shifts slightly, glancing at the towel as if that explains his presence.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he says calmly. “You seemed busy.”
The implication lingers in the air.
The few steps between us close quickly as I move toward him. The towel is taken from his hand without asking and tossed into my laundry basket.
“There was nothing to interrupt,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’m getting ready for Kadin’s study group.”
The name sits there between us.
His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes does. Not anger. Not curiosity. Just a flicker of something that feels like calculation.
The doorway suddenly feels narrower with him standing in it.
“Right,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon. His eyes drift slowly over the room, landing on the outfits Cheyenne had laid across my bed. “So tell me,” he continues casually, “are you trying to fuck him, or is he trying to fuck you?”
For a moment the words don’t register.
Then they do.
I stare at him, completely thrown off by the bluntness of it. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. Instead, his gaze drifts back to the bed as if my reaction barely matters. Without asking, he pushes himself away from the doorway and steps further into the room.
Silas moves with an easy confidence that makes the small space feel even smaller. His attention lands squarely on the pile of clothes Cheyenne left behind.
“I personally would’ve gone with this one,” he says, reaching down and picking up the bralette.
The movement sends a jolt through me.
“Hey-” My hands scramble toward him immediately.
But he lifts it out of reach before I can grab it.
The fabric dangles from his fingers high above my head, his arm extended just enough that I can’t quite reach it. The smirk that forms on his mouth makes it clear he’s enjoying himself.
“Give it back,” I say, my voice tightening as I step closer.
Instead of handing it over, he raises it even higher.
For someone standing so casually, he’s impossibly solid. My hand grabs the front of his hoodie, tugging sharply at the collar in an attempt to pull him down to my height.
“Silas.”
He doesn’t budge.
Not even an inch.
Standing this close makes the difference in our height even more obvious. My chin barely reaches his shoulder, the faint scent of soap and damp cotton still clinging to him from his shower.
“No,” he murmurs, the word barely above a whisper.
Frustration rises in my chest. My mouth opens, ready to throw something cruel enough to land where it hurts.
