The days passed in quiet succession, and before Ayla knew it, two weeks had slipped by. Her presence had started seeping into Silas's apartment, like ink bleeding into fabric—subtle yet unmistakable. At first, she had hesitated to claim space, reminding herself that this was temporary. But gradually, small traces of her became evident. A Doraemon cup sat on the kitchen shelf. A plush rabbit lay abandoned on the couch. A soft throw blanket draped over the armrest, carrying the faint scent of her lavender shampoo.
She had once resolved not to bring too much into his space. Yet, here she was, unintentionally making it hers bit by bit. Maybe, in the beginning, she had wanted to test him—to see if he would scold her, set limits, or ask her to stop. But he never did. Silas never reprimanded her, never mentioned that her things were cluttering his apartment, nor did he give her permission outright. He simply let her be, allowing her to exist within his walls.
With her overthinking mind, she tried not to read into it too much. Life had settled into a quiet rhythm. She had resumed work remotely with her previous company, immersing herself in tasks to keep her thoughts from wandering down the lonely roads of uncertainty. For the first time in a long while, things felt peaceful.
But peace, for Ayla, was often fleeting.
Pain. It started as a dull ache, curling in her lower stomach, like a cruel reminder that she had once again forgotten how vicious her body could be. Ayla had been so caught up in her quiet, steady routine—working, filling the apartment with traces of herself, watching Silas exist in his cold indifference—that she failed to notice the signs.
The warning cramps had started in the morning, but she ignored them. She had work, and she didn't want to give in to something as trivial as this. It was always the same every month. Always unbearable, always suffocating. She knew it was coming. She just didn't expect it to hit this hard.
By the afternoon, the pain clawed through her insides like a dull knife twisting mercilessly. She curled up on the sofa, her laptop screen blurring before her eyes. She was supposed to finish a report, but the words no longer made sense. Her fingers trembled over the keyboard, and soon, she couldn't even sit upright. The pain swallowed her whole. She didn't even know she was crying softly like a small animal.
She lost track of time. The walls around her blurred. At some point, she heard the faint sounds of keys jingling and the door opening. She knew it was Silas. She knew she should get up, pretend she was fine, but she couldn't move. The pain kept her chained, her limbs heavy, her breath shallow.
Ayla barely registered Silas walking in. He said something, but she couldn't respond. She was too focused on not breaking apart completely. Yet her tears gave away.
The next thing she knew, Silas had closed her laptop and was helping her to her feet. She had no strength to argue. She let him lead her into her room, her steps unsteady, her body protesting every movement. When she collapsed onto the bed, she barely heard the sound of him walking away.
She should sleep. But the pain wouldn't let her.
Minutes stretched into an eternity, and then nausea struck her like a storm. A violent, overwhelming wave. Ayla gasped, forcing herself up despite the stabbing pain in her stomach. She barely made it to the bathroom before the sickness took over, her body rejecting everything inside her.
She clutched the sink, her entire frame trembling as she struggled to breathe. The cold tiles felt like ice against her burning skin. She hated this. Hated how weak she felt. Hated how her body always betrayed her like this.
She barely managed to rinse her mouth when she felt her knees give out. The dizziness was unbearable. She clutched at the edge of the sink, but her fingers were numb, useless.
And then—strong arms caught her before she hit the ground.
Ayla blinked, dazed, her vision swimming. The scent of fresh soap and something faintly familiar surrounded her. She didn't need to look up to know who it was.
Silas.
She wanted to say something, to push him away, to tell him she was fine—but she wasn't fine. Her body was betraying her. Again.
He didn't say a word. He simply carried her back to her bed, his grip firm, unyielding. She felt the weight of the blankets being pulled over her. A cold press against her forehead. Something cool against her lips—water, she realized, but she could barely sip.
The pain didn't stop. It only worsened.
She shivered violently. The cramps intensified, sending sharp stabs of agony through her lower stomach. Nausea churned inside her, and before she could stop herself, she was leaning over the side of the bed, retching. Yet her stomach had nothing.
Her entire body felt drained, reduced to nothing but pain and exhaustion. She collapsed against the pillow, barely aware of the glass of water pressed to her lips. She tried to drink but could barely swallow.
Silas's voice cut through the fog this time. "You need to take medicine."
She wanted to tell him it wouldn't help, that she'd only throw it up again, but her throat was too raw to form words. The bed dipped beside her, and she felt his cool fingers against her cheek, checking her temperature. A frown tugged at the corners of his lips, his usual impassive face betraying a flicker of concern.
Ayla barely noticed when he left the room. Moments later, she heard the low murmur of his voice, speaking to someone over the phone. The details were lost in her haze, but minutes—or was it hours?—later, another presence entered the room. A gentle hand checked her pulse, a soft voice asked her questions she could barely answer.
Silas had called someone. A doctor.
A warm towel pressed against her forehead, soothing for just a moment before the pain overtook her again. Medicine was coaxed past her lips, and this time, she managed to keep it down. A cool hand ran over her hair, smoothing down the damp strands stuck to her forehead.
She wasn't sure if she imagined it—the small moments of care, the way his hand lingered for a second longer than necessary. Maybe it was the fever, the exhaustion making her delirious. But for the first time in a long time, as painful as the night was, she didn't feel entirely alone.
Eventually, sleep claimed her, the pain dulling into the background.
And even in the darkness, she felt the weight of someone watching over her, making sure she wasn't swallowed whole by the suffering.
Maybe, just maybe, Silas cared—just a little.