The night had teeth.
Even after Edgar vanished into the dark—boots pounding the cracked pavement, laughter trailing behind him like broken glass—his presence lingered. It felt as though the very air had been cut open, left raw and jagged.
Evelyn stood frozen on the porch, the axe slipping from her trembling hands, clattering against the wood. She barely registered the sound. Her gaze was locked on the shadows at the end of the street, waiting, terrified he might reappear.
But he didn't.
Instead, silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.
Only then did she hear Silas.
He was slumped against the porch railing, his chest heaving, his sleeve drenched in blood. His skin looked pale, waxy in the weak streetlight. His jaw was clenched, but his body trembled as though his muscles were losing the will to obey him.
"Silas!" Evelyn gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.
He tried to wave her off, but the gesture was weak, his hand barely lifting before falling again. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice ragged. "Just a scratch."
She stared at the deep gash across his arm, the blood soaking his shirt and dripping down to his fingertips. "That's not a scratch," she whispered, her throat tight.
He offered a half-smile, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Fine. Maybe a bad scratch."
"Silas," she said firmly, her voice shaking despite her attempt at steadiness, "you're bleeding too much. You need—" She faltered, her mind flashing through possibilities: a hospital, a clinic, something professional. But the thought of leaving the house—of stepping into the night where Edgar lurked—made her stomach twist.
No. They couldn't risk it.
She swallowed hard. "I'll take care of it."
His brows furrowed. "You don't—"
"Don't argue." Her voice cracked, but the determination behind it held. "Please. Just… trust me."
For a moment, he studied her, his hazel eyes sharp even through the haze of pain. Then he gave a slight nod.
Evelyn slipped her shoulder beneath his and helped him to his feet. He was heavier than she expected, the weight of him pressing into her slight frame, but adrenaline lent her strength. Together they staggered inside, the door slamming shut behind them.
--- ✦ ---
The bathroom felt too small, too bright. The harsh light hummed above, casting everything in pale yellow.
Evelyn guided Silas onto the closed lid of the toilet. He sank down with a hiss of pain, his arm cradled close to his chest.
"I need to clean it," she murmured, already rummaging through the cabinet. Bandages, disinfectant, cotton pads. Her hands shook as she gathered them, the clinking of bottles too loud in the silence.
"You don't have to," Silas said again, but his voice was weaker now.
Evelyn set the supplies on the counter and turned to him. Her eyes met his—tired, guarded, but still holding that strange steadiness. She swallowed. "Yes. I do."
Her fingers hovered over the torn fabric of his sleeve. "I'll need to cut this off."
Silas gave a short nod. "Do it."
She fetched scissors, her hands trembling as she slid the blades under the blood-soaked fabric. The sound of ripping cloth filled the bathroom, followed by the sharp tang of iron in the air.
When the sleeve finally fell away, Evelyn's breath caught.
The gash was worse than she'd feared—long and jagged, carved deep into the muscle of his upper arm. The skin around it was swollen, angry red. Blood still oozed, though slower now.
"Oh god," she whispered.
Silas's jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch. "It looks worse than it is."
She shot him a look. "Don't lie to me."
Something flickered in his expression, but he said nothing.
Evelyn soaked a cotton pad with disinfectant. "This will sting."
His lips twitched. "I've felt worse."
Still, when she pressed the pad to the wound, he hissed sharply, his shoulders jerking. Evelyn winced in sympathy. "Sorry, sorry—"
"Don't apologize," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Just… keep going."
She did. Carefully, methodically, though her hands shook with every touch. She dabbed away the blood, cleaned the raw edges of the wound, whispering reassurances more for herself than for him.
"You're okay," she murmured. "You're okay. I won't let you—" Her voice broke.
Silas's gaze softened, his eyes fixed on her face. "Evelyn."
She forced herself to meet his eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly.
Something inside her cracked. She blinked rapidly, fighting the sting of tears, and nodded. "Good. Because I don't think I could do this without you."
For a moment, silence filled the bathroom, charged and fragile.
Then Evelyn reached for the bandages. Her fingers brushed his skin as she wrapped the wound, and she felt the heat of him, the tension in his muscles, the steadiness beneath the pain.
Her breath came uneven, her heart thundering too fast for the quiet room.
When she finished, she tied the bandage off with trembling hands. "There. That should hold until we… figure out what's next."
Silas studied her face, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he lifted his good hand, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
Evelyn froze. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a rush of warmth through her chest, softening the terror still coiled in her ribs.
"You did well," he murmured.
Her throat tightened. "I was terrified."
"So was I." His lips curved faintly. "Doesn't mean you didn't save me."
She didn't think. She couldn't.
Leaning forward, she pressed the smallest, most tentative kiss to his cheek, just at the edge of his jaw.
It lasted less than a heartbeat. But when she pulled back, her face burning, Silas was watching her with something raw and unguarded in his hazel eyes.
Neither of them spoke.
The world outside still reeked of Edgar's shadow. The basement still waited. The knives still whispered.
But for that fragile moment, in the too-bright bathroom, with blood still drying on Silas's bandage, Evelyn felt something close to safety.
