Chapter 59: Why Is He Always... Like This?

The morning light spills through the glass wall like honey poured from an invisible pitcher—slow, golden, almost thick enough to touch. It drifts across the polished marble floor in soft waves, catching the dust motes floating in the air and turning them into tiny suspended stars.

The room is warm now, but not with the oppressive heat of before.

This is a different warmth. A gentle one.

The kind that wraps around your bones and reminds you that you survived the night.

I move slowly.

My body feels unfamiliar. Not with illness or fever—but with the strange quietness that comes after a storm finally passes. The air is still. The silence is soft. There’s no burning in my veins, no fire beneath my skin, no desperate hunger clawing through me from the inside out.

Just... relief. Clean. Quiet. Unfamiliar.

Why does my body feel so light?

My eyes open. Blink once. Then again. The ceiling slowly comes into focus above me, warm morning light shifting across its smooth surface.

I feel like I’ve been unconscious for years. Like I sank somewhere deep and only now found my way back.

I stare upward.

No burning. No fever. No ache at the back of my neck.

Is my rut over?

But how?

It always takes three days.

Three days of fire. Three days of losing myself to something primal and hungry. Three days of aching and burning from the inside out until the fever finally breaks and leaves me hollow afterward.

But this...

How long did I sleep?

I sit up slowly. The sheets slip down my chest as I look at myself. Clean. Dressed in a soft night suit. The fabric feels cool and unfamiliar against my skin.

I don’t remember changing. I don’t remember anything after the fire swallowed me whole.

Then my gaze shifts. Beside me.

And I freeze.

The morning light settles across the curve of his shoulder, the fall of his hair, the quiet softness of his sleeping face.

Silas is sitting on the floor beside the bed—his arms folded against the mattress, his head resting on them.

Sleeping.

Peacefully.

His brown hair is a mess, tangled and falling across his temple in soft waves that make him look younger somehow. Fragile. The sunlight spills over him gently, catching along the edges of his silhouette until he almost doesn’t look real.

I stare at him.

What the hell...?

What is he doing here?

The memories come back in fragments. Sharp. Disjointed. Like shards of a broken mirror I’m trying to piece together.

I told him to leave. I remember that. I told him to go to a hotel, a penthouse, anywhere but here. I texted Sum. I asked him to send an Omega.

Where is the Omega?

Why is he still here?

And why is my rut over?

My gaze drifts toward the bedside table.

A bowl of water sits there—still, calm, the surface untouched. Soft towels rest beside it, folded neatly, like someone placed them there with care. With intention.

I stare at them for a long moment.

Then I lift my arm and breathe in slowly.My pheromones are stable now. Calm. The sharp, wild edge that always follows my rut is gone. Gone completely.

Impossible.

I search the bed for my phone and find it tangled beneath the sheets. The screen lights up in my hand as I look at the date.

One night.

My rut ended in one night.

Without an Omega.

How?

I run a hand through my hair. My fingers are steady now—no trembling, no weakness. The rut has truly passed. But the confusion remains, curling quietly in my chest like smoke.

Then my fingers brush against something on my temple.

A cooling patch.

I touch it lightly. The coolness sinks into my skin, soothing and gentle against the lingering warmth still trapped beneath the surface.

My gaze shifts back toward Silas.

Did he put this on me?

My gaze drifts toward the bedside table again. The bowl of water. The towels.

Did he do this?

Realization settles over me slowly, piece by piece. I look down at myself again. At the clean night suit. At the soft fabric resting against my skin.

He changed me.

He took care of me.

I look back at Silas.

He’s still sleeping. His lips are parted slightly, his breathing slow and even. But there’s something heavy in the rise and fall of his shoulders. Exhaustion. Like he stayed awake the entire night and finally collapsed there beside the bed.

Did he take care of me all night?

Then why is he sleeping on the floor?

Before I can stop myself—before I can think too much about it—my hand reaches toward him.

My fingers brush through his hair softly, pushing the brown strands away from his temple. The silk-like strands slip between my fingers as his lashes rest quietly against his flushed cheeks.

My fingers touch his temple.

Warm. Too warm.

He’s burning.

He moves at my touch—just enough. His eyes open slowly, blinking against the morning light before settling on me.

My fingers are still resting against his temple. I freeze. Then pull my hand back immediately and look away.

My voice comes out colder than I intend. Hesitant beneath the sharpness. "What are you doing here? I told you to leave me alone."

Silas’s eyes stay on me. He just blinks. No offense. No hurt. Just that same quiet patience.

I look at him again. "Why are you still here?" A pause. "Stand up. The floor is cold."

He nods slowly and pushes himself upright, though the movement looks heavier than it should. His body sways faintly once he stands.

My brows tighten.

His cheeks are flushed. Too flushed. His skin is burning.

Does he have a fever?

I gesture toward the space beside me on the bed. My voice comes out quieter now. Softer than I intended.

"Sit here. And explain yourself."

He sits carefully on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. He reaches for the notebook and pencil on the bedside table, his fingers trembling just enough for me to notice.

He writes slowly. Carefully. Then hands me the note.

Last night, you were burning badly. So I tried to cool you down.

A small pause in his writing.

Are you okay now?

I look at him.

He’s burning with fever himself—and he’s still asking if I’m okay.

"I’m fine now." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Then after a quiet breath: "But why did you sleep on the floor?"

He writes another note. His hand moves across the page more slowly this time.

I was wiping your body with cold water. I didn’t realize when I fell asleep.

I look away. My face feels strange. Warm. Not with fever—with something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. With him. With a boy who stayed beside me all night. Who slept on the cold floor next to my bed. Who burned himself trying to cool my fever.

Because this is the first time in my life someone has taken care of me like this.

No one has ever...

My voice sounds softer when I speak. Unfamiliar to my own ears. "Thank you." A pause. "For taking care of me." Another pause. "But don’t sleep on the floor again."

A soft smile spreads across his lips. Small.Tired. Real. He nods slowly.

I glance at him. He’s still smiling. Something tight twists strangely in my chest. I look away quickly.

Why is he always... like this?