So by every rule I’ve lived under for the last four years, I should have shoved my chair back and shouted across the table. I should have pointed under the table and let the entire moment explode in front of my parents.
Silas’s hand on my leg would have been enough to get him kicked out.
More than enough.
And the thing that unsettles me most is that I know exactly why he did it.
He wanted an exit.
Silas Corvin is a man who knows how to burn bridges quickly. Touching me like that, under my parents’ dinner table, would have been the easiest way to guarantee they sent him straight back where he came from.
He handed me the match.
In every other version of this moment, I would have lit it without hesitation.
But when his hand settled on my thigh, something in me froze.
Not from fear.
From the opposite.
I can still feel the weight of it. The warmth of his palm pressing through the fabric of my jeans, like he was anchoring himself there. The contact should have made my skin crawl.
Instead, it did something far more dangerous.
It quieted the noise in my head.
For a second, just a second, everything else disappeared. The clatter of silverware, my father’s voice, the tension in the room. All of it faded behind the strange, grounding heat of his hand.
Like touching an open flame you know will burn you.
The kind of heat you should pull away from immediately, but don’t.
When our eyes met across the table, I saw the moment he expected me to react, or maybe betray him, but, some stubborn part of me refused to give him what he wanted.
Now he probably thinks I played along for my own reasons. That I fed into whatever twisted little game he started.
Because that’s how people like Silas operate.
Everything is a test.
Everything is manipulation.
Push someone far enough and they’ll prove they’re just as broken as you are.
Maybe that’s what he was trying to do.
Corner the fucked-up adopted daughter until she snapped loud enough to remind everyone he isn’t the only disaster sitting at this table.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe there are more cracks in this house than anyone wants to admit.
But giving him the satisfaction of knowing that?
That’s the one thing I refuse to do.
My fingers keep tapping against the steering wheel, the rhythm uneven and restless. The dashboard clock glows back at me in dull blue numbers.