Something close to hope.
The house was too quiet after she finished binding Silas's wound. The kind of quiet that didn't feel safe, but hollow, like it was only waiting to be broken. Evelyn sat back on her heels, her hands trembling faintly as she tucked the last strip of bandage into place. Silas didn't wince, though his jaw was clenched tight, the muscles standing out against the low bathroom light.
"There," she whispered, her voice barely steady. "That should hold."
Silas exhaled slowly, leaning back against the tiled wall. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat and half-unbuttoned from when she had cleaned the gash across his ribs. She tried not to look at the way the shadows deepened the lines of his chest, tried not to think about how close she had been only moments ago, wiping blood from his skin.
"You're better at this than most doctors," he muttered, his voice rough but quiet.
Evelyn gave a nervous laugh. "Don't say that. I'd make a terrible doctor. My hands wouldn't stop shaking." She held them up, as if to prove her point, the faint tremor still running through her fingers.
Silas's eyes flicked down to her hands, then back up, unreadable. "Still. You didn't let go."
Something in her chest tightened. She looked away quickly, focusing on the towel scattered on the floor. "You shouldn't be alone tonight," she blurted before she could stop herself.
The silence stretched, sharp and heavy. She could feel his gaze, feel the weight of the words she'd just let slip.
Evelyn swallowed hard, her cheeks burning. "I mean—after what happened—Edgar, the basement—you should stay. Just for the night. It's safer if… if you're here."
Silas tilted his head, studying her. For a moment, she thought he would refuse, the way he always kept distance, the way he always carried himself like a man with walls too high for anyone to climb. But then his shoulders lowered just slightly, the tension in them easing.
"Alright," he said at last.
Her breath caught in her throat. She nodded quickly, standing before she could second-guess herself. "Come on. You can—uh—you can take my room."
"I'll take the couch."
"No." She turned, surprising even herself with the firmness in her voice. "The couch is uncomfortable. And you're injured. You… you should take the bed."
He raised a brow, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his hazel eyes. "And you?"
Her stomach flipped. "I'll—I'll just sleep there too."
The amusement faded, replaced by something heavier, quieter. He didn't argue this time.
--- ✦ ---
The room felt smaller with him in it.
Evelyn fussed with the blankets far more than was necessary, smoothing them, then tucking in corners, then smoothing them again. Silas stood by the door, his presence filling the space, making the air thicker.
Finally, when there was nothing left to fidget with, she slid beneath the covers and turned to the far side, staring at the wall. She heard the faint rustle of fabric as he moved, the creak of the bed frame as he lay down beside her.
The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling her slightly toward him. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence was alive, threaded with the sound of their breaths. Evelyn clutched the edge of the blanket, trying to steady herself.
"Evelyn," Silas said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.
She turned, hesitant. His face was only a few inches away now, shadowed by the dim light spilling in through the window. His eyes weren't sharp tonight—they were tired, vulnerable in a way she hadn't seen before.
"You said the voices call your name," he murmured.
Her throat tightened. She nodded. "They do. Sometimes… sometimes I think they're all I've ever known."
He was quiet for a long moment. "When I was a kid, I thought I was cursed. Every night, the knives would come back, whispering, cutting. I stopped sleeping. I stopped talking. My parents thought I was broken."
Her heart ached. "You're not broken."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "And you're not crazy."
The words landed like a balm, soft and searing all at once. Her eyes stung with sudden tears. "No one's ever said that to me before."
Silas didn't reply, but his hand shifted slightly between them, his fingers brushing against hers beneath the blanket. It was a small touch, almost accidental, but it made her breath hitch.
She turned fully toward him now, their knees bumping under the sheets. "Do you ever wonder why us?" she whispered. "Why we hear them, when no one else does?"
"All the time," he admitted. His gaze lingered on her face, steady and searching. "Maybe we were meant to find each other."
Her chest tightened at the words. A fragile hope bloomed inside her, dangerous and sweet.
She wanted to tell him everything then—the loneliness, the nights she cried into her pillow, the way she had prayed for just one person to understand. Instead, all she managed was, "I don't want to be alone anymore."
"You're not." His voice was firm, grounding. "Not anymore."
Their breaths mingled in the small space between them. Evelyn could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The knives in her mind were quiet for once, replaced by the sound of his voice, the nearness of him.
Slowly, carefully, Silas lifted a hand. His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light, almost hesitant, as though asking permission. She didn't pull away. She leaned into the touch instead, her eyes fluttering closed.
The silence held them, wrapped them in something fragile and unspoken.
And then his lips found hers.
It was not urgent, not wild—it was soft, lingering, filled with everything they hadn't been able to say. A meeting of broken edges, fitting together in the dark.
When they finally pulled back, Evelyn's heart was racing, but for once, it wasn't from fear.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her, something raw and unguarded flickering in his hazel gaze. She smiled faintly, her voice barely a whisper. "Stay."
"I will," he murmured.
And for the first time in years, Evelyn closed her eyes and drifted to sleep not with the knives in her mind, but with the warmth of someone beside her.