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Silas groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re like a sexy virus.”

“Flatter me more,” I say, draping one arm over my stomach, shifting just enough to make the sheets move with me. “Or get in.”

He stops mid-pace. Freezes.

“What?” he asks, voice suddenly lower. Slower.

I glance over lazily. “Get in the bed.”

Silas stares at me like I’ve dropped a live spell on the floor.

“I—no. No. I’m not—You’re not—we’re not doing that.”

I smirk. “Didn’t realize you were shy.”

“I’m not shy,” he hisses. “I’m traumatized.”

“Fitting. You named a frog after that.”

Silas narrows his eyes. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you made it a war,” I reply, voice silky, dangerous. “And I always win my wars.”

He glares. I raise a brow again, wordless. He grumbles something incoherent, yanks off his shirt, and flings it into the corner like it personally offended him. His pants follow—revealing black boxers with tiny, bright-pink skulls.

Of course.

“You say nothing,” he warns, pointing at me as he climbs in beside me, careful to keep to the far edge of the mattress like I might infect him.

I roll onto my side, elbow propped under my head, staring at him. “You’re more dramatic than I am.”

He flops onto his back, throws his arm over his eyes, and groans. “If you start snoring, I will smother you with a pillow.”

“If you get any mud on me, I’ll set your hair on fire.”

A beat of silence.

Then—quiet laughter. Small, stupid, shared.

He peeks at me from under his arm, something softer curling behind his grin. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Of course not.”

We lie there, strange and strangely still. His breath slows. Mine follows.

And I wonder—not for the first time—how we all ended up here. In this house, in this Hollow. In a mess of bonds and magic and the kind of love that eats through the ribs.

Silas shifts under the covers. Doesn’t look at me when he murmurs, “You planning to steal my soul in your sleep?”

I don’t answer right away. Let it hang.

Then, softly—“Already did.”

He snorts, and his hand brushes mine under the blanket. Not an accident. And I let it stay. Just for tonight.

I wake to the weight of something on my chest. For a fractured second, instinct coils sharp under my ribs—the Hollow has teeth, and it knows how to bite—but it isn’t magic pressing against me.

It’s Silas.