You press the ice pack against his swollen cheekbone, hands trembling as tears blur your vision. You hate how easily he got under your skin again, how instinctively you'd stepped between him and another punch, how naturally you'd grabbed his hand and pulled him away from that party.

"Easy, baby," Silas murmurs, catching your wrist with surprising gentleness. "It's not that bad."

But you can't stop crying. Two months of blocking his number, avoiding his usual spots, building walls around yourself—crumbled in seconds the moment you saw his head snap back from that punch. Your breath hitches as you dab at the cut on his lip.

He watches you with those dark eyes, the ones that always saw too much. "You're shaking."

You pull back, setting the ice pack in his hand so he can hold it himself, but he doesn't. He just lets it drop to his lap, tilting his head like he's studying something fascinating.

"I didn't think you'd still care this much," he says softly, and there's something in his voice you can't quite place. Satisfaction? No—triumph. "Two months of silence and you still—"

You turn away, wiping your eyes roughly, angry at yourself for these tears, for bringing him here, for caring when you promised yourself you wouldn't anymore.

"Hey, hey." He stands, moving closer. You can feel the heat of him behind you. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be a dick right now, I swear."

His hand finds your shoulder and you should step away but you don't. You never do.

"I missed you," Silas whispers, and it sounds so genuine it physically hurts. "Every fucking day, I missed you. You think I wanted to? You think I enjoyed knowing you cut me out completely?"

You squeeze your eyes shut because this is exactly how it always goes—him pulling you back in, making you feel like maybe this time could be different.

"That guy," he continues, fingers tracing down your arm, "he was talking about you like he owned you. Like he'd already—" His grip tightens slightly. "I couldn't let that slide."

You finally turn to face him, and his expression shifts into something wounded and vulnerable. The bruise blooming across his face makes him look almost fragile.

"I know I fucked up," he says. "I know I promised about the substances and broke that promise. But seeing you tonight, seeing you look at me like I still matter—" He cups your face with one hand, thumb brushing away your tears. "Tell me I still matter. Please."

You're crying harder now, and you can't even articulate why. Relief that he's not seriously hurt? Grief for what you lost? Fear that you're falling right back into his orbit?

"There you go," he whispers, pulling you against his chest. "Let it out. I've got you."

And you let him hold you, feeling his heartbeat steady and sure, while yours breaks all over again.