Ayla woke up slowly.
Not abruptly, not with the sharp gasp of panic, but gently, like her consciousness was rising through water. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn halfway, the light outside muted and soft. For a moment, she didn't move. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Silence.
But not emptiness.
She could hear faint sounds beyond her door, movement, quiet and unhurried. The low clink of a mug against a counter. The soft hum of the kettle. Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.
He's still here.
The thought settled in her chest like a small, careful relief. She took a slow breath, testing her lungs. No tightness. No dizziness. Just a lingering heaviness, like the aftertaste of fear.
Her body felt sore, wrung out. As if the panic had taken something from her and hadn't given it back yet.
She pushed herself up gradually, careful not to move too fast. The world didn't tilt. Her heart didn't race.
Good.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, grounding herself. Cold floor beneath her feet. Fabric of the blanket under her fingers. The steady rhythm of her breathing.
When she finally stepped out of her room, she paused in the hallway.
Silas stood in the kitchen.
He was already dressed, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his wrists. His hair was still slightly damp, like he had showered not long ago. He was pouring coffee into a mug, movements precise and economical.
He didn't look at her immediately.
Ayla hesitated, suddenly unsure. After last night, after everything she had said, everything she had done, she didn't know where she stood. Her chest tightened with the familiar anxiety, creeping back in like a shadow.
She cleared her throat softly.
Silas turned.
Their eyes met.
There was no surprise in his expression. No discomfort. No trace of the chaos that had unfolded between them hours ago. Just calm, steady acknowledgment.
"You're up," he said.
Not a question.
She nodded. "I… yes."
Her voice sounded normal. That startled her.
He gestured toward the chair at the counter. "Sit."
Again, not commanding. Just practical.
She obeyed, moving carefully, perching on the edge of the stool like she wasn't sure she was allowed to take up space. Her hands folded in her lap automatically.
Silas set a bowl in front of her, simple porridge, lightly steaming. A glass of water beside it.
"Eat slowly," he said.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
He didn't ask if she was okay.
He didn't bring up last night.
He didn't look at her like she was fragile.
He just… fed her.
She picked up the spoon, fingers trembling slightly, and took a small bite. Warm. Mild. Easy on her stomach. She swallowed carefully, waiting for nausea, for discomfort.
Nothing came.
She took another bite.
Silas moved around the kitchen, packing his briefcase, checking his phone. The normalcy of it all felt surreal. Like the world hadn't cracked open just hours ago.
"Are you going to work?" she asked quietly, before she could overthink it.
"Yes."
The answer was immediate.
Her chest dipped slightly, disappointment flickering before she could stop it. She lowered her gaze, ashamed of the feeling.
"But," he added, glancing at her, "I'll be back early."
Her spoon paused midair.
"Oh," she said softly.
He didn't elaborate. Didn't explain why. Didn't frame it as something he was doing for her.
And yet… her heart reacted anyway.
She finished half the bowl before her appetite faded. She didn't force herself. Silas noticed but didn't comment.
When he was about to leave, he stopped near the door.
"Ayla."
Her head snapped up.
"If you feel unwell," he said evenly, "call me."
He handed her a card. Not his business one, this was different. Personal. His number written clearly.
She stared at it like it might disappear.
"I won't," she said quickly. "I mean, I won't bother you."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Call," he repeated.
Not unkind. Not raised.
Just firm.
She nodded, clutching the card to her chest once he left.
The door closed quietly behind him.
The apartment returned to its usual quiet after Silas left.
But something about the silence felt different today.
It wasn't empty.
Ayla sat on the edge of the sofa long after the door closed, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring at the space he had just occupied. Her heart was still uneven, not racing, not calm either. Just… aware. Of everything. Of herself. Of the way her chest rose and fell without burning. Of the fact that she hadn't panicked when he left.
That alone felt strange.
She didn't trust it.
She stood slowly, careful not to trigger the faint dizziness that still lingered in the background, and moved toward the window. Outside, the city continued as usual. Cars passed. People walked. Life went on without noticing that something inside her had almost shattered the night before.
She pressed her forehead lightly against the glass.
He didn't push me away.
The thought surfaced quietly, without force.
He also didn't say anything comforting. No reassurances. No promises. No I won't leave you.
Just presence.
Just staying.
She exhaled and stepped back.