POV: Evelyn
Silas gave me exactly the space I asked for.
By breakfast, I hated every inch of it.
He was not in the kitchen burning anything. His coffee mug was gone from the counter. When Sophie asked whether he would eat with us, Maeve said he had work in the garage.
No wounded silence. No message sent through someone else. No performance designed to make me feel guilty.
He had simply removed himself.
It should have been a relief.
Instead, the safe house felt as if someone had taken a wall out during the night.
Ronan buttered a piece of toast and watched me check the doorway for the fourth time.
"If you're waiting for Silas, he won't come in."
"I didn't ask."
"You looked. Loudly."
Maeve set a bowl in front of Sophie. "Ronan recently developed a medical condition that prevents speech."
"It comes and goes."
Sophie leaned toward me. "Maybe his talking is broken."
"Finally," Maeve said. "A diagnosis."
I smiled because Sophie did. The feeling vanished when I looked at the empty chair at the end of the table.
Silas had sat there every morning without claiming it. He drank his coffee black, read reports while pretending not to watch whether I ate, and cut Sophie's toast diagonally after she announced squares tasted sad.
Three days ago, I had found his attention overwhelming.
Now his absence had weight.
That frightened me enough to make me angry all over again.
I carried my plate to the sink.
"Where's the garage?"
Ronan pointed with his toast. Maeve slapped his hand down before crumbs could scatter.
"Through the mudroom," she said. "But Evelyn—he thinks giving you space is an order. You may have to use very small words."
"I can hear you," Silas called from somewhere beyond the door.
Maeve raised her voice. "Good. Saves time."
The garage smelled of gasoline, wet leather, and cold metal. Morning light fell through high windows onto six motorcycles, a tool bench, and the Harley Silas had laid down on the mountain road to avoid hitting Sophie.
Its fuel tank was dented. One handlebar had been removed. Deep silver scars cut through the black paint where the bike had slid across asphalt.
Silas stood beside it in a gray T-shirt with his sleeves pushed over his shoulders. Grease marked one forearm. He held a wrench in his right hand and kept his left braced against the workbench.
He did not turn when I entered.
"Ronan sent you?"
"Ronan has a broken talking condition."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"Tragic."
I stopped three feet behind him. The bond stretched between us, carrying nothing clear enough to name. Heat. Restraint. The low ache of something pulling against a locked door.
"You left breakfast."
"You asked for space."
"I didn't ask you to disappear."
He finally faced me. His eyes were human brown, but the wolf looked through them anyway.
"You said you didn't know how much. I chose the amount least likely to hurt you."
"It hurt me."
The wrench touched the bench with a quiet click.
Silas became completely still.
"How?"
Not Why are you blaming me? Not I did what you asked.
How.
I looked at the Harley because looking at him made honesty harder.
"You told me something that changed every moment between us. Then you stepped away so cleanly that I started wondering whether I had imagined those moments mattering to you."
His breath left slowly.
"Evelyn, I walked out here and removed the same bolt eleven times."
I glanced at the workbench. A single bolt lay in the center of a spotless square surrounded by scattered tools.
"Why?"
"Because putting my fist through the wall would upset Sophie."
"You could have gone for a run."
"My wolf would have run to your window."
The answer moved through me like heat beneath skin.
Silas took one step back, increasing the distance even though I had entered his space.
"I didn't leave because it meant nothing," he said. "I left because everything in me wanted to follow you."
"And if I had wanted you to?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Then you needed to say it."
"I shouldn't have to know the perfect words."
"No. But I won't turn uncertainty into permission because it would make me happy."