Page 43 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“Lying to the boy toy?” he murmurs.
Kadin straightens, subtly stepping closer to my side without crowding me. “You got something you want to say?”
Silas studies him for a moment, then looks back at me as if Kadin barely exists.
“Just making conversation,” he replies.
But he doesn’t move away.
The music swells, bodies pressing in and out of the kitchen, the small triangle between the three of us feeling isolated from the rest of the party.
Kadin’s hand settles lightly at the small of my back, protective but not possessive.
Silas notices.
The faintest shift in his jaw gives it away.
Silas doesn’t storm off.
He drifts.
That’s worse.
After dropping that deliberate nickname into the air like a match and watching it flare, he shifts away from the counter with unhurried ease. The bottle remains loose in his grip as he moves through the kitchen, bodies parting around him without him asking them to. He doesn’t look back immediately.
That would be too obvious.
Instead, he takes his time reaching the sliding doors that lead out to the backyard. Once there, he leans, one shoulder braced against the frame, pool lights flashing across his face in restless streaks of blue and pink.
“So,” Kadin says, shifting a little closer so I can hear him over the music, “Maria briefly mentioned he is a foreign exchange student, what country specializes in brooding and shoulder-checking strangers?”
A laugh slips out of me despite my anger.
“I think it’s somewhere cold,” I reply. “Emotionally and geographically.”
He grins. “That explains the frostbite personality.”
The banter steadies me. It’s easy. Effortless in a way nothing involving Silas ever is.
“And here I thought you were the intimidating one in psych,” Kadin continues. “Turns out you’re harboring the real threat at home.”
“Please,” I scoff. “If he’s a threat, it’s only to basic social etiquette.”
Kadin’s eyes soften when he looks at me again. “You don’t seem rattled.”
“Why would I be?” I shrug.
He studies my face like he’s checking for cracks in the porcelain. The music shifts songs, bass deepening, bodies pressing closer as the living room fills. His hand brushes mine again, this time intentionally, fingertips grazing along my knuckles before settling loosely around my wrist.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re unshakeable,” he says quietly. “Most people are.”
The warmth of that, of being offered softness instead of a challenge, does something strange inside my chest.
“Maybe I just don’t like giving people the satisfaction,” I reply.
A flicker of approval crosses his face. “That I believe.”
From across the room, a burst of laughter erupts near the coffee table. Someone shouts for more cups. The energy shifts suddenly when a guy near the center of the living room climbs onto the couch cushions.
