Silas sat before the glowing screens, the whiskey in his glass long forgotten. Grace, on the other side of the lens, lay sprawled across her couch. The same body he had watched twirl in laughter just an hour ago now curled gently in sleep, her empty wine glass resting on her stomach. A lull had fallen over the world, but inside Silas, the storm never ceased.
He didn't blink as her chest rose and fell with even breaths. The warmth of her apartment was palpable through the camera's lens. Her limbs relaxed, her head tilted slightly to the side. He could still see the soft flush on her cheeks from the alcohol. The kind of flush that meant she wouldn't remember much in the morning.
His breath hitched, a battle brewing within him. She had let her guard down, and though she had no idea she was being watched, she radiated trust. Safety. She trusted the silence of her home. Trusted that it was hers alone. That innocence struck a deep nerve in him.
The next part happened almost without thought. Or maybe it was with too much of it.
Time slipped. The images on the screen bled into reality. One moment he was watching. The next, he was standing again in her space.
She hadn't locked her door properly. The latch hadn't clicked shut when she returned, too drunk to notice. He told himself that. Repeated it like gospel. As if that justified the way he slipped inside with practiced quiet, each step measured and rehearsed in his mind a thousand times.
Her place smelled of wine and her. Jasmine and something warm and feminine.
Silas moved through the space like shadow. Not a thief, not a predator, but something in between. A lover born of obsession. A ghost with her heartbeat in his ear.
Grace had stumbled into her bedroom after her second glass. Her dress was discarded at the foot of the bed, replaced by a silky robe that barely clung to her shoulders. Her hair fanned across the pillow, her legs tangled in the sheets. She was already halfway gone.
He paused at the edge of her bed, his fists clenched at his sides. He should turn back. He should leave. But the ache inside, the one that had grown since Riverton, since their first brush of proximity, was a wildfire now.
He sat first. Softly. Then slowly eased into the space beside her.
Silas had known about Grace's condition, where she slept too sound to notice anything around her, mostly because of being alert all day, her body lost all of it in the night. This, paired with alcohol was everything Silas needed to lie beside her, without her knowing about it.
She murmured something in her sleep. A name. Not his. A fleeting fragment of another world. But she didn't wake.
Silas lay there stiff at first, then softened as he felt the rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her beside him. Her warmth. His heart pounded, not with lust, but something far more twisted. Possession. This wasn't about desire anymore. It hadn't been for a long time.
This was his pilgrimage.
He reached out, careful not to wake her, and let his fingers graze the hem of her robe. Her skin was warm, satin-smooth. He swallowed hard and pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist over his chest.
She turned slightly in her sleep, facing him now, lips parted, the curve of her cheek lit by the moonlight. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, the sweep of her lashes, the soft dip of her collarbone. He memorized her again. Every breath etched deeper into his mind.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and let the illusion wash over him.
That they were lovers. That this was real.
In the morning, she wouldn't remember. And he would.
He would remember how she didn't pull away. How her body, in sleep, leaned toward him. How, even in unconsciousness, she didn't reject him.
He watched the sky pale through her windows. Her breaths grew heavier. The alcohol would wear off soon.
Silas slid from the bed without a sound. Pulled the sheets back into place. Adjusted the robe on her shoulder.
And then he was gone.
Back into the quiet.
Back into the storm, only he knew he carried.