It was just past midnight when Silas found himself standing once again outside Sam's door.
He hesitated this time. He didn't knock.
Not yet.
The hallway was dimly lit, the manor hushed with sleep. But inside Silas, there was only noise: the thrum of guilt, the ache of uncertainty, and the gnawing fear that he might have broken something he couldn't fix.
Still, he raised a hand and tapped lightly.
"Sam?" he said, voice barely more than a breath.
There was a long pause.
Then footsteps.
The door opened just enough for Sam to stand in the gap, one arm braced against the frame. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, shadows under his eyes. He didn't look angry.He looked tired.
Silas swallowed.
"I needed to see you," he began. "Not to explain. Just to say… I'm sorry."
Sam didn't speak.
"I shouldn't have gone through your things," Silas continued, voice slow, steady. "There's no excuse for it. I let my fear drive me into doing something unforgivable."
"You didn't just invade my privacy, Silas," Sam said quietly, "You ripped open a part of me I was barely keeping together."
Silas's throat tightened. "I know. And I hate myself for it."
He paused, exhaling shakily.
"I love you. That's why I panicked. That's why I needed answers. I could feel something was wrong, and it scared me. I thought… if I could understand it, maybe I could help."
"You were trying to control it," Sam said, eyes sharp.Silas nodded slowly. "Yeah. I was. I'm not proud of that."
The silence between them stretched again—fragile, uncertain.
Then Silas took a step back. "You don't have to forgive me. And I'm not here to make you talk. Not yet. But when you're ready—when you want to—I'll be here. I will wait. Not as your mate. Just as someone who wants you to feel safe again."
Sam looked away for a long moment.
And then—softly—he opened the door a little wider.
"Come in," he murmured.
Silas blinked.
"I'm not ready to talk," Sam said, walking back toward the bed, voice low and careful. "But I don't want to be alone."Those words hit harder than any argument ever could.
Silas stepped in, shutting the door behind him, his movements slow and careful—like approaching a wounded animal that still didn't know if it could trust.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window. He didn't meet Silas's gaze.
"I feel like I'm lying to all of you," Sam admitted. "Every day."
"You're surviving," Silas said gently, lowering himself beside him but leaving space between them. "That's not the same thing."
Sam finally turned his head, and for the first time in days, his eyes weren't guarded. They were full of something else. Grief. Relief. A flicker of guilt.
"You're not going to stop digging, are you?"
Silas gave a faint smile. "I'll try. But I can't promise not to worry."
Sam let out a breathy, tired laugh.
"I forgive you," he said, after a moment. "Not because I'm over it… but because I don't want to fight anymore."
Silas nodded.
"I'll earn the rest."
The two of them sat in silence after that, not touching, but close enough to feel each other breathe. The bond between them pulsed gently—still cracked, but far from broken.
Sam leaned his head back against the headboard.
"Silas?"
"Yeah?"
"When I'm ready… I'll tell you everything."
Silas looked over at him, eyes soft.
"I'll be here."
Always.