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Specifically, Silas’s arm. Splayed across me like I’m a body pillow he’s claimed. His head buried half against my shoulder, breathing deep and obnoxiously soft, like he’s never slept this well in his damn life.

The absurdity roots me there, still and staring at the cracked ceiling of his too-small, too-chaotic room, the morning light leaking gray and thin through the warped shutters.

I could move. I should.

But I don’t.

Because it’s quiet here. And because somehow, this idiot has turned last night’s retaliation into something worse—a truce. A trap. A domestic fucking nightmare.

Silas shifts, mumbling something incoherent, and when he finally blinks awake, it’s with that crooked, too-bright grin like he’s been waiting for me to open my eyes first.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice rough, pleased.

“Unfortunately.”

He stretches, shameless, all lean limbs and sleep-warm skin. “This is the best night of my life.”

“Your standards are appallingly low.”

Silas flops back, hands tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he’s plotting something I won’t like. Which, knowing him, is always.

“You know,” he says after a moment, too casual, “this could be a regular thing.”

I glance at him sideways. “No.”

He grins wider, undeterred. “Think about it. Sleepovers. Midnight frog hunts. Matching pajamas.”

“Silas.”

“I could show you my rock collection.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You don’t have a rock collection.”

“I do now,” he replies smugly, reaching under the bed and pulling out a battered tin box, like he’s been waiting for this moment all his life. He flips it open and gestures dramatically. “This one’s shaped like a heart. This one’s vaguely penis-shaped.”

Before I can tell him to shove his rock collection where the Hollow won’t find it, there’s a knock on the door—a half-hearted, two-tap warning that means nothing—and then it creaks open.

Elias sticks his head in, silver hair a disaster, shirt slung over one shoulder, eyes still sleep-rough. He takes one look at the scene in front of him—Silas grinning, me sprawled like a corpse in his bed—and freezes.

A beat.

Another.

Then Elias’s mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile.

“Oh,” he drawls. “Oh, this is my new favorite thing.”

Silas brightens like the damn sun. “Elias! You’re just in time. We’re starting a club.”

Elias raises a brow. “A club.”

“Ambrose slept in my bed,” Silas announces, voice too loud, too triumphant. “It’s canon now. You want in?”

I stare at the ceiling, because if I look at Elias right now, I might kill him.

Elias doesn’t miss a beat. He saunters in, flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed like he owns the place. “If you’re offering, I’ve always wanted to be sandwiched between two emotionally repressed disasters.”

“See?” Silas grins. “He gets it.”