It was almost 10 in the morning when Ayla stirred awake.
The heavy curtains muted the light, but the alarm in her chest went off the moment she saw the time. "Ten?"Her heart skipped. She shot up instantly, ignoring the dull ache still gnawing at her lower abdomen.
How could she sleep so late?
How could she—after doing absolutely nothing last night, not even preparing dinner properly or checking in on Silas once? Her chest clenched as memories of the night before surfaced like a blur. Bits and pieces. Vomiting. Dizziness. Pain that cut through her like sharp glass. And then… nothing. Only darkness. Blank. Silence.
She couldn't remember how she got to bed. Who had helped her. Or if she'd embarrassed herself.
Maybe Silas did everything. Maybe she had been a total burden. Again.
The shame hit her like a slap.
She quickly got up, washed her face, and brushed out the mess her hair had become. She changed into something clean and simple—a soft beige sweater and grey pants—and stepped out of her room, expecting the still silence of an empty apartment.
Instead, she froze.
There he was.
Silas.
He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed casually, working on his laptop with a steaming cup of coffee by his side. The sun filtered through the windows, casting light on his pale profile, sharp jawline, and the elegant curve of his fingers tapping steadily on the keyboard.
He hadn't gone to work.
Why?
Her heart started to pound. She swallowed thickly, standing rooted by the hallway wall. She was unsure whether to go forward or just turn and pretend she hadn't woken up yet.
Just then, his head lifted.
His eyes met hers.
Ayla forgot how to breathe.
Those eyes—cold, dark, unreadable—locked onto hers with such force that she thought she might melt on the spot. Her knees weakened, her cheeks flamed instantly, and she clutched the edge of her sweater like it might keep her standing.
"Ayla?"
He said her name.
Just that. Just her name.
It sounded different this time. Maybe because of her flustered state, or maybe it always sounded like this, and she had only just noticed it now. Deep. Slightly husky. A little rough around the edges. Like velvet with an edge of steel.
Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked, voice neutral as ever. "Do you need to visit the doctor?"
She blinked. His tone was cold, emotionless, as always. He was just asking. Probably because she looked like a mess. But to her—it felt like warmth. Like concern, even if faint. A glimmer of attention she didn't deserve.
She stood dumbly, her tongue tied, wondering if she looked stupid standing there like some wide-eyed idiot.
Before she could stammer a word, Silas stood up.
He walked toward her.
Every step made her stomach twist and tighten—not in pain this time, but something else. Something stupid and fluttery and utterly inappropriate.
She told herself to calm down, but her heart didn't listen.
He stopped in front of her and leaned in.
His hand rose slowly.
He's touching me.
His fingers brushed against her forehead gently, checking for fever.
She wasn't prepared. Not for the proximity. Not for the gentleness. Not for the sharp intake of breath she made when his skin touched hers. Not for the fact that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, and warm.
"You're not running a fever," he said flatly, pulling his hand back.
But Ayla stood there, her face on fire, eyes wide and glassy.
She could feel her entire face burning—her cheeks, her ears, even her neck. Her lips were dry. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears from the intensity of it all. Her nose was red, and she knew she must look ridiculous.
She wanted to bury herself alive.
Silas paused for a moment, looking at her. His gaze unreadable, as always. Like he was observing a stranger. Like he was deciding something silently in his head.
And then—he turned.
He walked away toward the kitchen.
"You should eat," he said simply, without looking back.
Ayla blinked.
It took her a full minute to understand he was talking to her.
She nodded slowly, still flushed, still unable to comprehend what just happened. Was that real? Did she dream all of that? Maybe she was hallucinating from the pain?
No.
He really did check her forehead. He really stayed. He really talked to her like… like she mattered.
The world spun a little differently after that.
She followed him into the kitchen and ate the breakfast already served—rice porridge, warm and easy on her stomach. She didn't even taste it. She was too caught up in her thoughts, in the thunder of her heartbeat, in the lingering sensation of his fingers against her skin.
She was so in love.
So stupidly, dumbly, helplessly in love.
Even when he didn't smile. Even when he didn't look at her like she existed beyond an obligation.
She was already drowning in him—and he didn't even know it.