Chapter 88: Pushing Him Is... Kind Of Fun....

He doesn’t look up.

The shirt hangs between us, forgotten. His fingers tighten around the fabric. Waiting.

A teasing smile curls at the corners of my mouth.

Let’s push him a little.

I smooth the smile away before it settles too deeply. Straighten my features into something calm. Measured. Something that doesn’t betray the amusement flickering behind my ribs.

Almost indifferent. The kind of face that doesn’t give anything away.

"Help me put it on."

Silas blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Slowly—like a man surfacing from deep water, like each eyelid weighs more than it should—his gaze lifts. His eyes meet mine. Wide. Uncertain. Caught somewhere between shock and confusion, between did I hear that right and why would you ask me that.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Just stares.

The silence stretches between us, thin as thread, fragile as glass. The office around us seems to hold its breath. The couch beneath me. The walls. The city beyond the glass.

I break it.

"What happened?" My voice is soft. The words drift through the quiet like smoke. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

He blinks again.

Looks away.

His cheeks flush—deep red now, the color spreading like ink dropped into water, seeping outward, unstoppable. His ears burn at the edges, the tips turning crimson. His throat moves as he swallows.

I cross my arms over my bare chest. Slow. Deliberate.

The movement draws attention to skin I haven’t bothered to cover—but I don’t care. His face somehow turns even redder.

Maybe that wasn’t entirely accidental.

I lean back into the couch. Shift until I’m comfortable. Deliberate. Unhurried. The leather settles beneath my weight.

"You’re the one who hugged me so tightly." My voice is easy. Almost lazy. The words roll off my tongue like I’m discussing the weather.

"So tight that my arms are hurting now."

He glances at me—quick, fleeting, a bird darting from shadow to shadow—then looks down again. His face twists. Something between sadness and shyness. His lower lip catches between his teeth.

Nervous. Uncertain.

His fingers twist the fabric of the shirt, winding it around his knuckles, giving his nervous hands something to do.

My eyes stay on him.

Pushing him is... kind of fun.

I stretch out my arm. Let it hang in the space between us. Waiting.

"Now. Put it on."

He nods. Still won’t look at me.

He steps forward. One step. Then another. His shoes are silent on the polished marble.

He slides one sleeve over my arm—carefully, almost too carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking something.

His fingers brush my skin.

Warm. Fleeting.

I lean forward slightly, feeding my other arm through. His breath stirs the air near my shoulder.

He tugs the shirt onto my shoulders. Settles the collar. His face is close now. Close enough that I can see the faint tension in his brows. The way his lashes flicker with each nervous blink.

I watch him.

He buttons the shirt.

Slowly.

Gently.

One by one.

The fabric closes over my chest, hiding skin, hiding the warmth that still lingers from his earlier touch. His fingers linger on each button longer than necessary—adjusting, smoothing, making sure everything is in place.

When he finishes, he looks up.

Our eyes meet.

For a moment—just a moment—neither of us moves.

His fingers are still resting near my collar. His face is close enough that I can see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks, the nervous tension he keeps trying to hide.

I don’t look away.

Neither does he.

The silence stretches.

Then I blink first.

Look away.

I straighten the collar myself, though it doesn’t need straightening. Feel the fine fabric settle against my shoulders.

My fingers brush against his. Neither of us pulls back.

Silas straightens too. Steps back. His eyes drop—fixed on the floor, on the table, on the notebook resting there. Anywhere but me.

He reaches for the notebook on the table. His hand trembles—just a little, just enough to notice. He writes. Tears the page free. Offers it to me without raising his eyes.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

I stare at the words.

He really believes me. That I’m hurt because of his hug.

Too innocent.

Before I can speak, his pencil moves again. Another page. Another note pressed into my hand.

Are you okay now? If you don’t feel better, let’s go to the hospital.

I look up at him.

"I’m fine." My voice comes out softer than I intended. "Completely. No hospital."

He hesitates. His pencil hovers over the page. Then he writes again. His fingers tighten around the pencil, uncertain, like he’s gathering courage for something.

He tears the page free and hands it to me.

Are you angry at me? Did I do something wrong?

My brows pull together. Confusion threading through me, soft and unexpected.

"No."

Another note comes. Quick. Almost desperate.

Then why did you ignore me this morning?

I stare at the words.

I ignored him this morning.

I don’t know why. I just woke up wrong. My mood was already ruined before I opened my eyes. It wasn’t him. It was never him.

But how do I explain that?

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

His pencil moves across the page—quick, final, like a door closing.

Then I’ll go. Don’t work too hard. Take care of yourself.

He sets the notebook on the table. A soft sound. The kind of sound that means goodbye.

I look at him.

Before I can speak—before I can explain something I don’t fully understand myself—he turns and walks toward the door.

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Rushed. Unguarded.

"Didn’t you come here to pick me up for lunch?"

His step stops.

Slowly—so slowly—he turns and looks at me. Then his gaze drifts past me.

Toward the glass wall.

I blink. Turn my head. Follow his eyes.

Almost evening.

The sky beyond the glass is bruised with the colors of dusk. Purple and orange and gold bleeding into one another. The day is ending. I didn’t notice.

He walks back to me. His steps are soft. Careful. Like he’s walking toward something fragile.

He picks up the notebook. Writes. Tears the page free. Offers it to me.

I’ll wait for you at dinner. At home.

A pause.

Come home early.

Another pause.

Bye.

He turns. Walks to the door. Opens it. Steps through. The heavy door closes behind him with a soft thud.

I stay where I am. Staring at the door. The silence settles over the office once more.

Waiting for me.

At home.

I look down at the note in my hand. My fingers tighten around the paper. The edges crumple beneath my grip.

Is he sad?

Because of this morning?